Sometimes his frenzy reached such a height that it resembled the affliction that pathologists call claustrophobia.  He stamped to and fro in his cell, after the bolts had been driven for the night; he lamented and he cursed, muffling his tones.  And a man named Bartley Wagg, having taken it upon himself to keep close tabs on Vaniman’s state of mind, noted the prisoner’s rebellious restlessness with deepening interest and coupled a lot of steady pondering with his furtive espionage.

Wagg was a prison guard.

After Vaniman was committed, Wagg complained of rheumatism and asked the warden to transfer him from the wall where he had been doing sentry-go with a rifle and give him an inside job as night warder.  And the warden humored Wagg, who was a trusted veteran.

Wagg made regular trips along the cell tiers during the night.  He padded as noiselessly as a cat, for he had soles of felt on his shoes.  Many times, keeping vigil when his emotions would not allow him to sleep, Vaniman saw Wagg halt and peer through the bars of the cell.  The corridor light showed his face.  But Wagg did not accost the prisoner.  The guard acted like a man who, whatever might be his particular interest in Vaniman, proposed to take plenty of time in getting acquainted.

Once, after midnight, Wagg found the prisoner pacing; Vaniman dared to relieve his feelings by groans, for the chorus of snores served as a sound-screen.

“Sick?” inquired the guard, whispering.

“No.”

“If you ever are, don’t be afraid to call on me when I pass.  I’ve got a good heart.”

“Thank you!”

“I’ve really got too good a heart to be tied up to a prison job,” volunteered Wagg.  “I hate to see sorrow.”

“Sorrow is about all you have a chance to see in this place.”

“Yes,” admitted the guard, sliding away.

The warden had given Vaniman a bookkeeper’s job.  But the prison office was a gloomy place and the windows were hatefully barred Through the bars he could see convict toilers wheeling barrows of dirt.  They were filling up a lime-quarry pit within the walls.  In the old days convicts had quarried lime rocks.  But in the newer days of shops the quarry was abandoned and had been gradually filled with stagnant water.  When the prison commissioners decided that the pool was a menace to health, a crew was set at work filling the pit.  Vaniman envied the men who could work in the sunshine.  He was everlastingly behind bars; the office was not much better than his cell.  The bars shut him away from opportunity to make a man’s fight for himself.  Every time he looked at a window he was reminded of his helplessness.  It seemed to him that if he could get out into the sunshine and toil till his muscles ached he would be able to endure better the night of confinement in the cell.

He blurted out that much of confession to Wagg when the guard discovered him pacing in the narrow space a few nights later.