We
don't wanter listen to no more of that slop.
VOICE--Here you are. Hide it under your mattress.
YANK--[Reaching out.] Tanks. I can't read much but I kin manage.
[He sits, the paper in the hand at his side, in the attitude of
Rodin's "The Thinker." A pause. Several snores from down the
corridor. Suddenly YANK jumps to his feet with a furious groan as
if some appalling thought had crashed on him--bewilderedly.] Sure--
her old man--president of de Steel Trust--makes half de steel in
de world--steel--where I tought I belonged--drivin' trou--movin'--
in dat--to make HER--and cage me in for her to spit on! Christ
[He shakes the bars of his cell door till the whole tier trembles.
Irritated, protesting exclamations from those awakened or trying
to get to sleep.] He made dis--dis cage! Steel! IT don't belong,
dat's what! Cages, cells, locks, bolts, bars--dat's what it
means!--holdin' me down wit him at de top! But I'll drive trou!
Fire, dat melts it! I'll be fire--under de heap--fire dat never
goes out--hot as hell--breakin' out in de night--[While he has
been saying this last he has shaken his cell door to a clanging
accompaniment. As he comes to the "breakin' out" he seizes one bar
with both hands and, putting his two feet up against the others so
that his position is parallel to the floor like a monkey's, he
gives a great wrench backwards.
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