"I ain't powerful happy," returned Lem lugubriously. "This air the all-fired'st cave I ever been into. I 'low I'll never git used t' hit--leastways I air glad thet yo'-all come round t' talk. I ain't much on th' talk myse'f--I never could talk much, someways,--th' folks up my ways air all putty much thet-away--they don't any of 'em spill over with talkin'--'pears like they got so much to think about thet hit keeps their tongues stalled all th' time, most--but ef I can't say much--I air glad yo'-all come round, 'cause I like to heer yo' talk. Gawd'll Moughty! hit's powerful lonesome-like in heah."
"Sure," sympathized the convict. "It's lonesome'ern hell; but it ain't that altogether thet hurts a first-timer, Lutts--it's the gang of old-timers he's bound to meet inside every jail."
Lem smiled wearily, in a mirthless way, and delivered his short, eloquent gesture, implying acquiescence and approval, as he watched the convict's face with interest. Silently, Last Time produced a small tin box containing a bit of woolen rag and a tiny piece of flint, together with a button through which two cords passed through separate holes. Standing, he lifted his knee, placed the box thereon, and with dextrous skill started the button like an improvised buzz-saw against the flint. The spark flew and ignited the woolen rag. He then lighted his cigarette, replacing the box, and leaning his big shoulder against the bars, forced the smoke through his nostrils reflectively.
"I don't know what brought you here, Lutts--I ain't askin' you--it's none of my business--but I hope you don't come back here after your trial--it's the old-timers, like me, that the cul meets in jail that makes the criminals of this country. Just listen to that talk now--that ain't up-liftin', is it?--Sure not. Just hark to that swearing and them rabby songs--sure, that's all aginst the rules of the prison, but what can they do to stop it? Nothin'. They'd have to keep a bull at each door. The men are allowed to talk a little while to each other from their cells before the lights go out. They can't speak during the day--they got to let them talk some time or other in a place like this--if they didn't, they'd all go crazy--then where would the politicians and the prison contractors be?