Page:The Jail, Experiences in 1916.pdf/98

 Extensive cursing. Where was he to go? There was no room. Mr. Sponner declared that he couldn't help that, slammed the door and locked it. Everything was done with a maximum of noise, for a din is, as it were, the salt of military discipline in general and of jail discipline in particular.

"I can lie down here on the table", announced the artillery-man assuringly. "I don't mind it, I'm used to everything." He threw his overcoat on the table and prepared for rest.

"And why are you here?" asked Dr. Smrecsanyi. (This "why are you here" was the customary formula of welcome).

"Why? A few pair of boots got lost from the store and the canteen woman reported us. There are three of us, one on the first floor, the other on the second. Cursed old hag." For a little longer he sat half undressed on the table, and demonstrated his innocence to us. Then, seeing that the heads were sinking down on the mattresses and the eyes were closing, he stopped talking, rolled over on the wood and curled up under his overcoat.

That was Friday.

And then the next day was the day upon which had centred all hopes, dreams and longings of my fellow-inmates ever since Wednesday. Wait, on Saturday. If it were only Saturday. I am looking forward to Saturday.

We came back from our exercise, and the promised day began to perform its pranks:

Voronin took the fragment of a broom and swept up. Wo looked on,—a man deprived of freedom and movement is interested by everything that happens, whatever it may be. Voronin produced whirls of dust, the dust rose upwards, formed a haze of many shapes and fell down again on to the floor, straw mattresses, the towel