“I sympathize!” whispered Wagg.  “I know all about your case!” Then Wagg passed on.

The next night he halted long enough to say that, knowing all about the case from what the newspapers printed, he realized just why Vaniman found it so tough to be locked up.

Then Wagg refrained from saying anything for several nights.  The prisoner was quite sure that the guard had something on his mind outside of a mere notion of being polite; in the case of Wagg, so hardened a veteran, politeness to a prisoner would have been heresy.  Wondering just what Wagg was driving at, Vaniman found the guard’s leisurely methods tantalizing in the extreme.  One night the prisoner ventured to take the initiative; he stuck out his hand to signal the guard.

Wagg, it was manifest, was not so much a master of facial control that he could suppress all signs of satisfaction.  He looked pleased—­like a man who had employed tactics that were working according to plans and hopes.

“Sick?”

“Yes—­heart and soul!  Body, too!  Isn’t there any way of my getting a job wheeling that dirt?”

Wagg made his noiseless getaway.  He departed suddenly, without a word.  Until the next night Vaniman was left to wonder to what extent he had offended the official.

But Wagg showed no signs of unfriendliness when he halted, after midnight, at the cell door.  “Feel any better?”

“No!”

“I reckon I understand.  Of course I understand!  Most of ’em that’s in here haven’t anything special to look forward to when they get out.  Your case is different.  Everything to look forward to!  No wonder you walk the cell.”

On he slid, silently.

Vaniman had read the Arabian Nights tales, as they were divided in the literal translation.  He reflected whimsically on the methods of the story-teller who, “having said her permitted say,” was wont to stop right in the middle of a sentence for the sake of piquing interest in what was to follow.

The next night the prisoner’s interest was heightened into real amazement.  Wagg stuck his hand through the bars and waggled it invitingly.

“Take it!” he urged, sibilantly.

For a dizzy instant Vaniman was moved by the expansive hope that his plight had appealed to this man; he hastened to take what Wagg offered.  It was a small cube of something.

“Eat it!” said the guard.

Holding it close to his face, to make an inspection in the dim light, the young man caught the scent of the cube.  It was a piece of soap.  He made sure by putting it to his nose.

“Just a little at a time—­what you can stomach,” Wagg urged.  He passed on.

But Vaniman did not obey; he was unable to comprehend what this sort of fodder signified; he broke the cube into bits, thinking that a saw might be hidden.  It was only soap—­common soap.  He put the bits away in the portfolio he was allow to have in his cell.