It made little difference to the deserter, or to
Bridge either. The wall was but a trivial factor. It might go far
to add romance to whomever should read of the affair later;
but in so far as Bridge and the deserter were concerned it
meant nothing. A billboard, thought Bridge, bearing the slogan:
"Eventually! Why not now?" would have been equally
as efficacious and far more appropriate.
The room in which he was confined was stuffy with the
odor of accumulated filth. Two small barred windows alone
gave means of ventilation. He and the deserter were the only
prisoners. The latter slept as soundly as though the morrow
held nothing more momentous in his destiny than any of the
days that had preceded it. Bridge was moved to kick the
fellow into consciousness of his impending fate. Instead he
walked to the south window to fill his lungs with the free air
beyond his prison pen, and gaze sorrowfully at the star-lit sky
which he should never again behold.
In a low tone Bridge crooned a snatch of the poem that he
and Billy liked best:
And you, my sweet Penelope, out there somewhere you wait for me,
With buds of roses in your hair and kisses on your mouth.
Bridge's mental vision was concentrated upon the veranda
of a white-walled ranchhouse to the east.
Pages:
423
424
425
426
427
428
429
430
431
432
433
434
435
436
437
438
439
440
441
442
443
444
445
446
447