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He was examining the ceiling, the floor, and the numbers on the doors. "No, this is right," said the gentleman. Again Baker hobbled along, never releasing his hold on the invisible weight. They halted at No. 13. Said Baker, with a shade of pity in his voice, "'Taint right. Wrong curryder. Cell hunder'd'n one's mine."
As to his name, it was "jess Baker;" but on rare occasions, when pressed with hard cruelty, his lips could be seen to form the words, "Hunder'd'n One," as though wondering how they would sound if he should utter them, and then the old blank, suffering look would come into his face.
Then he pulled out the other, resumed his shirt and hat, picked up the imaginary weight, and shuffled along slowly after his leader. "What is your name?" asked the gentleman. "Hunder'd'n One." They were soon traversing the corridor in the servants' quarter of the hotel, when Baker halted and ventured to say: "I reckin you'r in the wrong curryder."
Do you want anything?" "Oh, ... I'll tell you: The governor ... he found out my brother ... done it ... an' ... an' he's goin' to ... pardon me.... Fifteen years, an' played off ... played off crazy.... Forty lashes every Monday ... mornin'.... Cell hunder'd'n one's mine.... Well, I'll tell you: Governor's goin' to ... pardon me out." He ceased his struggling to speak.
"Yes, yes; but we'll put you in this one for the present," replied the gentleman, as he opened the door and ushered Baker within. The room was comfortably furnished, and this perplexed Baker more and more. "Hain't you got it wrong?" he persisted. "Lifer, you know. Hunder'd'n One lifer plays off crazy forty lashes every Monday. Don't you know?"
"Hunder'd'n One," he quietly said, looking at his questioner with a shade of fear and suspicion in his face. The porter believed that a lunatic stood before him. He asked: "Where are you from?" "Georgy." "What part of Georgia?" Again was Baker at sea, and again did his glance seek the chandelier and the oriel. "Me?" he asked. "Yes, you. What part of Georgia are you from?"
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