a sort of premonition that I shall
go right on rapping. And--er--excuse me for asking a personal
question--what are you going to do about it?"

"I'll--" he began explosively, proving, by his inability to conclude the
remark, that he thought in henids.

"Yes?" I encouraged. "Just what, pray?"

"I'll have the Warden here," he said lamely.

"Do, please. A most charming gentleman, to be sure. A shining example
of the refining influences that are creeping into our prisons. Bring him
to me at once. I wish to report you to him."

"Me?"

"Yes, just precisely you," I continued. "You persist, in a rude and
boorish manner, in interrupting my conversation with the other guests in
this hostelry."

And Warden Atherton came. The door was unlocked, and he blustered into
my cell. But oh, I was so safe! He had done his worst. I was beyond
his power.

"I'll shut off your grub," he threatened.

"As you please," I answered. "I'm used to it. I haven't eaten for ten
days, and, do you know, trying to begin to eat again is a confounded
nuisance.

"Oh, ho, you're threatening me, are you? A hunger strike, eh?"

"Pardon me," I said, my voice sulky with politeness. "The proposition
was yours, not mine. Do try and be logical on occasion. I trust you
will believe me when I tell you that your illogic is far more painful for
me to endure than all your tortures."

"Are you going to stop your knuckle-talking?" he demanded.

"No; forgive me for vexing you--for I feel so strong a compulsion to talk
with my knuckles that--"

"For two cents I'll put you back in the jacket," he broke in.

"Do, please. I dote on the jacket. I am the jacket baby. I get fat in
the jacket. Look at that arm." I pulled up my sleeve and showed a
biceps so attenuated that when I flexed it it had the appearance of a
string. "A real blacksmith's biceps, eh, Warden? Cast your eyes on my
swelling chest. Sandow had better look out for his laurels. And my
abdomen--why, man, I am growing so stout that my case will be a scandal
of prison overfeeding. Watch out, Warden, or you'll have the taxpayers
after you."

"Are you going to stop knuckle-talk?" he roared.

"No, thanking you for your kind solicitude. On mature deliberation I
have decided that I shall keep on knuckle-talking."

He stared at me speechlessly for a moment, and then, out of sheer
impotency, turned to go.

"One question, please."

"What is it?" he demanded over his shoulder