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Brutal
tore
a
corner
off
his
corned-beef
sandwich
and
held
it
out
over
the
front
of
the
desk
,
tweezed
delicately
between
two
fingers
.
The
mouse
seemed
to
look
up
with
an
even
livelier
interest
,
as
if
it
knew
exactly
what
it
was
.
Probably
did
;
I
could
see
its
whiskers
twitch
as
its
nose
wriggled
.
"
Aw
,
Brutal
,
no
!
"
Dean
exclaimed
,
then
looked
at
me
.
"
Do
n't
let
him
do
that
,
Paul
!
If
he
's
gon
na
feed
the
damn
thing
,
we
might
as
well
put
out
the
welcome
mat
for
anything
on
four
legs
.
"
"
I
just
want
to
see
what
he
'll
do
,
"
Brutal
said
.
"
In
the
interests
of
science
,
like
.
"
He
looked
at
me
--
I
was
the
boss
,
even
in
such
minor
detours
from
routine
as
this
.
I
thought
about
it
and
shrugged
like
it
did
n't
matter
much
,
one
way
or
another
.
The
truth
was
,
I
kind
of
wanted
to
see
what
he
'd
do
,
too
.
Well
,
he
ate
it
--
of
course
.
There
was
a
Depression
on
,
after
all
.
But
the
way
he
ate
it
fascinated
us
all
.
He
approached
the
fragment
of
sandwich
,
sniffed
his
way
around
it
,
and
then
he
sat
up
in
front
of
it
like
a
dog
doing
a
trick
,
grabbed
it
,
and
pulled
the
bread
apart
to
get
at
the
meat
.
He
did
it
as
deliberately
and
knowingly
as
a
man
tucking
into
a
good
roast-beef
dinner
in
his
favorite
restaurant
.
I
never
saw
an
animal
eat
like
that
,
not
even
a
well-trained
house
dog
.
And
all
the
while
he
was
eating
,
his
eyes
never
left
us
.
"
Either
one
smart
mouse
or
hungry
as
hell
,
"
a
new
voice
said
.
It
was
Bitterbuck
.
He
had
awakened
and
now
stood
at
the
bars
of
his
cell
,
naked
except
for
a
pair
of
saggy-seated
boxer
shorts
.
A
home-rolled
cigarette
poked
out
from
between
the
second
and
third
knuckles
of
his
right
hand
,
and
his
iron-gray
hair
lay
over
his
shoulders
--
once
probably
muscular
but
now
beginning
to
soften
--
in
a
pair
of
braids
.
"
You
got
any
Injun
wisdom
about
micies
,
Chief
?
"
Brutal
asked
,
watching
the
mouse
eat
.
We
were
all
pretty
fetched
by
the
neat
way
it
held
the
bit
of
corned
beef
in
its
forepaws
,
occasionally
turning
it
or
glancing
at
it
,
as
if
in
admiration
and
appreciation
.
"
Naw
,
"
Bitterbuck
said
.
"
Knowed
a
brave
once
had
a
pair
of
what
he
claimed
were
mouse-skin
gloves
,
but
I
did
n't
believe
it
!
"
Then
he
laughed
,
as
if
the
whole
thing
was
a
joke
,
and
left
the
bars
.
We
heard
the
bunk
creak
as
he
lay
down
again
.
That
seemed
to
be
the
mouse
's
signal
to
go
.
It
finished
up
what
it
was
holding
,
sniffed
at
what
was
left
(
mostly
bread
with
yellow
mustard
soaking
into
it
)
,
and
then
looked
back
at
us
,
as
if
it
wanted
to
remember
our
faces
if
we
met
again
.
Then
it
turned
and
scurried
off
the
way
it
had
come
,
not
pausing
to
do
any
cell-checks
this
time
.
Its
hurry
made
me
think
of
the
White
Rabbit
in
Alice
's
Adventures
in
Wonderland
,
and
I
smiled
.
It
did
n't
pause
at
the
door
to
the
restraint
room
,
but
disappeared
beneath
it
.
The
restraint
room
had
soft
walls
,
for
people
whose
brains
had
softened
a
little
.
We
kept
cleaning
equipment
stored
in
there
when
we
did
n't
need
the
room
for
its
created
purpose
,
and
a
few
books
(
most
were
westerns
by
Clarence
Mulford
,
but
one
--
loaned
out
only
on
special
occasions
--
featured
a
profusely
illustrated
tale
in
which
Popeye
,
Bluto
,
and
even
Wimpy
the
hamburger
fiend
took
turns
shtupping
Olive
Oyl
)
.
There
were
craft
items
as
well
,
including
the
crayons
Delacroix
later
put
to
some
good
use
.
Not
that
he
was
our
problem
yet
;
this
was
earlier
,
remember
.
Also
in
the
restraint
room
was
the
jacket
no
one
wanted
to
wear
--
white
,
made
of
double-sewn
canvas
,
and
with
the
buttons
and
snaps
and
buckles
going
up
the
back
.
We
all
knew
how
to
zip
a
problem
child
into
that
jacket
lickety-larrup
.
They
did
n't
get
violent
often
,
our
lost
boys
,
but
when
they
did
,
brother
,
you
did
n't
wait
around
for
the
situation
to
improve
on
its
own
.
