The Green Box

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THE air seemed thick within the prison cell. Rays of dull-yellow light from the central cellroom faded on the threshold, as though shrinking from the confinement of the cell itself.

Bolder was the pallid moonlight that trickled through the window. It formed a whitish splash across the cell floor — a luminous pool that was marked with lines of black, as grim reminders of the bars between which the moonlight came.

Eyes were upon that patch of light. Two men were staring toward it, fascinated by this token of the outside world. Moonlight was the only privilege that these prisoners could share with free men in the world beyond the penitentiary walls.

One man, his dull face rendered overly pale by reason of the moonlight, was staring from a lower bunk. His clutching hands — trembling talons — were closed about the side of the iron bedstead.

The other, stationed in the berth above, was gazing toward the floor in patient fashion. Of the two, he seemed less troubled by his plight.

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