THE PRISONER’S CUP OF MILK.
THE prisoner looked anxiously at the door, and about the room, and after
a little reflection said to the constable, “I’m kind of hungry. Can’t I
have some breakfast?”
“Where’s the lunch Mis’ Pipkin tucked into your pocket?” said Sellick.
“Here it is, all right. She knew you would come to your appetite.”
Jack had hoped to be taken down into the grocery, and at the moment he
did not thank Mrs. Pipkin for her kindness.
“Can’t I have something to drink with it?” he asked. “They have milk in
the grocery; I can pay for a cupful.” And he took from his pocket the
solitary half-dollar, which was all the riches he could command, out of
the hoard of treasure he had found so lately, and lost, and regained,
and perhaps lost again forever.
“Here, sonny!” said Sellick to a boy in the crowd (every boy was “sonny”
to him), “take this money and go down into the grocery and buy a cup of
milk, and bring back the change, and you shall have a penny for your
trouble. And be spry, for we must eat our breakfast while the judge is
making out his papers.”
The lad took the money and, pushing through the crowd of loungers,
passed the door, and went down the outside stairs at a rattling pace,
the sound of which filled the heart of the waiting prisoner with envy.
Jack looked about him, nibbling his dry biscuit and butter, and saw that
there was only one other door in the room, and that it was nailed, with
a bar across it. There were three windows, one on the side of the street
near the entry door, the other two overlooking the canal. He was still
nibbling and studying the premises, when the lad returned.
“I hope this ain’t canal milk,” said Jack with a laugh, as he pocketed
the change and took the cup, after giving the lad his penny. “They sell
horrid stuff to the boats sometimes,—mostly chalk and canal-water, I
believe.” He poised the cup, still munching the dry biscuit, and glanced
furtively at the door. The loungers had not yet begun to leave, and
there was a crowd in the way.
Sellick was saying to a village acquaintance, “I never yit lost a
prisoner, and I never expect to lose one; and I never yit was afraid to
take a man. Not one in fifty can run as fast as I can, and once I git
holt of a chap, I jest freeze to him; ’t would take a perty good set of
muscles to shake me off, and a mighty long head to outwit me.—Come,
sonny, drink yer milk; judge is shaking the sand on his paper.”
Jack lifted the cup to his lips, and began to drink, but stopped
suddenly, and, with his mouth full and his cheeks distended, made sounds
and motions of distress, as if about to eject the liquid.
“Sour?” cried Sellick.
“’M! ’m!” said Jack, through his nose; and with milk spilling from the
cup and spirting from his lips, he started for a window; while the
crowd, laughing at his ludicrous plight, and anxious to avoid a
sprinkling, made way before him.
It was the window on the side of the street, and it was closed. While
Sellick, laughing with the rest, was stepping quickly to help him open
it, Jack, beginning to choke, and appearing quite unable to control
himself longer, started for the door. The mirthful constable—who had
never yet lost a prisoner and never expected to lose one—turned to
follow him, rather leisurely, pausing to laugh at Mr. Byron Dinks, who
had received some conspicuous splashes of milk on his black broadcloth.
Jack took hold of the door, as if to steady himself, then, in an
instant, darting through, pulled it after him (just missing Sellick’s
fingers), turned the key on the outside, went down the stairway with
flying leaps, and ran as for his life; leaving court, constable,
witnesses, and spectators locked up in the room together, prisoners in
his place, with abundant leisure to find something to laugh at besides
him and his spilled milk!
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