creature—"I don't like to take it from you. I think I'd better go back to my husband."       Well, I know he's a nahsty, spiteful feller—drinks—but I didn't like to persuade her not to.     

       THE CHAPLAIN. Surely, no.     

       COKESON. Ye-es, but I'm sorry now; it's upset the poor young fellow dreadfully. And what I wanted to say was: He's got his three years to serve. I want things to be pleasant for him.     

       THE CHAPLAIN. [With a touch of impatience] The Law hardly shares your view, I'm afraid.     

       COKESON. But I can't help thinking that to shut him up there by himself'll turn him silly. And nobody wants that, I s'pose. I don't like to see a man cry.     

       THE CHAPLAIN. It's a very rare thing for them to give way like that.     

       COKESON. [Looking at him-in a tone of sudden dogged hostility] I keep dogs.     

       THE CHAPLAIN. Indeed?     

       COKESON. Ye-es. And I say this: I wouldn't shut one of them up all by himself, month after month, not if he'd bit me all over.     

       THE CHAPLAIN. Unfortunately, the criminal is not a dog; he has a sense of right and wrong.     

       COKESON. But that's not the way to make him feel it.     

       THE CHAPLAIN. Ah! there I'm afraid we must differ.     

       COKESON. It's the same with dogs. If you treat 'em with kindness they'll do anything for you; but to shut 'em up alone, it only makes 'em savage.     

       THE CHAPLAIN. Surely you should allow those who have had a little more experience than yourself to know what is best for prisoners.     

       COKESON. [Doggedly] I know this young feller, I've watched him for years. He's eurotic—got no stamina. His father died of consumption. I'm thinking of his future. If he's to be kept there shut up by himself, without a cat to keep him company, it'll do him harm. I said to him:       "Where do you feel it?" "I can't tell you, Mr. COKESON," he said, "but sometimes I could beat my head against the wall." It's not nice.     

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