.. on a charge of burglary.
Though he had predicted this, the actuality of it struck Bud all of a
heap. He paced up and down the cage for the full space of an hour,
hanging his ungainly head between his shoulders in abandonment to
despair.
My reaction was a strange one. I wanted to sing ... whistle ... dance
... I was in the midst of adventure and romance. I was a Count of Monte
Cristo, a Baron von Trenck. I dreamed of linguistic and philosophic
studies in the solitude of my cell at the penitentiary till I was master
of all languages, of all wisdom, or I dreamed of escape and of rising to
wealth and power, afterwards, so that I would be pardoned and could come
back and magnanimously shame with my forgiveness the community that had
sent me up.
Bud stopped his pacing to and fro to stand in our cell-doorway. I was
sitting on a stool, thinking hard.
"We can't do a thing," said Bud, "we're in for it, good and proper."
"--tell you what _I'll_ do," I responded, "I'll write a letter to the
owner of the warehouse and appeal to his humanity."
"You romantic jack-ass," yelled Bud, his nerves on edge. He walked away
angry. He came back calmer.
"Look here, Gregory, I want you to excuse that outburst--but you _are_ a
fool. This is _real life_ we're up against now. You're not reading about
this in a book."
"We'll see what can be done," I returned.
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