Trooper Tales — page 210: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

196 The Last Cell to the Right. at the entrance of the last cell to the right, viewed passing events with eyes that silently raved. And the water- woman strode silently in and was gone with her burden. The little girl baby was my comrade after that. She forgave the liberties I had so unintentionally taken. She allowed me to trim her finger nails. Baby hands, even if they are brown, are cute things and well worth studying. All my efforts failed to bring forth from her a word, a smile or a cry. Dinner was brought over, and we sat down upon the - curbing of the well, Tad and I. The baby thrust her fingers into the mess tin and drew forth a potato. I drank coffee—my stomach revolted at more. Suddenly some- thing crushed its way into my nostrils. Violently sick- ened, I looked about. The mother of the baby was upon me. She had crawled from the cell door to my feet. I placed the mess tin upon the flagging and fled to the far end of the plaza. Tad sat on the well curb, busy with the potato. The man in the cell moaned louder, and drops of water from the brimming bucket fell into the black tomb with a cadence deep and dreadful. The bright day waned. The gloom in the cells deep- ened. The gaunt, smileless water-woman came no more. Over in the troop quarters the first call for retreat sound- ed. The Spanish policeman stood at the door of my cell. He smiled and beckoned. God only knows what I would have given to answer retreat instead. I tried to smile, but the impulse was strong within me to strike him. The comichbooks;com