THE ARM-CHAIR AT THE INN
had all learned to speak a little Spanish by this time—he pretended not to hear and, his inspection over, locked the door behind him. Pretty soon we fell into the ways of all disheartened prisoners—each man following the bent of his nature. I warded off sickening despair by carving with my pocket-knife—which they let me keep as being too small to do them any harm—little figures out of the beef bones I found in my soup. That’s how I came to recognize those in Monsieur Lemois’ cabinet. When I was lucky enough to get hold of a knuckle bone with a rounded knob at the end, I made a friar with a bald head, the smooth knob answering for his pate. Other bones were turned into grotesque figures of men, women, and animals. These I gave to the sentry, who sent them to his children. Often he brought me small pieces of calico and I made dresses and trousers for them. When I got tired of that I trained two fleas—and they were plenty—to play leap-frog up my arm.
“When these little diversions failed to drive dull care away, we passed the time cursing the gentleman in the immaculate cotton ducks. He had either lied to us, or was dead, or had