CHAPTER V
In the station-house a fat sergeant sat dozing upon his throne. “Another vagrant,” said the policeman, as if to say there was no special need to rouse himself.
“What was he doing?” the sergeant asked.
“Sleeping in a doorway,” was the reply.
By this time Samuel had come to realize the futility of protest. He accepted his fate with dumb despair. He gave the information the sergeant asked for—SamuelPrescott, aged seventeen, native born, from Euba Corners, occupation farmer, never arrested before.
“All right,” said the man, and went back to his nap; and Samuel was led away, and after a pretense at a search was shoved into a cell and heard the iron door clang upon him.
He was alone now, and free to sob out his grief. It was the culmination of all the shame and horror that he cou
