After Bell has dropped away, I have a long and interesting discussion with my partner. For some years I have felt that the principles of self-government, as developed at the Junior Republic, might probably be the key to the solution of the prison problem; but as yet I have not been able to see clearly just how to begin its application. There have seemed to be almost insuperable difficulties. In this connection Jack makes a suggestion which supplies a most important link in the chain.

In discussing the various aspects of prison life, the better and the worse, the harder and the less hard, we reach the subject of the long and dreary Sundays. Jack agrees with all those with whom I have talked that the long stretch in the cells, from the conclusion of the chapel service, between ten-thirty and eleven o’clock Sunday morning until seven o’clock Monday morning—over twenty hours, is a fearful strain both physical and mental upon the prisoners.

“Well, Jack,” I say, “from what I have heard Superintendent Riley say, I feel sure he would like to give the men some sort of exercise or recreation on Sunday afternoons; but how could it be managed? You can’t ask the officers to give up their day off, and you don’t think the men could be trusted by themselves, do you?”

“Why not?” says Jack.

I look at him, inquiringly.

“Why, look here, Tom!” In his eagerness Jack comes around to my side of our working table. “I know this place through and through. I know these men; I’ve studied ’em for years. And I tell you that the big majority of these fellows in here will be square with you if you give ’em a chance. The trouble is, they don’t treat us on the level. I could tell you all sorts of frame-ups they give us. Now if you trust a man, he’ll try and do what’s right; sure he will. That is, most men will. Of course, there are a few that won’t. There are some dirty curs—degenerates—that will make trouble, but there ain’t so very many of those.

“Look at that road work,” he continues. “Haven’t the men done fine? How many prisoners have you had out on the roads? About one hundred and thirty. And you ain’t had a single runaway yet. And if there should be any runaways you can just bet we’d show ’em what we think about it.”[11]

“Do you really think, Jack, that the Superintendent and the Warden could trust you fellows out in the yard on Sunday afternoons in summer?”

“Sure they could,” responds Jack, his face beginning to flush with pleasure at the thought. “And there could be a band concert, and we’d have a fine time. And it would be a good sight better for us than being locked in our cells all day. You’d have fewer fights on Monday, I know that.”

“Yes, it would certainly be an improvement on spending the afternoon in your cells,” I remark. “Then in rainy weather you could march to the chapel and have some sort of lecture or debate; or Mr. Kurtz and I would come down occasionally and give you a violin and piano recital.”

“Sure,” says Jack; adding with a smile, “the boys would like that best of all, you know.” (It takes an Irishman to slide in a delicate compliment in passing.)

“Well, that would all be first rate,” is my interested comment; “but how about the discipline? Would you let everybody out into the yard? What about those bad actors who don’t know how to behave? Won’t they quarrel and fight and try to escape?”

“But don’t you see, Tom, that they couldn’t do that without putting the whole thing on the bum, and depriving the rest of us of our privileges? You needn’t be afraid we couldn’t handle those fellows all right. Or why not let out only those men who have a good conduct bar? That’s it,” he continues, enthusiastically warming up to his subject, “that’s it, Tom, a Good Conduct League. And give the privilege of Sunday afternoons to the members of the league. I’ll tell you, Tom! you know last year we got up an Anti-swearing League here in this shop, and we had a penalty for every oath or dirty word. The forfeits were paid with matches. You know matches are pretty scarce here, don’t you? Well, we had a grand success with that league. But this Good Conduct League would be a much bigger thing. It would be just great. And go! sure it’ll go.”

“Well, Jack, perhaps you’ve hit the right nail on the head. We’ll think it over, and talk more about it to-morrow.”

Thus I close the conversation, wishing time to consider Jack’s suggestion before we continue discussing a subject so big with possibilities. Sunday afternoon may be the key to the whole situation, and Jack may have found the key to the question of Sunday afternoon.

Toward the end of the day, when we have finished our work and Jack is sweeping up, I first read all the newspapers which have floated in my direction, and then take a long walk in stretches of ten feet or so. Our talk has given me much to think about. Jack, after finishing his sweeping, also walks, but in a different direction; for there is a strict rule that no two convicts may walk together. I manage at times to stretch my course a little, on one side or another, and whisper a word or two to some of the other prisoners. My remarks are always greeted with a ready smile and a pleasant gleam of the eye—even in the case of a poor fellow whose face shows that he is lacking in ordinary intelligence.

Closing time comes. “Good night, Jack!” “Good night, Tom!” (I got ahead of my partner this time.) We form in line; the old men and cripples start off first; the rest of us march up the steps and along the tracks; then after pausing at the bucket stands, swing up the yard to the main building; where I seize my bread, clamber up the iron steps; pass a whispered word or two to some of my special friends as we separate for the night; take my tin cup of fresh water which stands on the shelf; stand for a moment at the cell entrance watching the fellows pass who lock in around the corner; and then pull to my iron grated door, locking myself in for the night. I never perform this last operation and hear the click of the lever which announces that I am fastened securely in my cell, without a feeling of resentment. At least, if a man is to be caged like this, it ought to be done by visible exercise of authority. They shouldn’t expect him to lock his own cage. Speaking as a convict, I call it adding insult to injury.

The following is Jack Murphy’s description of the regular routine: “On reaching his gallery each inmate must go direct to his cell, closing his iron door to within an inch of the catch, where the lever falls in place. He must then stand with hands on his iron-grated door until the Captain (who is now on his way, locking up) reaches his cell; then the convict pulls in his door, the lever falls into its catch and the Captain simultaneously inserts his large key into a lock at the side, locking the lever so that it cannot be raised. He then counts his company.

“The process of counting is done in this manner: the Captain, in passing each cell, takes hold of the lever while the inmate shakes his door vigorously. In this way the Captain does two mental things at one time, namely: he assures himself that each cell door is securely locked, and that his charge is behind that secured lock. This procedure is continued until the last cell and convict is counted. Then the iron bar which runs the length of the gallery is let down by a lever operated by the Captain at the end of the gallery. This bar runs in front of an iron rod or arm attached outward from the cell door. It is twenty inches long by half an inch square, and is fastened to the left side of the cell door.

“I forgot to say that, after the lever, which lowers the long iron bar, is pulled down, it is also treated to the lock-up system. A Yale lock is used for this purpose; so you see the poor dumb iron is even a victim to the Prison System.

“In case of illness, after the prison is closed for the night, an officer has to go to the trouble of running up to the front hall for the key of the gallery on which the convict is ill. This would take him 15 minutes to do; and after he got through unlocking all the locks and pulling the lever the convict might be fit for an undertaker instead of a doctor.

“A convict must not loiter on his gallery. This is considered by some captains a serious offense; and as for talking—good night! This last is as bad as if you were charged with talking out of your cell to your next-door neighbor. A report for such an offense would read something like this: ‘Convict Brown is reported by Captain Jeff [or Mutt] for the following: Loitering on the gallery, talking and causing general disorder.’ Next morning Convict Brown would hit the Booby Hatch for three or four days and a fine of $5.00.”

Jack’s statement is, of course, correct. I knew that I was taking a chance in whispering; but I got away with it, all right. So do others, including Jack himself.

To understand fully the Prison System it should be added that this long iron bar, which forms the third lock and about which so much fuss is made, only exists in the basement and second tier in the North Wing, and not at all in the South Wing. There is no discrimination made, by confining the more dangerous men in the extra-locked cells. But, gravely, every night and morning, that silly extra bar is lowered and raised for a small percentage of the prisoners—a ridiculous waste of time and energy.

This evening has been marked by a visit from the Chaplain, who has returned from Syracuse. He tells me that my experiment has aroused great interest among the clergymen assembled at a religious conference he has been attending; that he has had to answer countless questions. He also tells me that he is returning there again this evening and will telephone to the gentleman who was proposing to employ his assistant, Dickinson, and see if work cannot possibly be found for him. I tell the Chaplain of my letter, and beg him to add assurance of my own belief in the young man’s stability and intention to do right.

Later the Warden comes. He brings me, as usual, a copy of the Auburn newspaper, so that I must set this down as the third exception that is made in my case. As a regular newcomer I should not be allowed a newspaper.

I ask the Warden about last night’s disturbance. He has inquired into it, he says, and found it was only a case of a troublesome fellow, sent up from Sing Sing recently, who was making some little disturbance in the gallery. After they admonished him he wouldn’t stop, so they had to take him down to the jail. When the officer entered his cell, he threw his bucket at the officer and there was a little row. “I’m inclined to think,” adds the Warden, “that he may be a little bit crazy, and I’m going to look into it.”

“I suppose that is the official version,” I remark to the Warden. “Well, I certainly hope you will look further into it; for, speaking frankly, I think they are trying to slip one over on you. If my information is correct, and I believe it is, the case is rather different from what you have told me; and the treatment given the young fellow was inexcusably brutal.”

I put the matter rather mildly to the Warden, for I don’t want him to think that I am losing my balance and taking everything that is said to me by all my fellow-prisoners as gospel truth. To believe everything they say would doubtless be as stupid as to believe nothing.

The Warden and I again discuss the desirability of my working in one of the other shops during the remaining time here; but after full consideration we both feel that more is to be gained by staying where I am. There is only a day and a half left.

“You still feel, then, as if you wanted to try the jail?” asks the Warden.

“Yes, more so than ever,” I answer, “for I must find out why the prisoners all speak of it with such horror. When you showed me the place last June, I thought it a very uncomfortable hole, and it was not pleasant to think about afterward. But there must be some such place to put men who defy all authority; and it didn’t strike me as so very terrible. These fellows all speak of it with bated breath and a queer look in the eyes, as though it held some ghastly recollection. What can it be?”

“I’m sure I don’t know,” answers the Warden.

“Well, neither do I, and I want to find out. Of course,” I add, “I’m not going to be foolish about the thing. If I find I don’t feel well enough for any reason, when Saturday comes, I shall just cut it out. But if my physical condition continues as good as it is now, I mean to try it.”

“All right,” says the Warden. “I wanted to know, so that I can give orders to have one of those jail suits washed. There is no need of your running any unnecessary risk in the matter, and those dirty old clothes I don’t like.”

This is my first knowledge of the custom of giving the prisoners who are sent to the punishment cells clothes especially reserved for the jail; and my thoughts travel at once to the filthy and disreputable garments I had seen on a prisoner the Warden had once interviewed there in my presence.

“Well, I shall appreciate it if I can have a clean suit,” I said. “There’s no reason, I suppose, why I should not accept that exception.”

So it is arranged. The Warden’s visit comes to an end, and another day of my voluntary exile from society is closed.

Now for another long and restless night.

I shall not mind so much the periods of wakefulness to-night. Jack Murphy’s Good Conduct League will give me plenty of food for thought. I believe he has struck the path for which I have been groping.

CHAPTER XI

This morning breaks gray and cloudy again. I wake early and hear the night officer, some time before six o’clock, come and wake my neighbor in the next cell. He and I tap each other “Good night” regularly now; and this morning I send through the stone wall a greeting for the day. He returns my message; and when the keeper comes again at six o’clock, this time to open his cell, he waits, apparently, until that officer’s back is turned and then, putting his head only just so far past the opening of my cell that his voice can reach me, utters a hoarse and hasty “Good morning” and vanishes. This puts me in thorough good humor, and as I hear the factory bells and whistles greet the new morn I turn over to take just one final nap before beginning my own preparations for the day’s work, wondering what new turn my adventure will take before night again falls.

Is it imagination, or is there more friendliness than usual in the nods and smiles which greet me from the faces upturned in the corridor below, as I traverse the gallery with my heavy bucket? It was extensively questioned among the convicts, in advance of my coming, whether I would do this particular part of the prison duty. As one of them told me, it was thought I would find some way to escape it; and the fact that I did not try to escape it, but assumed it cheerfully and as a matter of course, has much impressed them. As Joe put it to me three days ago, it was proof that I “meant business,” and took the thing seriously, meaning to do exactly what I said—live the actual life of a convict up to the possible limit.

Bucket duty performed and while I wait in my cell for the breakfast hour, Dickinson comes running to my door. The good fellow has heard from the Chaplain that his job is ready for him and he can go out to-morrow. “And I can never be grateful enough to you, sir,” he says with much feeling. “I shall never forget what you and the Chaplain have done for me; and I assure you you will never regret it, for I intend to go straight and show you that I mean every word I say.”

“I’m sure you do; and I’m sure you will go straight,” is my comment. “But how about your clothes? Have you anything but the prison suit you get on your discharge?”

“No, nothing.”

“Well, but you can’t go to work outside in those. People will spot you as an ex-con at once. Don’t you want me to fix it so that you can get a decent suit?”

“Oh, if you only would!” is his heartfelt exclamation. “And, say, Mr. Osborne—pardon me—I mean Mr. Brown, if you’ll please consider them not as a gift, if you’ll let me have the money as a loan, I shall be greatly obliged. And I’ll pay it back just as soon as I possibly can.”

So we make arrangements by which he can be aided in this way, and I sit down to write a note relative to the matter, but am interrupted by breakfast.

As we march to breakfast I try my hand, or rather my throat, at motionless conversation. Wishing to get word to one of the prisoners to procure a certain definite piece of information about the Wednesday evening incident, I seize upon a favorable moment to communicate with Roger Landry, who is marching ahead of me. In the faintest whisper and without moving my lips, I say: “Cun to ny cell a’ter dreak’ast.” The ghost of a nod shows that he has heard and understood, and so we march in to our morning meal.

This time it is again hash, with the usual accompaniments—the rather sour bread and nasty coffee. (Whatever else changes, the bootleg remains the same.) The hash is better than that which we had for breakfast on—Wednesday, was it? I place aside only one piece of bone and one of gristle.

During the meal I look around more closely than I have previously done at the officers within my range of vision. There is one who wears a flannel shirt, and is so unshaven that he looks like a tramp. I’m glad I’m not under that Captain. At first I thought he was some one who had been drafted temporarily for duty, but I find he is one of the regular officers.

Here is an interesting psychological fact: that much as a man dislikes being treated as a slave, yet if he is to be so treated he wants his master to be the most efficient and best-looking master of the lot. I find myself comparing our Captain with this untidy-looking person in the flannel shirt, and having a distinct feeling of pride in the good looks and clean-cut appearance of our master. I know that if I were serving under that flannel-shirted and collarless officer I should have very little respect for myself and none for him. I don’t know who he is, and he may be one of the kindest and best tempered of men; but I would be willing to wager that the prisoners under his charge are difficult to handle. It does not speak well for the general discipline of the prison that such a breach of official decorum should be permitted. The officer’s cap on top of the unshaven face and the flannel shirt looks ridiculously out of place.

Soon after our return to the cells comes Landry, having understood perfectly my first attempt at convict conversation. I give him my message and he engages to see that it is delivered. As we are talking, another of the trusties passes by; and, before I can see who it is, a large sheet of paper is thrust under the door and the man is gone. I turn the paper over and on the other side is a most elaborate pencil sketch of myself, copied with extraordinary pains, apparently from some newspaper cut, and with it a slip of paper with this inscription: “Auburn Prison, September 30, 1913. To Hon. Thomas M. Osborne, Auburn, N. Y. As a memento of the days spent in our midst and sacrificed in our behalf. Auburn No. 31——.”

Arrived at the basket-shop and soon after Jack and I have started working, I have a bad attack of nausea. I was very thirsty at breakfast time and inadvertently drank some bootleg. That must be the reason. No human stomach, without practice, can stand that stuff. I keep on working, hoping the feeling will wear off, but it does not. Then I walk up and down energetically while we are waiting for a new stock of rattan, but that has no better effect. Jack is much concerned and insists upon appealing to the Captain, who promptly sends to the hospital for medicine. In the meantime I go to the large door in the rear of the shop with a hope of relief from the cause of disturbance, but am only partially successful. A young prisoner who is washing windows asks me if I would not like some hot water. Indeed I would, it is the very thing I want. So he goes and gets it. He is a good-looking lad, a Greek, with the appealing eyes I have noticed in some of the Italian prisoners. I drink large quantities of hot water and rest awhile before continuing my work. Jack and all the other men about me are most kind and solicitous for my comfort, and I have never seen a more ready and friendly expression of sympathy. It is worth being ill to experience it.

The young Greek keeps my jar of hot water filled as fast as I empty it, and even before the medicine arrives from the hospital I already feel better. I take a dose, however, and go to work again. By the time the morning work hours are over I am in shape to march back to the north wing, although for a moment at the bucket stands I feel as if I were about to keel over.

In my cell I slump into the chair. (I don’t think I have mentioned that the large chair which gave so much trouble on Tuesday night was replaced the next day by one of more manageable proportions.) I rest my head against the mattress, as it hangs over the bed, and feel ill for a few moments. But I take another dose of the Doctor’s medicine and by the time the march to dinner comes I feel better; so much better that, carefully avoiding the bootleg, I manage to make a fairly good meal.

The menu to-day consists of very excellent hot soup, cold salmon, and pickles. I avoid the salmon and pickles, passing them along to another man, and contenting myself with the soup and sour bread. This passing to others of what one does not want seems to be very general. As it has to be done without visible conversation it is a little difficult for the newcomer always to know what is expected of him, and I’m afraid I have not always disposed of my meal to the best advantage. I notice that Landry eats sparingly. As he has what might be called a semi-official position, I suspect that he reserves some of his gastronomic energies for the back pantry.

Again in my cell I address myself to sleep; and succeed in getting a brief nap, which is broken by my good friend Joe, who comes to make anxious inquiries after my health. He has heard that I am sick and is much concerned. I suppose he has learned it in the mysterious way so much news travels—by prison wireless.

I relieve Joe’s anxiety; and then comes Landry with whom I have a pleasant talk on things in general, ending with religion. We are interrupted by the arrival of Captain Martin; and I am considerably amused at the deft way in which Landry has effaced himself and vanished before the officer regains his breath after climbing the stairs. Captain Martin comes from the Doctor to know whether I should like some milk.

“Thank you, sir, I think not now.” I am on the point of adding that it would be extremely welcome this evening—well or ill; but the Captain does not offer it, and I do not quite like to ask for it. So I vouchsafe the information that I’m feeling better now and think I shall be all right in a very short while.

The Captain takes his departure; and my next caller is Dickinson, who is still radiant over the idea of leaving to-morrow. I give him the note I have written, which will enable him to get his clothes; and, when he tells me that owing to the late fine weather the authorities have refused to give him an overcoat, I add that item to his list.

When the time comes to go back to work I am feeling refreshed by my brief nap and the hour’s rest after dinner. So I fall into line as usual with the company—I wonder what would happen if I stayed behind in my cell—and we march down the yard as usual. When I arrive at the shop, Jack is at my side in an instant.

“How are you feeling, Tom?” he inquires, anxiously.

I tell him that I am doing fairly well, and we set to work. In a very short time, however, the feeling of nausea returns; and Jack then gives me a remedy of his own which he says is often taken in the prison, where indigestion is only too common. It consists of bicarbonate of soda in vinegar and water. To show me that it is quite safe Jack takes a dose himself, I follow suit, and the result is satisfactory in both cases. I am also provided with plenty of hot water by my young Greek friend, who is apparently ready to take any amount of trouble for me.

While I am trying to do my fair share of the basket-making this afternoon one of my shopmates passes behind me and then pauses in the shadow of the post. “Say, Brown,” he says, “you don’t seem to realize that you are violating one of the fundamental laws of this institution, you’re working too hard,” and he goes off chuckling. I don’t know that I am working too hard, but I do know that there seems to be about as little incentive to do a good, honest day’s work as could well be devised. At a cent and a half a day the financial result is farcical, and my surprise is great that the state gets as good work as it does. Certainly it is far better than the state deserves. Looking about the shop I see a great many men who are doing their allotted tasks faithfully and well. Yet they have absolutely nothing to gain by it except the satisfaction of work well done.

In the course of the afternoon Jack and I resume our discussion about Sunday afternoons and the Good Conduct League. Further consideration has rendered both of us enthusiastic over the plan.

“Why, I know it would work, Tom,” is Jack’s decided statement. “The big majority of fellows in this prison the Warden don’t have any trouble with. Well, just keep the rest of ’em out of the League. There’s no reason why the men who are tryin’ to make good should suffer because those miserable degenerates won’t stand for what’s right.”

“Then you think that if the right men were trusted they could take care of the bad ones?” I ask.

“Sure!” replies my enthusiastic partner.

“Well, now let’s see about this thing,” I say, becoming more and more interested as the great possibilities of the plan present themselves to my mind. “Suppose it is Sunday afternoon and Superintendent Riley has given permission to use the yard. You can’t have the officers coming back and spoiling their day off. How would you manage?”

“Why, just let the League fellows manage themselves,” is Jack’s answer.

“Yes, but how?” I persist. “You’d probably have an occasional fight of some sort, and you’d have to have some means of enforcing discipline. Could each company have a convict officer, a lieutenant to assist the regular captain?”

Jack looks grave. “That would be too much like Elmira,” he says. “I’m afraid the fellows wouldn’t fall for it. You know they just hate those Elmira officers; they’re nothing but stool-pigeons.”

Right here is where my Junior Republic experience comes to our aid.

“Yes,” I say, “but we wouldn’t have any Elmira stool-pigeons. Down there the inmate officers are appointed by the prison authorities, aren’t they? Well, here we’d have the members of the League elect their own officers.”

Jack stares at me a moment, and then his quick mind grasps the point. “That’s it, that’s it,” he assents, eagerly, “we’ve got it now. Of course if the men elect their own officers they won’t be stool-pigeons.”

“Certainly not, they can’t be,” I rejoin, feeling now on familiar and secure ground, “for if the men elect them, they will be representatives of the men and bound to feel themselves responsible to the men. They may turn out to be poor officers—dictatorial, or weak, or incompetent—but they will not be stool-pigeons. Then you can guard against it still further by providing that whenever the men of a company lose faith in their officer he can be recalled and a new one elected.”

As we discuss the matter new possibilities open up. Some sort of governing body of the League which shall plan ahead for its work, so that every Sunday something interesting may be presented. Perhaps the men might get up an entertainment themselves; or, as I suggest, possibly athletic sports on a holiday in the yard. This last makes Jack fairly gasp.

“Gee! I guess that we’d have everybody wantin’ to join the League, all right,” is his comment.

“And you really think the men would take an interest, and make such a thing go?” is my final question.

“Go!” says Jack. “The only trouble will be if we ever had a fight in the yard everybody’d want to stop it to show that they didn’t stand for it. And I’m afraid that fourteen hundred men would come pretty near to putting the two fighters out of business.”

“Well, then, let us think over this matter fully and carefully, Jack, and later on I’ll take it up with you and see what we can work out of it. I think you’ve got hold of the right end and struck a big thing.”

The next time Stuhlmiller comes to our table I say, “Harley, listen to this,” and give him a rough outline of what Jack and I have been discussing. Stuhlmiller listens with smiling attention and gives the plan warm approval. This is encouraging.

On the other hand, when we open up the subject to Blackie Laflam, he takes a different view. He is quite ready to accept the blessings of Sunday afternoons in the yard or chapel; but he balks at the idea of inmate lieutenants.

“Cut it out,” is his comment. “I wouldn’t be bossed by no convict. Ain’t the keeper enough? What’s he paid for? No Elmira stool-pigeons for mine!”

So there we have the two views very well outlined, and the two currents of public opinion fairly contrasted. Harley sees the point at once, is ready to join in and accept the responsibilities which must go along with the privileges; Blackie has to overcome his prejudices and be convinced of the benefit which may accrue to him personally. We shall have to take into account both groups of which these two men are types.[12]

Except for these discussions this last afternoon passes without any new excitement. I find myself frequently wondering about to-morrow. In my present condition it would be very foolish to attempt the jail. Fortunately I am feeling better every moment, even if I am “working too hard”; perhaps because of doing so. By the time the order comes to fall in at the end of the afternoon I am quite myself again—thanks to Jack’s remedy, the Doctor’s medicine, and the Greek boy’s hot water, to say nothing of the League discussion.

One incident of the afternoon touches me extremely. Working not far from us is a young lad from Brooklyn. He can’t be more than eighteen or nineteen years of age—a good-looking youth, having no special friends apparently and speaking but little to any one. Every moment when he is not working he is either vigorously walking, or poring over some book, a lurid dime novel I should judge from its appearance. I have tried to make friends with him, but without much success. My advances are received pleasantly enough, but awaken apparently very little response. To be sure we do not have a chance to enjoy much real conversation, but his face does not light up as do those of most of the prisoners with whom I get the chance to exchange even a word or two.

This afternoon, while I am working away at the bench, I suddenly see a hand outstretched in front of me, and in its palm a small bunch of about two dozen green, dyspeptic-looking grapes. A more forlorn attempt at fruit I have never seen.

I turn, and it is my young friend of the dime novel. The lad has somehow or other come into possession of these sickly grapes, and is making to me the best offering he can. I dare say it sounds like a very commonplace occurrence, but in reality there is something infinitely pathetic in this poor imprisoned boy’s attempt to express friendliness. I wish I could give him in return some of the real fruit that is at this moment wasting on the vines at home. As it is, I can only tell him that I do not dare eat fruit while my stomach is out of order, but that I appreciate his kindness none the less. So he goes back to his exercise; and I am left wondering how in the world—or rather, how away from the world—did the boy come by those grapes.[13]

Thus I close my last full day’s work in the shop. Where shall I be at this time to-morrow, I wonder? It occurs to me that this was the same question I was asking myself only five nights ago, before I came to prison.

We march back up the yard without incident; and in due time I regain my cell, after getting my bread for supper.

Here Dickinson comes again, to express his gratitude and have me share in his joy at deliverance. I say, “And now I suppose it’s good-bye.”

“Oh, no,” he replies; “I shall come and see you again to-morrow morning before I go.” Then he tells me all his plans, and how he expects to rejoin his wife and children. His joy is pathetic when one reflects upon the individual sorrows and disappointments that must await him, with always in the background the horrible dread of having his past discovered. Even his children do not know the truth; they think their father has only been away on a long journey. I give him my very best wishes and plenty of good advice, and again he assures me of his undying gratitude. It seems to be very easy to make these poor fellows grateful. Just a little human feeling, that is all that is necessary.

This evening, having little appetite and bread and water not seeming quite adequate to tempt what little there is, I turn to Landry’s apples which have been awaiting just such an occasion. I eat one; and it goes to just the right spot. I have seldom tasted anything more delicious. On the whole, it appears well to be on good terms with a gallery man; and I can see that it would be especially so if he is the captain’s trusty. I can imagine that then he might be of great service; or might, on the other hand, work one a deal of mischief if he wanted to. The trusty must have it in his power very often to prejudice the captain for or against certain prisoners by what he tells; and the captain would have no practicable means of verifying the trusty’s statements. A system of petty and very exasperating tyranny would thus grow up. It is bad enough to be tyrannized over by an officer, but to be tyrannized over by an officer’s stool-pigeon must be almost unendurable. While I have seen no examples myself, I imagine from what I have heard that this state of things is not unknown, as of course it is inevitable. One has only to recall one’s own school days to know that.

After I have finished my supper of apples, bread and water, one of the trusties comes to the front of the cell, and I have a long talk with him. He grows confidential, and tells me his story. It is a mournful but perfectly natural one. An active boy, inclined to wildness; bad companions; a father whose business called him from home; a mother unable to cope with her wilful son; a life of dissipation; a picnic and drinking; a row with some other toughs; a handy pistol and an unpremeditated murder. Then comes the punishment which falls upon him, although others are equally to blame.

What surprises me about this, like other tales that have reached me, is the frank acknowledgment of the sin. There is usually an admission that punishment was deserved, occasionally an admission that on the whole prison has been useful—“I’ve learned my lesson”; but along with any such acknowledgment, an expression of intense resentment at unintelligent treatment and unnecessary brutality.

The tales of this brutality are almost beyond belief. They do not come out directly, put forward to arouse sympathy; very far from that. They crop out incidentally in the course of conversation and are only related when I ply the prisoner with questions. One man tells of being sent to a dark cell because he would not reveal to the warden something he did not know, and therefore could not reveal, about one of his fellow prisoners.

“Didn’t you really know, or wouldn’t you be a stool-pigeon?” is my natural question.

“I really didn’t know,” replies the trusty.

But the warden chose to think that the poor fellow did know, and sent him to the dark cell on bread and water for eight days. Then he was brought up, more dead than alive, given a single meal, and sent back to the dark cell for twelve days more.

Twenty days in darkness—on bread and water—for withholding information which he did not possess.

(It should be added that this did not happen under any warden now holding office.)

What are men made of who can treat human beings like that? I supposed that the Middle Ages were safely passed; but here is the medieval idea of the torture chamber to extract information right over again.

Then there is that other story of the man who committed suicide in the jail. This is what is told to me:

A number of years ago a poor fellow was sent here. His first night in prison was so terrible a nervous strain upon him, as it apparently is to all prisoners, that he could not keep from hysterical crying. The officer on guard ordered him to stop, but he could not control himself. So the officer chalked him in.

The next day he was reported for punishment and sent down to the jail, although he protested that it would kill him. That night he strangled himself with his handkerchief.

It is the jail which, apparently, either sends a man bughouse, or which lays such a foundation that he becomes so later on. But even when the time spent in the dark cell is short, as in Jack Murphy’s case, who spent only eight hours there, there seems to be left an impression of horror—for which I find it difficult to account. I certainly cannot make a full test of prison life without having a jail experience. For me surely it can hold no such horror as for these poor fellows who are kept so many days on starvation diet. Yes, if I do not feel physically unfit to-morrow I must undertake the experience.

Soon after eight o’clock the Warden and Grant appear at my cell door. My ears are becoming sharper, I think. I can tell now the moment the door opens into the corridor below whether or not it is the Warden that is coming. Of course he arrives about the same time every evening, but also about this time the door is opening and closing a number of times. I recognize also the Warden’s footfalls on the stone pavement below. It would not be very long, I imagine, before I should have a hearing as acute as my fellow prisoners seem to have.

The Warden begins with an apology. “I’m very sorry,” he says, “but I forgot your newspaper to-night.” Then he adds the usual remark, “I don’t know how I came to forget it.”

“Don’t worry,” I say, “it doesn’t make any difference. I’ve read it.”

The Warden stares at me incredulously. “You’ve read it! To-night’s paper?”

“Certainly,” I answer, “from beginning to end. Don’t you believe it?” And in proof of my statement I produce the paper.

The Warden gasps. “Well, how in the devil did you get that?”

“Oh, come now! Don’t you understand that I’m a convict?” I say jeeringly. “You mustn’t expect me to answer such a question.”

The Warden takes it all in good part. “Well, Dan,” he says, turning to Grant, “this man seems to be on to the game all right. What shall we do to him for violating the rules and smashing our system?”

“Don’t you know,” I remark with a serious air, “that so long as you hold me a prisoner I don’t care a pin for your rules, and even less for your damn’d system. What do you say to that?”

“I say you’re a dangerous man, and the sooner we get you off on parole the better,” laughs the Warden. “But you will have to promise you won’t make more trouble for us after you get outside.”

“Oh, you’re in for trouble, all right; whether I’m inside or out.” I say it in jest, but we know there is many a true word spoken in that way. The Warden will have many new problems to handle while he is in office; for the old way is worn out and the new way is surely coming. Fortunately he is a genuine progressive and the new has no terrors for him.

Taking up the serious part of our business, the Warden says he must go out of town again to-morrow; and be gone over Sunday.

“What about that poor fellow they dragged down to the jail night before last?” I ask.

“Oh, you’re all wrong about that matter,” the Warden answers. “He was insolent and violent, flung his bucket at the keeper’s head, and there was nothing to do but punish him. I’ve inquired into it and the officers were all right.”

“You are being deceived,” is my comment. “These men realize they are in bad. They’re afraid of the truth; and they’re steering you wrong. Take my word for it, Warden, there is more in that affair than they are permitting you to know. And you are up against the System as well as the prisoners themselves.”

The Warden is troubled, no man has a heartier dislike of being made the victim of dishonesty or hypocrisy than he. “Well, what had better be done?” he asks. “I shall be very busy to-morrow before I go.”

“Suppose we wait then,” I suggest. “The man is probably not being abused now, wherever he is; and after I get out of here you can have a thorough examination made. I can guarantee plenty of material to enable you to get to the bottom of it.”

“I am more than ever sorry I have to go away,” says the Warden. “Now how about the jail? Are you still determined to go there? And, if so, how do you propose to be sent?”

“Well, as you know, I don’t wish to be a fool about this thing, nor do I want to run any unnecessary risk. To-day I felt very sick; and, to be quite frank, if I should feel to-morrow as I did to-day I couldn’t be hired to go to jail. But I feel so much better to-night that I think I shall be in good condition to-morrow. So what I propose is this. Let Dan come here to-morrow noon, and if I feel all right we can put through our plan. I did intend to go down to the jail to-morrow morning, so as to have the whole twenty-four hours there; but it would be better to wait until after dinner. There is no use in taking too large a dose. I ought to get all necessary information in—say, four hours.

“Some time in the afternoon, then, I will simply strike work. Grant can tip off the Captain; and he will send me to the P. K. Of course, if a fellow refuses to work, the only thing they can do is to send him to the punishment cells. If you were to be here I had thought of putting in a warden’s call; and then of being so insolent to you that you would have no recourse but to order me punished. I should quite enjoy telling you what I think of your rotten old institution. But if you’re going away that plan’s no good, so we’ll try the other.”

“I think your present plan is better,” says the Warden. “I should hate to have you tell me what you really think of us. Well, that ought to work out all right. Now how long do you say you want to stay there?”

“Well, I don’t know that I’m anxious to stay any longer than just to get a good idea of what the place is like. I want to feel the flavor of it. But if I should be down there alone, it won’t be very exciting. Suppose I go down about four o’clock; and Dan can come down and let me out about eight, or half-past seven, or say, seven. I think three hours will be a big enough dose.”

“I’ve ordered some clothes cleaned for you,” says the Warden, “so those are all right. Well, Dan,” he adds, turning to Grant, “is everything perfectly clear?”

Thus it is arranged. I say good-bye to the Warden; and tell him that the Chaplain has asked me to say a few words to the men in chapel on Sunday. The Warden thinks it a good idea, and adds that the details about my leaving the prison can be arranged with Grant to-morrow. The general plan is that I shall go out on Sunday, marching back with the men after the chapel exercises. I can then take my belongings from the cell and go quietly up to the Warden’s quarters, where I can wash and dress.

Our plans being thus settled, my visitors depart. Now to bed to see if I can get a good sleep in preparation for the most exciting part of my exciting adventure.

It is curious how far I have fallen into the prison rut. In the evening I find myself no longer thinking of my home or wondering what my family and friends are doing, unless I make a conscious mental effort. The tendency of this life is always to flatten one’s thoughts, like one’s actions, to a gray uniformity—a deadening routine.

Another sign that I had better be getting away from this place: I am losing all respect for authority of every kind. It is a mistake to suppose that rigid discipline increases respect for authority; it usually does nothing of the sort. In this place it increases disrespect, for many reasons which it is unnecessary to mention here. Whatever the reasons, the fact is undeniable. I believe every man in this place hates and detests the system under which he lives. He hates it even when he gets along without friction. He hates it because he knows it is bad; for it tends to crush slowly but irresistibly the good in himself.

CHAPTER XII

This morning,—the morning of my last full day in prison,—dawns bright and sunny; a pleasant change from the dark, cloudy and oppressive weather we have been having. The routine of my day has become firmly established now; and I conform to it almost without thought. At six I arise. As I sleep in my one suit of underclothes, my dressing may be said to have already begun. I add my socks and the clumsy state shoes, which are on the chair close at hand. Then I am ready to stand upon the stone pavement of the cell. After this I gain space, and at the same time put my house in order, by hanging up mattress, pillow and blankets, and turning the iron bed up under them against the wall. Then I brush my teeth, wash my face and comb my hair. Then I finish dressing by putting on shirt, trousers, coat and cap. These and other necessary operations completed, I am ready for the day.

In the midst of my toilet the electric light is switched on; so that the latter part has been accomplished with its aid. As I have dressed leisurely there is not very long to wait before I hear the clicking, which marks the unlocking of the levers, far around the corner to my left. Already, however, I have heard the tread of shuffling feet in the corridor below; and know that the first company has already started down the yard.

All the familiar sounds,—the familiar routine,—seem to give me a sort of strange, new feeling on this last day. It seems so curious that something which now seems like the established order of the universe should ever have been unfamiliar, or that it should so soon come to an end—at least, so far as I am concerned.

The levers click; the captain unlocks the cells; the long bar is raised; the doors are opened; the galleries are filled with hurrying figures carrying the heavy iron buckets; and my company forms at the foot of the stairs.

What special reason there is for so much haste I have not yet discovered; but I presume that the officers put off their arrival at the prison to the very last moment, allowing the shortest possible time for the operations between their arrival and breakfast.

The air and sunshine are pleasant and invigorating as we march down the yard and back, emptying and leaving the buckets as usual. Then to my cell where I sweep out and shut myself in.

Soon comes breakfast with its regular routine. I have laid off my cap; as the lever is pressed down I push open the grated door, let Stuhlmiller, Bell and the other two who march in front of me pass by; then fall in between them and the next man. We traverse the short gallery to the right, descend the iron steps and line up in the corridor; standing motionless, with folded arms. As the Captain’s stick strikes the stone pavement the line begins to move. Then at a second rap we march rapidly to the mess-hall. Just within the door we salute the P. K.; then swing to the right, turn to the left, pass alongside the men who have already taken their seats and are eating, and reach our shelf or table. As we stand at our places, comes one rap; and we lean down and pull out our stools, standing again erect. A second rap; and we sit. Throughout the meal the Captain stands, rigid and silent, in the aisle at our right.

Our Saturday breakfast is rice; which I eat with relish. My appetite is in excellent working order this morning, after a good night’s rest; and I am feeling in fine physical condition. There can be no question about the punishment cell; no one who feels as well as I do has any excuse for not misbehaving himself. In dressing this morning I took up my belt another notch. My youngest was quite right when he asserted that I should not be so fat when I came out; I must have lost several pounds.

I carefully avoid the coffee this morning; no more bootleg for me! I reserve my thirst for a good drink of water when I get back to the cell.

Already, while we are stowing away our breakfast, the companies in our rear are departing; and now our turn comes. One rap; and we rise and set back our stools. A second rap; and spoons in hand (no use for knives and forks at this breakfast) we march in double file down the middle aisle,—holding our spoons high for the officers to see and dropping them into the proper receptacles at the door. Then back through the stone corridor, up the iron stairs and along the gallery to the cells. In these, as there is the wait of half an hour or more before shop-time, we are double-locked.

And now comes Dickinson, to wish me a final good-bye. He is in his citizen’s clothes, and can hardly wait to have the gate shut behind him.

He assures me again of his desire and intention to go straight and make good; and I put through the bars two fingers which he grasps as fervently as he would my whole hand, if he could get it. Another moment, and the brave, well-meaning fellow is gone. If a man like this does not succeed, it is not his fault; but the fault of the System which fails to strengthen his power of self-control and ability to bear responsibility.

After Dickinson’s departure comes one of the trusties, bringing the information which I passed the word along yesterday to get for me. Then I write in my journal and read some of the kites which have reached me. The latest one I find under the blankets,—tucked into the strap which holds up my mattress—a most ingenious hiding place.

Then comes work-time. Again the captain unlocks the levers; and again I follow along the gallery to the iron stairway and the yard door. After a much shorter period of waiting than at our earlier march, we start off and go directly down the yard and around the corner to the basket-shop.

“Good morning, Tom!” “Good morning, Jack!” and we are off to work in good time.

“Well, old pal, how are you feeling to-day?”

I look up and catch an anxious look in my partner’s eyes. I laugh as I answer: “Oh, I’m all right; and in fine fighting trim.”

I know what he means; and he knows what I mean. It is the shadow of the jail that is between us.

“Come on now, Jack,” I say; “don’t worry about me. I shall get through it all right.”

“But you don’t know what it means,” he insists anxiously. “One hour of that misery is worse than a week of the worst kind of pain. You’d better think it over.”

“Well, I’ll tell you, Jack; I have reconsidered it and I don’t believe I shall stay so long as I intended. In fact I had planned to go down this morning but I shall wait until afternoon. I’ll get all I want of it in about three or four hours.”

“You can just bet you will,” and Jack turns away with a discouraged air to pick up a fresh batch of rattan. I’m afraid he thinks me a very obstinate and unreasonable person.

The rattan seems to be worse than ever this morning. They’ve tried cold water, and they’ve tried hot water, and they’ve tried steam; but like the White Queen’s shawl, “there’s no pleasing it.” It still remains quite unfit to work with; and for the sake of the future usefulness of my fingers I can’t help thinking it’s just as well that my prison bit is drawing to a close.

As we are working away, one of our shopmates comes over to me (the same who accused me yesterday of working too hard) and says: “Well, Brown, I think you must be taking in the jail to-day.”

My surprise is great. No one, except Jack, Grant and the Warden, were aware of my intention, so far as I knew.

“What made you think of that?” I ask.

“Oh, they had a jail suit washed yesterday; so I guess they’re getting ready for you,” is the reply.

These men are certainly sharp. They can “see a church by daylight.”

We work busily at our basket-making through the morning, Jack and I—our last day together. I am actually beginning to feel that, if it were not for the pressure of business in my office and some engagements in New York City next week, I should like to stay longer among these new friends. But it may not be. I have secured what I came for—far more than I expected. And now the next question is: what can be done with this knowledge? How can it be utilized for the state? and incidentally to help these men who need help so badly?

The noon-hour approaches. “Is it good-bye, now, Tom?” says my partner, sadly.

“Oh, no,” I answer. “You don’t get rid of me so easily as that. I shall be back this afternoon.”

Jack looks relieved; and we fall into line as usual—the last time I shall march out of the shop with these men, my close prison companions of six days.

Down to the bucket stands; up the yard; into the north wing; up the iron stairs; along the gallery; and around the corner to my cell. Then off with my cap and coat; some water on my face; a comb passed through my hair and I am ready for dinner. I have time to write a few paragraphs in my journal before we march to the mess-room.

For dinner roast beef, potatoes and some sort of preserve; quite the best meal we have had. I must eat enough to last over until to-morrow morning; although for that matter the supper in jail will be similar to those I’ve had every day—bread and water. But I feel as if the ordeal I am to pass through may need all my strength. So I make good use of my knife and fork; and again find the dinner time almost too short for a square meal.

Back to the cell, where I arrange everything for an indefinite absence. Then, as I am writing in my journal, I am interrupted by the arrival of Grant. He comes to find out if there is any change of mind on my part regarding the jail; and, if not, to make final arrangements. I tell him I never felt in better health; and that I’m ready to carry out the plan made last night. “I will strike work,” I tell him, “between half past three and four; and be sent to the jail. You had better come for me there about seven o’clock. Don’t make it any later,” I add, “because I certainly will have had a sufficient taste of it by that time; and I see no reason for remaining any longer than is necessary. So please be on time.”

Somehow Jack’s warnings and admonitions, while they have not turned me from my purpose, have produced a feeling of disinclination to stay in the jail beyond a reasonable time. What is to be feared I am sure I do not know; or even that I fear anything. It is certainly not the pleasantest place in the world; but—well! I simply cannot understand why these men all speak of it in the way they do.

So Grant goes away; and now I close my journal. To-morrow morning I shall be too busy to write in it, as I shall be preparing the remarks I want to make to the men in chapel; that is, if the chaplain holds to his suggestion of calling upon me. I never like to attempt a speech of any kind unprepared; even an extempore and unexpected speech is so much better for a little preliminary improvising.

So here I write the last page within the walls; and go forth from my cell to embark upon the last round of my great adventure. I never expected to end my prison term with regrets; and I am probably the first man who ever did.

At the end of the gallery I hear the familiar sound of the key turning in the locks; so here go for the last time my pencils and paper into the locker, as I put on my cap and coat and prepare to follow the Captain to my final hours in the basket-shop.

Thus far my prison journal carries us. From this time on, for reasons which will be apparent, I have to depend upon subsequent memory. It is only fair to say, however, that it is memory made peculiarly clear by the unusual character of the circumstances.

The Captain unlocks the levers; the cells are opened; and we march down to the shop. With a serious face and without his usual greeting Jack joins me at our work-table.

In fact Jack is not in very good spirits; and I have to do most of the cheerful part. This is not surprising; when one thinks it over. A rather exciting episode in Jack’s life is coming to an end; while the most exciting part of my adventure is just beginning. After that, I am going out, my life enriched with an unusual and interesting experience; while he is going back to the old, dull, depressing routine. Is it any wonder that he feels gloomy?

For about two hours, from half past one to a quarter past three, we both work away faithfully on our basket-making; and then as I finish off my last bottom I turn to my partner. “Well, old man, the time will be here pretty soon; and I may as well get ready for it. I think I’ll go over and wash up.”

So I raise my hand for permission; and upon seeing the Captain nod, as I suppose, I take Jack’s soap and towel which we still use in common and go to the sink. On my way back, as I pass the Captain’s desk, he stops me. “Brown, don’t you know that you mustn’t leave your place without permission?”

“Yes, sir,” is my reply, “but I raised my hand.”

“I didn’t see it.”

“Why, I thought I saw you nod, sir.”