The spoons were a gift, he answered.
But the owner denied that.
I know it; thats where the beastly part of it all came in. They were not given to me by the owner, but by a lot of mean, low-down, practical-joke-loving ghosts.
Number 5010s anger as he spoke these words was terrible to witness, and as he strode up and down the floor of his cell and dashed his arms right and left, I wished for a moment that I was elsewhere. I should not have flown, however, even had the cell door been open and my way clear, for his suggestion of a supernatural agency in connection with his crime whetted my curiosity until it was more keen than ever, and I made up my mind to hear the story to the end, if I had to commit a crime and get myself sentenced to confinement in that prison for life to do so.
Fortunately, extreme measures of this nature were unnecessary, for after a few moments Surrennes calmed down, and seating himself beside me on the cot, drained his water-pitcher to the dregs, and began.
Excuse me for not offering you a drink, he said, but the wine they serve here while moist is hardly what a connoisseur would choose except for bathing purposes, and I compliment you by assuming that you do not wish to taste it.
Thank you, I said. I do not like to take water straight, exactly. I always dilute it, in fact, with a little of this.
Here I extracted a small flask from my pocket and handed it to him.
Ah! he said, smacking his lips as he took a long pull at its contents, that puts spirit into a man.
Yes, it does, I replied, ruefully, as I noted that he had left me very little but the flask; but I dont think it was necessary for you to deprive me of all mine.
Here I extracted a small flask from my pocket and handed it to him.
Ah! he said, smacking his lips as he took a long pull at its contents, that puts spirit into a man.
Yes, it does, I replied, ruefully, as I noted that he had left me very little but the flask; but I dont think it was necessary for you to deprive me of all mine.
No; that is, you cant appreciate the necessity unless you er you have suffered in your life as I am suffering. You were never sent up yourself?
I gave him a glance which was all indignation. I guess not, I said. I have led a life that is above reproach.
Good! he replied. And what a satisfaction that is, eh? I dont believe Id be able to stand this jail life if it wasnt for my conscience, which is as clear and clean as it would be if Id never used it.
Would you mind telling me what your defence was? I asked.
Certainly not, said he, cheerfully. Id be very glad to give it to you. But you must remember one thing it is copyrighted.
Fire ahead! I said, with a smile. Ill respect your copyright. Ill give you a royalty on what I get for the story.
Very good, he answered. It was like this. To begin, I must tell you that when I was a boy preparing for college I had for a chum a brilliant fun-loving fellow named Hawley Hicks, concerning whose future various prophecies had been made. His mother often asserted that he would be a great poet; his father thought he was born to be a great general; our head-master at the Scarberry Institute for Young Gentlemen prophesied the gallows. They were all wrong; though, for myself, I think that if he had lived long enough almost any one of the prophecies might have come true. The trouble was that Hawley died at the age of twenty-three. Fifteen years elapsed. I was graduated with high honors at Brazenose, lived a life of elegant leisure, and at the age of thirty-seven broke down in health. That was about a year ago. My uncle, whose heir and constant companion I was, gave me a liberal allowance, and sent me off to travel. I came to America, landed in New York early in September, and set about winning back the color which had departed from my cheeks by an assiduous devotion to such pleasures as New York affords. Two days after my arrival, I set out for an airing at Coney Island, leaving my hotel at four in the afternoon. On my way down Broadway I was suddenly startled at hearing my name spoken from behind me, and appalled, on turning, to see standing with outstretched hands no less a person than my defunct chum, Hawley Hicks.
Impossible, said I.
Exactly my remark, returned Number 5010. To which I added, Hawley Hicks, it cant be you!
But it is me, he replied.
And then I was convinced, for Hawley never was good on his grammar. I looked at him a minute, and then I said, But, Hawley, I thought you were dead.
I am, he answered. But why should a little thing like that stand between friends?
It shouldnt, Hawley, I answered, meekly; but its condemnedly unusual, you know, for a man to associate even with his best friends fifteen years after theyve died and been buried.
Do you mean to say, Austin, that just because I was weak enough once to succumb to a bad cold, you, the dearest friend of my youth, the closest companion of my school-days, the partner of my childish joys, intend to go back on me here in a strange city?
Hawley, I answered, huskily, not a bit of it. My letter of credit, my room at the hotel, my dress suit, even my ticket to Coney Island, are at your disposal; but I think the partner of your childish joys ought first to be let in on the ground-floor of this enterprise, and informed how the deuce you manage to turn up in New York fifteen years subsequent to your obsequies. Is New York the hereafter for boys of your kind, or is this some freak of my imagination?