"Blah. So you made a mistake. So you're sorry, so my wife is probably
completely out of her head by now, I'm crazy myself, and you want to
talk politics. All I want to know is this--when do I get out of here?"
He looked at me with an odd, queer smile. "This, Mr. Miller, is where
the shock lies. I think, diametrically opposite to the opinions and, I
might add, to the direct pleadings of some of my colleagues involved
in this rather inexplicable affair, that you are the adaptable
Teutonic type that likes to know exactly the odds against him, the
type of man who likes to know where and when he stands."
"I know exactly where I stand," I told him. "I want to know just one
thing; when do I get out of this rat trap?"
He mulled that over, his forehead wrinkled as he searched for the
right words. "I'm afraid, Mr. Miller, very much afraid that you're
going to get out of here very soon. But never out of any place else."
And with that he walked out the door before I could lift a finger to
stop him.
But when they came after me to put me away I wasn't stunned. It took
four of them, and one more that came in as reinforcement. They weren't
rough deliberately, but they weren't easy. They had a time, too. I
think I've been around long enough to know a few dirty tricks. I used
them all, but I still went back to my room, or cell. I got no sleep at
all for the rest of the night, nor most of the next night. I wondered
if I could ever sleep again. If someone had mentioned "Helen" to me I
likely would cry like a baby. I couldn't get her out of my mind.
When they came after me again they were all prepared for another
argument. I didn't care, this time. Meekly I went along, back to that
same conference room. Four men; the old man who had given me the spurs
before, one of the high school boys, and a couple of uniforms. The old
man stood up very formally to greet me.
"Good morning, Mr. Miller."