"I don't know what brought you here, Lutts--I ain't askin' you--it's none of my business--but I hope you don't come back here after your trial--it's the old-timers, like me, that the cul meets in jail that makes the criminals of this country. Just listen to that talk now--that ain't up-liftin', is it?--Sure not. Just hark to that swearing and them rabby songs--sure, that's all aginst the rules of the prison, but what can they do to stop it? Nothin'. They'd have to keep a bull at each door. The men are allowed to talk a little while to each other from their cells before the lights go out. They can't speak during the day--they got to let them talk some time or other in a place like this--if they didn't, they'd all go crazy--then where would the politicians and the prison contractors be? "Then when these guys start in to talk, what do you hear? But there ain't much of that stuff comin' from the first-timers, Lutts--they're too thoughtful to-night--they ain't hard enough yet--but wait till they come back--very soon. If they do, they won't get any jobs when they get out, believe me--it's me that knows. What happens when a guard starts out to catch some of these cursers? A bull's got to be almost in front of his cell to be sure. And you take three hundred convicts with two-thirds of them cussin' all at the same time, and the echoes all jumbled up--he might as well try to take the ocean up in his arms--they get them--sometimes. When a bull slips up and starts along the tier, he don't no more than get started, when the guys that he's already passed gives out the signal and you won't hear a peep until the bull's gone down again--then they'll all give him the merry ha-ha, and cuss him for sneaking up. It's the people you meet here that makes the criminals, Lutts. I hope you don't come back here. If you do, you're gone--not that you want to be gone, but the world 'll sizzle you to a frazzle--they will want none of you--it's me that knows." Lem was profoundly attentive. He pressed against the door and listened to the convict's words with growing interest. Last Time rolled another cigarette, manipulated the tinder-box, lighted up, and continued: "It makes my gizzard ache," he said, "every time I see a first-timer. Their stories are all the same. If you'll listen, Lutts, I'll tear off nine rods of my own life, right at the spot, where I first got in jail."