spying, of treachery, of betrayal. He himself was being constantly watched, watched with malevolent hope that he might stumble. Confidence in any one, of course, was impossible (he laughed as he thought of his former wonder at the absence of concerted breaks). He must stay alone, trust no one, speak to no one, isolate himself. The sheriff had spoken true; “good old boy,” he now thought, almost with tenderness.
This new knowledge dictated his conduct when, a few days later, he was given a cell-mate (up to this time he had been alone in his cell). Returning from the dining-hall after the evening meal, he found a little bent striped man, with spiky white hair, sitting on the edge of his bunk. The little man sprang to his feet as 9009 entered. “That’s your bunk, ain’t it,” he said in a wheezy voice; “mine’s the up one, ain’t it?”
9009 stared at him, scowling. The little man’s face was black with a mixture of dust and oil that clogged the pores; his eyes were inflamed, and the lower lids drooped, showing the red linings.
