A Messy Leave
Well, there I was sitting in the barred cell in a mood as messy as the clothes I was wearing. The sight of the iron bars gave me the feeling of Inquisition torture chambers. From the deeps of memory those bars brought up the horrible forceps that dentists use, which in turn reminded me of what I could not help feeling already. Namely and to wit, that I was as hungry as a jackal.
But at length the door opened and in wandered a police officer, still three-quarters asleep, with the ends of his pajama trousers sticking out from under his coat.
“What’s your name?” he asked in an annoyed tone.
“I whistled,” I answered in helpless indifference.
“What’s your name?” he repeated, as though he had not heard.
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