The next minute the supervisor came in from the adjoining room, stalked from bed to bed like the sole survivor among the fallen on a bloody battlefield (the silence was only broken now by an isolated snore), and went out again, with the self-satisfied air of a man who had brought some important enterprise to a successful conclusion.

‘Well, the inspection’s over,’ muttered Gurdweill’s neighbour, ‘but I’m not sleepy yet. And by the looks of things, neither are you.’

‘It’s still very early.’

‘Exactly! Mind you, you have to get up at the crack of dawn here. At half past four they start banging on the pipes, and you have to jump to it. They carry on as if it were a bloody army barracks, or a jail. You can ask me — I know them both. I wasn’t born yesterday, believe me.’

Gurdweill’s interest was now aroused, and since he had no desire to go to sleep yet he asked him when he had been to jail and for what crime. ‘A man of my age, my friend,’ said the man, not without pride, ‘has already done and seen a thing or two in his life! Sitting in jail is nothing to get excited about, believe me. Step out of line just once — and you’re inside! Poor people are particularly lucky in this respect. You might even say that the jails were constructed especially for them. The rich never get within a mile of a jail. And if they ever do get into trouble, you can trust them to get out of it pretty quick, believe me! As for me, I’ve been inside more than once, and I can tell you it’s not half as bad as it’s made out to be. In a hard winter you might even do something on purpose to be locked up. At least you’ll have a roof over your head and something to put in your stomach.