Then,
"SHUT UP!" came from the end of the corridor in a roar that made Oliver
feel as if he had been cooing. The roar irritated him--they might be a
little more mannerly. He clutched the bars and discovered to his pleased
surprise that they would rattle. He shook them as hard as he could like a
monkey asking for peanuts.
"Hey there! I want to get out!" and though he tried to make his voice as
impressive as possible it seemed to him to pipe like a canary's in that
long steel emptiness.
"I've got to catch a train!" he added desperately and then had to stuff
his coat sleeve into his mouth to keep from spoiling his dramatics with
most unseasonable mirth.
There were noises from the end of the corridor--the noises of strong men
at bitter war with something stronger than they, strange rumblings and
snortings and muffled whoops. Then the voice came again and this time its
words were slow and deliberately spaced so as to give it time to master
whatever rocked it between whiles.
"Say--you--_humorist_" said the voice and here it rose sharply into an
undignified squawk of laughter, "You--innercent--child--comedian--you--
Charlie--Chaplin--of the--hoosegow--you _shut_ up--or I'll come down
there and--bend--something--over--your merry little face--_understand?_"
"Yes sir," said Oliver subduedly.
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