says:

"Gotta match?"

So we're not in hell yet.

We fumble and light up. They leave us our pipes, tobacco and matches;
presently, one knocks with his pipe on the iron trap of the door and
asks for water, which is brought in a tin pint-pot. Then follow
intervals of smoking, incoherent mutterings that pass for
conversation, borrowings of matches, knockings with the pannikin on
the cell door wicket or trap for more water, matches, and bail; false
and fitful starts into slumber perhaps--or wild attempts at flight on
the part of our souls into that other world that the sober and sane
know nothing of; and, gradually, suddenly it seems, reason (if this
world is reasonable) comes back.

"What's your trouble!"

"Don't know. Bomb outrage, perhaps."

"Drunk?"

"Yes."

"What's yours!"

"Same boat."

But presently he is plainly uneasy (and I am getting that way, too, to