ence
meetings, he turned to the youth and said:

"You have been here three times now. Have _you_ never thought of
escape?"

Monet shrugged. "Yes ... in a way. But I'm no great hand at doing
things alone."

They walked on in silence. Finally Fred spoke.

"Suppose you and I try it sometime? ... It will give us something to
think about... But we'll go slow. It will just be a game, you
understand."

Monet's eyes lit up and his breath came quickly between his parted
lips. "You're splendid to me!" he cried. "But the others--you seem to
hate them. Why?"

Fred kicked a fallen branch out of his path. "They whine too much!" he
muttered.

The boy was right, he _did_ hate them!

At the office he found that a package had come for him in the mail,
and a letter. Both had been opened by the authorities. He read the
letter first. It was from Helen. She had heard that cigarettes were a
great solace to men in his situation, and so she had sent him a large
carton of them. She expressed the hope that everything was going well,
and she filled the rest of her letter with gossip of the Hilmers. Mrs.
Hilmer was a little better and she was wheeling her out on fine days
just in front of the house. The nurse had gone and she was doing
everything. But these people had been so good to her! What else was
there left to do? She ended with a restrained dignity. She offered
neither sympathy nor reproaches. Fred had to concede that it was a
master stroke of implied martyrdom. He flung the letter into the
nearest wastebasket. He had an impulse to do the same thing with the
cigarettes, but the thought of Monet's pleasure in them restrained
him. He took the package to the dormitory. Monet had gone up before
him.

Fred threw his burden on Monet's bed. The youth gave a low whistle of
delight.

"Pall Malls!" he cried, incredulously. "Where did you get them?"

"They came from my wife."

"Oh! ... Don't you want any of them?"

"No."

At the smoking hour Fred saw Monet take out his pitiful little bag of
cheap tobacco and roll the usual cigarette.

"What? ... Aren't you smoking Pall Malls?" he asked, with a shade of
banter in his voice.

Monet shook his head. "I don't want them, either... What shall we do?
Give them to the others?"

Fred stared through a sudden mist. "Why--yes. Just whatever you like."

That night, when everyone else was asleep, Fred Starratt told Felix
Monet his story...

CHAPTER XIV

One morning, at the begin