"I haven't done
anything, and I couldn't help it. I've no place to go and no money.
And it's not my fault."
"You can tell that to the judge," replied the other.
"But--but what have I done? Why--"
"Shut up!" said the officer, and gave another twist at his throat. And
after that Samuel was quiet.
CHAPTER V
In the station-house a fat sergeant sat dozing upon his throne.
"Another vagrant," said the policeman, as if to say there was no
special need to rouse himself.
"What was he doing?" the sergeant asked.
"Sleeping in a doorway," was the reply.
By this time Samuel had come to realize the futility of protest. He
accepted his fate with dumb despair. He gave the information the
sergeant asked for--Samuel Prescott, aged seventeen, native born, from
Euba Corners, occupation farmer, never arrested before.
"All right," said the man, and went back to his nap; and Samuel was
led away, and after a pretense at a search was shoved into a cell and
heard the iron door clang upon him.
He was alone now, and free to sob out his grief. It was the
culmination of all the shame and horror that he could ever have
imagined; first, to have to beg, and then to be locked up in jail. He
knew now what they did with men who were out of work and starving.
He lay there weeping, and then suddenly he sat up transfixed. From the
cell next to him had come a cry, a horrible blood-curdling screech,
more like the scream of a wild cat than any human sound.
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