It did. Toward eight, as I have hinted, he transferred from
rocking-chair to cot. He was not afflicted with troublesome
nerves. At times he was an entire minute in falling asleep.
Usually, however, his time was something under the half; and he
slept with the innocent, undisturbed sleep of a babe for at least
twelve unbroken hours, unless the necessity of getting across the
"cut" to his engine absolutely prohibited. Just there was the
trouble. His first gentle, slumberous breath sounded like a small
boy sliding down the sheet-iron roof of 35. His second resembled a
force of carpenters tearing out the half-grown partitions. His
third--but mere words are an absurdity. At times the noises from
his gorilla-like throat softened down till one merely fancied
himself in the hog-corral of a Chicago stockyards; at others we
prayed that we might at once be transferred there. A thousand
times during the night we were certain he was on the very point of
choking to death, and sat up in bed praying he wouldn't, and
offering our month's salary to charity if he would; and through
all our fatiguing anguish he snorted undisturbedly on. In House 35
he was known as "the Sloth." It was a gentle and kindly title.
There were a few inexperienced inmates who had not yet utterly
given up hope. The long hours of the night were spent in solemn
conference.
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