S P I K E W A S W A I T I N G patiently for tL~ t，a，<br >a virtue he did not hold， in the abstract， in particularly high<br >regard--since lightning-quick decisions and instantaneous ac-<br >tions were the province of those he most admired--but five<br >years in the British Columbia Penitentiary had developed his<br > facility for waiting to an unfortunate degree， and although any-<br > one looking at him as he sat on the thin-slatted green wooden<br > bench would have thought that here was a man who was eager<br > to be gone--his taut， rather feral face was held forward of his<br > neck in a way that seemed to anticipate movement， and his<br > eyes stared fixedly at a distant point in space--in fact， he felt<br > as relaxed as he ever could. He wore a pair of khaki army-<br > surplus pants， a thin gray T-shirt with a canvas iacket buttoned<br > over it， a pair of black iungle boots laced all the way to the top，<br > and an earring in his left ear. Occasionally he would stick his~<br > left forefinger directly into that ear and leave it for a moment，<br > as if he were testing the temperature of the interior of his brain.<br > His right hand was occupied in holding his harmonica， which<br > he had set on the knee closest to his bench mate， where he<br > tapped it and turned it over， his thoughtful consideration of the<br > harmonica an attempt to conceal his surreptitious interest in<br > the man beside him.<br >