“Hey,” he remarked in a pleasant conversational tone. “Hey!” No answer, he grew bolder. _“Hey!”_ This time the conversational tone was italicized. A rustle of voices somewhere rewarded him--that must be people talking. Well, if they talked, they could listen. “HEY!” and now his voice was emphatic enough for headline capitals. The rustle of voices ceased. There was a moment of stupefied silence. Then, “SHUT UP!” came from the end of the corridor in a roar that made Oliver feel as if he had been cooing. The roar irritated him--they might be a little more mannerly. He clutched the bars and discovered to his pleased surprise that they would rattle. He shook them as hard as he could like a monkey asking for peanuts. “Hey there! I want to get out!” and though he tried to make his voice as impressive as possible it seemed to him to pipe like a canary's in that long steel emptiness. “I've got to catch a train!” he added desperately and then had to stuff his coat sleeve into his mouth to keep from spoiling his dramatics with most unseasonable mirth. There were noises from the end of the corridor--the noises of strong men at bitter war with something stronger than they, strange rumblings and snortings and muffled whoops. Then the voice came again and this time its words were slow and deliberately spaced so as to give it time to master whatever rocked it between whiles. “Say--you--_humorist_” said the voice and here it rose sharply into an undignified squawk of laughter, “You--innercent child--comedian--you--Charlie--Chaplin--of the--hoosegow--you _shut_ up--or I'll come down there and--bend--something--over--your merry little face--_understand?_” “Yes sir,” said Oliver subduedly. “Ah right. Now go bye-bye--mama'll call you when she's ready to take you walking” then explosively “I got to catch a train! Oh Holy Mike!” Oliver left the window and went back toward his bunk, considerably chastened. As he did so a bundle of second-hand clothes on the floor rolled over and disclosed a red and unshaven face. “Wup!” said Oliver--he had almost stepped on it. “Wha'?” said the bundle, opening sick eyes. “Oh nothing. I only said good morning.” “Wha'?” “Good morning.” “Wha'?” “Good morning.” After incredible difficulties, the bundle attained a sitting position. “You kid'n me?” it demanded thickly, looking at Oliver with as much surprise as if he had just grown up out of the floor like a plant. “Oh no. No.” “You're _nah_ kid'n me?” “No.” “Ah ri'. 'S countersign. Pass. Fren'.” It attempted a military gesture but succeeded merely in hitting its mouth with its hand. It then looked at the hand as if the latter had done it on purpose and became sunk in profound cogitation. “Not feeling very well today?” Oliver ventured. It looked at him. “_Well?_” it said briefly. Then, after a silence devoted to trying to find where its hands were. “Hoosh.” “What?” said Oliver.