"What do you think about me?"

The Prophet c.o.c.ked his eyebrow. "'Can a man take fire into his bosom, and his clothing not be burned?' Britt, the bank, the girl! Three hot torches, young sir! Very hot torches!" He walked on. Then he turned and came back and patted Vaniman's arm. "You didn't keep your eye peeled!

The young are thoughtless. But four good old eyes will be serving you while you're--_away_! Mine and Brother Usial's."

"Thank you!" said the young man, and he went on his way. He was reflecting on that text the Prophet had enunciated.

Might it not apply as well to Tasper Britt?

CHAPTER XVIII

A PERSISTENT BELIEF

Vaniman was indicted; he was tried; he was convicted; he was sentenced to serve seven years in the state prison. He refused to allow Squire Hexter to appeal the case. He had no taste for further struggle against the circ.u.mstantial evidence that was reinforced by perjury.

His consciousness of protesting innocence was subjugated by the morose determination to accept the unjust punishment.

The general opinion was that he was a very refractory young man because he would not disclose the hiding place of the gold.

Even the warden of the prison had some remarks to make on that subject.

The chaplain urged Vaniman to clear his conscience and do what he could to aid the distressed inhabitants of a bankrupt town. This conspiracy of persistent belief in his guilt put a raw edge on his mental suffering.

His only source of solace was the weekly letter from Vona. Her fort.i.tude seemed to be unaffected; her loyalty heartened him. And after a time hope intervened and comforted him; although Vaniman had only a few friends on the job for him in Egypt, he reflected that Tasper Britt had plenty of enemies who would operate constantly and for the indirect benefit of Britt's especial victim. The young man felt that accident might disclose the truth at any time. But every little while he went through a period of acute torture; he had a wild desire to break out of his prison, to be on the ground in Egypt, to go at the job of unmasking Britt as only a man vitally interested in the task could go at it!

Sometimes his frenzy reached such a height that it resembled the affliction that pathologists call claustrophobia. He stamped to and fro in his cell, after the bolts had been driven for the night; he lamented and he cursed, m.u.f.fling his tones. And a man named Bartley Wagg, having taken it upon himself to keep close tabs on Vaniman's state of mind, noted the prisoner's rebellious restlessness with deepening interest and coupled a lot of steady pondering with his furtive espionage.

Wagg was a prison guard.

After Vaniman was committed, Wagg complained of rheumatism and asked the warden to transfer him from the wall where he had been doing sentry-go with a rifle and give him an inside job as night warder. And the warden humored Wagg, who was a trusted veteran.

Wagg made regular trips along the cell tiers during the night. He padded as noiselessly as a cat, for he had soles of felt on his shoes. Many times, keeping vigil when his emotions would not allow him to sleep, Vaniman saw Wagg halt and peer through the bars of the cell. The corridor light showed his face. But Wagg did not accost the prisoner.

The guard acted like a man who, whatever might be his particular interest in Vaniman, proposed to take plenty of time in getting acquainted.

Once, after midnight, Wagg found the prisoner pacing; Vaniman dared to relieve his feelings by groans, for the chorus of snores served as a sound-screen.

"Sick?" inquired the guard, whispering.

"No."

"If you ever are, don't be afraid to call on me when I pa.s.s. I've got a good heart."

"Thank you!"

"I've really got too good a heart to be tied up to a prison job,"

volunteered Wagg. "I hate to see sorrow."

"Sorrow is about all you have a chance to see in this place."

"Yes," admitted the guard, sliding away.

The warden had given Vaniman a bookkeeper's job. But the prison office was a gloomy place and the windows were hatefully barred Through the bars he could see convict toilers wheeling barrows of dirt. They were filling up a lime-quarry pit within the walls. In the old days convicts had quarried lime rocks. But in the newer days of shops the quarry was abandoned and had been gradually filled with stagnant water. When the prison commissioners decided that the pool was a menace to health, a crew was set at work filling the pit. Vaniman envied the men who could work in the sunshine. He was everlastingly behind bars; the office was not much better than his cell. The bars shut him away from opportunity to make a man's fight for himself. Every time he looked at a window he was reminded of his helplessness. It seemed to him that if he could get out into the sunshine and toil till his muscles ached he would be able to endure better the night of confinement in the cell.

He blurted out that much of confession to Wagg when the guard discovered him pacing in the narrow s.p.a.ce a few nights later.

"I sympathize!" whispered Wagg. "I know all about your case!" Then Wagg pa.s.sed on.

The next night he halted long enough to say that, knowing all about the case from what the newspapers printed, he realized just why Vaniman found it so tough to be locked up.

Then Wagg refrained from saying anything for several nights. The prisoner was quite sure that the guard had something on his mind outside of a mere notion of being polite; in the case of Wagg, so hardened a veteran, politeness to a prisoner would have been heresy. Wondering just what Wagg was driving at, Vaniman found the guard's leisurely methods tantalizing in the extreme. One night the prisoner ventured to take the initiative; he stuck out his hand to signal the guard.

Wagg, it was manifest, was not so much a master of facial control that he could suppress all signs of satisfaction. He looked pleased--like a man who had employed tactics that were working according to plans and hopes.

"Sick?"

"Yes--heart and soul! Body, too! Isn't there any way of my getting a job wheeling that dirt?"

Wagg made his noiseless getaway. He departed suddenly, without a word.

Until the next night Vaniman was left to wonder to what extent he had offended the official.

But Wagg showed no signs of unfriendliness when he halted, after midnight, at the cell door. "Feel any better?"

"No!"

"I reckon I understand. Of course I understand! Most of 'em that's in here haven't anything special to look forward to when they get out. Your case is different. Everything to look forward to! No wonder you walk the cell."

On he slid, silently.

Vaniman had read the _Arabian Nights_ tales, as they were divided in the literal translation. He reflected whimsically on the methods of the story-teller who, "having said her permitted say," was wont to stop right in the middle of a sentence for the sake of piquing interest in what was to follow.

The next night the prisoner's interest was heightened into real amazement. Wagg stuck his hand through the bars and waggled it invitingly.

"Take it!" he urged, sibilantly.

For a dizzy instant Vaniman was moved by the expansive hope that his plight had appealed to this man; he hastened to take what Wagg offered.

It was a small cube of something.

"Eat it!" said the guard.

Holding it close to his face, to make an inspection in the dim light, the young man caught the scent of the cube. It was a piece of soap. He made sure by putting it to his nose.

"Just a little at a time--what you can stomach," Wagg urged. He pa.s.sed on.

But Vaniman did not obey; he was unable to comprehend what this sort of fodder signified; he broke the cube into bits, thinking that a saw might be hidden. It was only soap--common soap. He put the bits away in the portfolio he was allow to have in his cell.

Wagg was a bit testy the next night when Vaniman confessed that he had not eaten any of the soap.

"You've got to show absolute confidence in me--do what I tell you to do," insisted the guard.