“You’re going to be in this cell?” at last asked 9009.
“They put me here,” answered the little man humbly. “My old mate, he’s shoe-trusty now.”
9009’s defiance bristled at the word. Pushing the little man aside, he threw himself on his bunk, his face to the wall. After a time he heard him climb carefully into the upper bunk—then a fit of hacking cough came to his ears.
Several times, during the night, 9009 found himself awake, listening to this dry, hacking sound, and each time he thought of the new problem before him. When morning came, he had his mind made up.
“You sweep, and I make up the bunk,” he said harshly to the new cell-mate. “Next week, you make up the bunk and Isweep. And”—his voice rose—“I don’t talk to you, and you don’t talk to me—understand? I don’t want to talk, and I don’t want to listen, so don’t you open your trap—understand?”
“All right,” answered the little man, looking scared, and nodding his head meekly.
