He was trembling with famine and
weakness, but he could not lie down; it would be like accepting his
fate, and every fibre of his body joined his soul in rebellion
against that. The hunger gnawed him incessantly, mixed with an awful
sickness.
After a long time a policeman passed his door with another prisoner,
a drunken woman, whom he locked into a cell at the end of the
corridor. When he came back, Lemuel could endure it no longer.
"Say!" he called huskily through his door. "Won't you give me a cup
of that coffee upstairs? I haven't had anything but an apple to eat
for nearly two days. I don't want you to _give_ me the coffee.
You can take my clasp button----"
The officer went by a few steps, then he came back, and peered in
through the door at Lemuel's face. "Oh! that's you?" he said: he was
the officer who had arrested Lemuel.
"Yes. Please get me the coffee. I'm afraid I shall have a fit of
sickness if I go much longer."
"Well," said the officer, "I guess I can get you something." He went
away, and came back, after Lemuel had given up the hope of his
return, with a saucerless cup of coffee, and a slice of buttered
bread laid on the top of it. He passed it in through the opening at
the bottom of the door.
"Oh, my!" gasped the starving boy. He thought he should drop the
cup, his hand shook so when he took it.
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