Chapter 6

           Thenextmorningtherewasapinkmemosliponmydesk,askingmetostopbythewarden’sofficeassoonasIcould.Iknewwhatthatwasabout—therewereunwrittenbutveryimportantrulestothegame,andIhadstoppedplayingbythemforawhileyesterday—andsoIputitoffaslongaspossible.Likegoingtothedoctoraboutmywaterworksproblem,Isuppose.I’vealwaysthoughtthis"get-it-over-with"businesswasoverrated.

           Anyway,Ididn’thurrytoWardenMoores’soffice.Istrippedoffmywooluniformcoatinstead,hungitoverthebackofmychair,andturnedonthefaninthecorner—itwasanotherhotone.ThenIsatdownandwentoverBrutusHowell’snight-sheet.Therewasnothingtheretogetalarmedabout.Delacroixhadweptbrieflyafterturningin—hedidmostnights,andmoreforhimselfthanforthefolkshehadroastedalive,Iamquitesure—andthenhadtakeMr.Jingles,themouse,outofthecigarboxhesleptin.ThathadcalmedDel,andhehadsleptlikeababytherestofthenight.Mr.JingleshadmostlikelyspentitonDelacroix’sstomach,withhistailcurledoverhispaws,eyesunblinking.ItwasasifGodhaddecidedDelacroixneededaguardianangel,buthaddecreedinHiswisdomthatonlyamousewoulddoforaratlikeourhomicidalfriendfromLouisiana.NotallthatwasinBrutal’sreport,ofcourse,butIhaddoneenoughnightwatchesmyselftofillinthestuffbetweenthelines.TherewasabriefnoteaboutCoffey:"Laidawake,mostlyquiet,mayhavecriedsome.