I fully understand what a terrible blow the apostasy of Wurst[20] must have been to you. But however it may minimize the effect, it cannot possibly alter the fact, or its character. This you seem to have lost sight of. In spite of Wurst, a great deal could have been accomplished. I don't know whether it has been done: your letter is very meagre on this point. Yet it is of supreme interest to me. But I know, Sonya,--of this one thing, at least, I am sure--you will do all that is in your power. Perhaps it is not much--but the Twin and part of Orchard Street[21] will be with you.
Why that note of disappointment, almost of resentment, as to Tolstogub's relation to the Darwinian theory?[22] You must consider that the layman cannot judge of the intricacies of scientific hypotheses. The scientist would justly object to such presumption.
I embrace you both. The future is dark; but, then, who knows?...Write often. Tell me about the movement, yourself and friends. It will help to keep me in touch with the outside world, which daily seems to recede further. I clutch desperately at the thread that still binds me to the living--it seems to unravel in my hands, the thin skeins are breaking, one by one. My hold is slackening. But the Sonya thread, I know, will remain taut and strong. I have always called you the Immutable.
ALEX.
ALEX.
[19] The Girl; also referred to as Sonya, Musick, and Sailor.
[20] John Most.
[21] 54 Orchard Street--the hall in which the first Jewish Anarchist gatherings were held in New York. An allusion to the aid of the Jewish comrades.
[22] Tolstogub--the author's Russian nickname. The expression signifies the continued survival of the writer.
II I posted the letter in the prisoners' mail-box when the line formed for work this morning. But the moment the missive left my hands, I was seized with a great longing. Oh, if some occult means would transform me into that slip of paper! I should now be hidden in that green box--with bated breath I'd flatten myself in the darkest recess, and wait for the Chaplain to collect the mail...
My heart beats tumultuously as the wild fancy flutters in my brain. I am oblivious of the forming lines, the sharp commands, the heavy tread. Automatically I turn the hosiery, counting one, two, one pair; three, four, two pair. Whose voice is it I hear? I surely know the man--there is something familiar about him. He bends over the looping machines and gathers the stockings. Now he is counting: one, two, one pair; three, four, two pair. Just like myself. Why, he looks like myself! And the men all seem to think it is I. Ha, ha, ha! the officer, also. I just heard him say, "Aleck, work a little faster, can't you? See the piles there, you're falling behind." He thinks it's I. What a clever substitution! And all the while the real "me" is snugly lying here in the green box, peeping through the keyhole, on the watch for the postman. S-sh! I hear a footstep. Perhaps it is the Chaplain: he will open the box with his quick, nervous hands, seize a handful of letters, and thrust them into the large pocket of his black serge coat. There are so many letters here--I'll slip among them into the large pocket--the Chaplain will not notice me. He'll think it's just a letter, ha, ha! He'll scrutinize every word, for it's the letter of a long-timer; his first one, too. But I am safe, I'm invisible; and when they call the roll, they will take that man there for me. He is counting nineteen, twenty, ten pair; twenty-one, twenty-two...What was that? Twenty-two--oh, yes, twenty-two, that's my sentence. The imbeciles, they think I am going to serve it. I'd kill myself first. But it will not be necessary, thank goodness! It was such a lucky thought, this going out in my letter. But what has become of the Chaplain? If he'd only come--why is he so long? They might miss me in the shop. No, no! that man is there--he is turning the stockings--they don't know I am here in the box. The Chaplain won't know it, either: I am invisible; he'll think it's a letter when he puts me in his pocket, and then he'll seal me in an envelope and address--I must flatten myself so his hand shouldn't feel--and he'll address me to Sonya. He'll not know whom he is sending to her--he doesn't know who she is, either--the _Deckadresse_ is splendid--we must keep it up. Keep it up? Why? It will not be necessary: after he mails me, we don't need to write any more--it is well, too--I have so much to tell Sonya--and it wouldn't pass the censor. But it's all right now--they'll throw the letters into the mail-carrier's bag--there'll be many of them--this is general letter day. I'll hide in the pile, and they'll pass me through the post-office, on to New York. Dear, dear New York! I have been away so long. Only a month? Well, I must be patient--and not breathe so loud. When I get to New York, I shall not go at once into the house--Sonya might get frightened. I'll first peep in through the window--I wonder what she'll be doing--and who will be at home? Yes, Fedya will be there, and perhaps Claus and Sep. How surprised they'll all be! Sonya will embrace me--she'll throw her arms around my neck--they'll feel so soft and warm-- "Hey, there! Are you deaf? Fall in line!"
Dazed, bewildered, I see the angry face of the guard before me. The striped men pass me, enveloped in a mist. I grasp the "turner." The iron feels cold. Chills shake my frame, and the bundle of hosiery drops from my hand.
"Fall in line, I tell you!"
"Sucker!" some one hisses behind me. "Workin' after whistle. 'Fraid you won't get 'nough in yer twenty-two spot, eh? You sucker, you!"
CHAPTER VII WINGIE The hours at work help to dull the acute consciousness of my environment. The hosiery department is past the stage of experiment; the introduction of additional knitting machines has enlarged my task, necessitating increased effort and more sedulous application.
The shop routine now demands all my attention. It leaves little time for thinking or brooding. My physical condition alarms me: the morning hours completely exhaust me, and I am barely able to keep up with the line returning to the cell-house for the noon meal. A feeling of lassitude possesses me, my feet drag heavily, and I experience great difficulty in mastering my sleepiness.
* * * * * * * * * * I have grown indifferent to the meals; the odor of food nauseates me. I am nervous and morbid: the sight of a striped prisoner disgusts me; the proximity of a guard enrages me. The shop officer has repeatedly warned me against my disrespectful and surly manner. But I am indifferent to consequences: what matter what happens? My waning strength is a source of satisfaction: perhaps it indicates the approach of death. The thought pleases me in a quiet, impersonal way. There will be no more suffering, no anguish. The world at large is non-existent; it is centered in Me; and yet I myself stand aloof, and see it falling into gradual peace and quiet, into extinction.
* * * * * Back in my cell after the day's work, I leave the evening meal of bread and coffee untouched. My candle remains unlit. I sit listlessly in the gathering dusk, conscious only of the longing to hear the gong's deep bass,--the three bells tolling the order to retire. I welcome the blessed permission to fall into bed. The coarse straw mattress beckons invitingly; I yearn for sleep, for oblivion.
* * * * * * * * * * Occasional mail from friends rouses me from my apathy. But the awakening is brief: the tone of the letter is guarded, their contents too general in character, the matters that might kindle my interest are missing. The world and its problems are drifting from my horizon. I am cast into the darkness. No ray of sunshine holds out the promise of spring.
* * * * * At times the realization of my fate is borne in upon me with the violence of a shock, and I am engulfed in despair, now threatening to break down the barriers of sanity, now affording melancholy satisfaction in the wild play of fancy...Existence grows more and more unbearable with the contrast of dream and reality. Weary of the day's routine, I welcome the solitude of the cell, impatient even of the greeting of the passing convict. I shrink from the uninvited familiarity of these men, the horizontal gray and black constantly reviving the image of the tigress, with her stealthy, vicious cunning. They are not of _my_ world. I would aid them, as in duty bound to the victims of social injustice. But I cannot be friends with them: they do not belong to the People, to whose service my life is consecrated. Unfortunates, indeed; yet parasites upon the producers, less in degree, but no less in kind than the rich exploiters. By virtue of my principles, rather than their deserts, I must give them my intellectual sympathy; they touch no chord in my heart.
Only Wingie seems different. There is a gentle note about his manner that breathes cheer and encouragement. Often I long for his presence, yet he seldom finds opportunity to talk with me, save Sundays during church service, when I remain in the cell. Perhaps I may see him to-day. He must be careful of the Block Captain, on his rounds of the galleries, counting the church delinquents.[23] The Captain is passing on the range now. I recognize the uncertain step, instantly ready to halt at the sight of a face behind the bars. Now he is at the cell. He pencils in his note-book the number on the wooden block over the door, A 7.
[23] Inmates of Catholic faith are excused from attending Protestant service, and _vice versa_.
"Catholic?" he asks, mechanically. Then, looking up, he frowns on me.
"You're no Catholic, Berkman. What d'you stay in for?"
"I am an atheist."
"A what?"
"An atheist, a non-believer."
"Oh, an infidel, are you? You'll be damned, shore 'nough."
The wooden stairs creak beneath the officer's weight. He has turned the corner. Wingie will take advantage now. I hope he will come soon. Perhaps somebody is watching-- "Hello, Aleck! Want a piece of pie? Here, grab it!"
"Pie, Wingie?" I whisper wonderingly. "Where do you get such luxuries?"
"Swiped from the screw's poke, Cornbread Tom's dinner-basket, you know. The cheap guy saved it after breakfast. Rotten, ain't he?"
"Why so?"
"Why, you greenie, he's a stomach robber, that's what he is. It's _our_ pie, Aleck, made here in the bakery. That's why our punk is stale, see; they steals the east[24] to make pies for th' screws. Are you next? How d' you like the grub, anyhow?"
[24] Yeast.
"The bread is generally stale, Wingie. And the coffee tastes like tepid water."
"Coffee you call it? He, he, coffee hell. It ain't no damn coffee; 'tnever was near coffee. It's just bootleg, Aleck, bootleg. Know how't's made?"
"No."
"Well, I been three months in th' kitchen. You c'llect all the old punk that the cons dump out with their dinner pans. Only the crust's used, see. Like as not some syph coon spit on 't. Some's mean enough to do't, you know. Makes no diff, though. Orders is, cut off th' crusts an' burn 'em to a good black crisp. Then you pour boiling water over it an' dump it in th' kettle, inside a bag, you know, an' throw a little dirty chic'ry in--there's your _coffee_. I never touch th' rotten stuff. It rooins your stummick, that's what it does, Aleck. You oughtn't drink th' swill."
"I don't care if it kills me."
"Come, come, Aleck. Cheer up, old boy. You got a tough bit, I know, but don' take it so hard. Don' think of your time. Forget it. Oh, yes, you can; you jest take my word for't. Make some friends. Think who you wan' to see to-morrow, then try t' see 'm. That's what you wan' to do, Aleck. It'll keep you hustlin'. Best thing for the blues, kiddie."
For a moment he pauses in his hurried whisper. The soft eyes are full of sympathy, the lips smile encouragingly. He leans the broom against the door, glances quickly around, hesitates an instant, and then deftly slips a slender, delicate hand between the bars, and gives my cheek a tender pat.
Involuntarily I step back, with the instinctive dislike of a man's caress. Yet I would not offend my kind friend. But Wingie must have noticed my annoyance: he eyes me critically, wonderingly. Presently picking up the broom, he says with a touch of diffidence: "You are all right, Aleck. I like you for 't. Jest wanted t' try you, see?"
"How 'try me,' Wingie?"
"Oh, you ain't next? Well, you see--" he hesitates, a faint flush stealing over his prison pallor, "you see, Aleck, it's--oh, wait till I pipe th' screw."
Poor Wingie, the ruse is too transparent to hide his embarrassment. I can distinctly follow the step of the Block Captain on the upper galleries. He is the sole officer in the cell-house during church service. The unlocking of the yard door would apprise us of the entrance of a guard, before the latter could observe Wingie at my cell.
I ponder over the flimsy excuse. Why did Wingie leave me? His flushed face, the halting speech of the usually loquacious rangeman, the subterfuge employed to "sneak off,"--as he himself would characterize his hasty departure,--all seem very peculiar. What could he have meant by "trying" me? But before I have time to evolve a satisfactory explanation, I hear Wingie tiptoeing back.
"It's all right, Aleck. They won't come from the chapel for a good while yet."
"What did you mean by 'trying' me, Wingie?"
"Oh, well," he stammers, "never min', Aleck. You are a good boy, all right. You don't belong here, that's what _I_ say."
"Well, I _am_ here; and the chances are I'll die here."
"Now, don't talk so foolish, boy. I 'lowed you looked down at the mouth. Now, don't you fill your head with such stuff an' nonsense. Croak here, hell! You ain't goin' t'do nothin' of the kind. Don't you go broodin', now. You listen t'me, Aleck, that's your friend talkin', see? You're so young, why, you're just a kid. Twenty-one, ain't you? An' talkin' about dyin'! Shame on you, shame!"
His manner is angry, but the tremor in his voice sends a ray of warmth to my heart. Impulsively I put my hand between the bars. His firm clasp assures me of returned appreciation.
"You must brace up, Aleck. Look at the lifers. You'd think they'd be black as night. Nit, my boy, the jolliest lot in th' dump. You seen old Henry? No? Well, you ought' see 'im. He's the oldest man here; in fifteen years. A lifer, an' hasn't a friend in th' woild, but he's happy as th' day's long. An' you got plenty friends; true blue, too. I know you have."
"I have, Wingie. But what could they do for me?"
"How you talk, Aleck. Could do anythin'. You got rich friends, I know. You was mixed up with Frick. Well, your friends are all right, ain't they?"
"Of course. What could they do, Wingie?"
"Get you pard'n, in two, three years may be, see? You must make a good record here."
"Oh, I don't care for a pardon."
"No, Wingie, quite seriously. I am opposed to it on principle."
"You're sure bugs. What you talkin' 'bout? Principle fiddlesticks. Want to get out o' here?"
"Of course I do."
"Well, then, quit your principle racket. What's principle got t' do with 't? Your principle's 'gainst get-tin' out?"
"No, but against being pardoned."
"You're beyond me, Aleck. Guess you're joshin' me."
"Now listen, Wingie. You see, I wouldn't apply for a pardon, because it would be asking favors from the government, and I am against it, you understand? It would be of no use, anyhow, Wingie."
"An' if you could get a pard'n for the askin', you won't ask, Aleck. That's what you mean?"
"Yes."
"You're hot stuff, Aleck. What they call you, Narchist? Hot stuff, by gosh! Can't make you out, though. Seems daffy. Lis'n t' me, Aleck. If I was you, I'd take anythin' I could get, an' then tell 'em to go t'hell. That's what _I_ would do, my boy."
He looks at me quizzically, searchingly. The faint echo of the Captain's step reaches us from a gallery on the opposite side. With a quick glance to right and left, Wingie leans over toward the door. His mouth between the bars, he whispers very low: "Principles opposed to a get-a-way, Aleck?"
The sudden question bewilders me. The instinct of liberty, my revolutionary spirit, the misery of my existence, all flame into being, rousing a wild, tumultuous beating of my heart, pervading my whole being with hope, intense to the point of pain. I remain silent. Is it safe to trust him? He seems kind and sympathetic-- "You may trust me, Aleck," Wingie whispers, as if reading my thoughts. "I'm your friend."
"Yes, Wingie, I believe you. My principles are not opposed to an escape. I have been thinking about it, but so far--" "S-sh! Easy. Walls have ears."
"Any chance here, Wingie?"
"Well, it's a damn tough dump, this 'ere is; but there's many a star in heaven, Aleck, an' you may have a lucky one. Hasn't been a get-a-way here since Paddy McGraw sneaked over th' roof, that's--lemme see, six, seven years ago, 'bout."
"How did he do it?" I ask, breathlessly.
"Jest Irish luck. They was finishin' the new block, you know. Paddy was helpin' lay th' roof. When he got good an' ready, he jest goes to work and slides down th' roof. Swiped stuff in the mat shop an' spliced a rope together, see. They never got 'im, either."
"Was he in stripes, Wingie?"
"Sure he was. Only been in a few months."
"How did he manage to get away in stripes? Wouldn't he be recognized as an escaped prisoner?"
"_That_ bother you, Aleck? Why, it's easy. Get planted till dark, then hold up th' first bloke you see an' take 'is duds. Or you push in th' back door of a rag joint; plenty of 'em in Allegheny."
"Is there any chance now through the roof?"
"Nit, my boy. Nothin' doin' _there_. But a feller's got to be alive. Many ways to kill a cat, you know. Remember the stiff[25] you got in them things, tow'l an' soap?"
[25] Note.
"You know about it, Wingie?" I ask, in amazement.
"Do I? He, he, you little--" The click of steel sounds warning. Wingie disappears.
CHAPTER VIII TO THE GIRL Direct to Box A 7, Allegheny City, Pa., November 18, 1892.
My dear Sonya: It seems an age since I wrote to you, yet it is only a month. But the monotony of my life weights down the heels of time,--the only break in the terrible sameness is afforded me by your dear, affectionate letters, and those of Fedya. When I return to the cell for the noon meal, my step is quickened by the eager expectation of finding mail from you. About eleven in the morning, the Chaplain makes his rounds; his practiced hand shoots the letter between the bars, toward the bed or on to the little table in the corner. But if the missive is light, it will flutter to the floor. As I reach the cell, the position of the little white object at once apprises me whether the letter is long or short. With closed eyes I sense its weight, like the warm pressure of your own dear hand, the touch reaching softly to my heart, till I feel myself lifted across the chasm into your presence. The bars fade, the walls disappear, and the air grows sweet with the aroma of fresh air and flowers,--I am again with you, walking in the bright July moonlight...The touch of the _velikorussian_ in your eyes and hair conjures up the Volga, our beautiful _bogatir_,[26] and the strains of the _dubinushka_,[27] trembling with suffering and yearning, float about me...The meal remains untouched. I dream over your letter, and again I read it, slowly, slowly, lest I reach the end too quickly. The afternoon hours are hallowed by your touch and your presence, and I am conscious only of the longing for my cell,--in the quiet of the evening, freed from the nightmare of the immediate, I walk in the garden of our dreams.
And the following morning, at work in the shop, I pass in anxious wonder whether some cheering word from my own, my real world, is awaiting me in the cell. With a glow of emotion I think of the Chaplain: perhaps at the very moment your letter is in his hands. He is opening it, reading. Why should strange eyes...but the Chaplain seems kind and discreet. Now he is passing along the galleries, distributing the mail. The bundle grows meagre as the postman reaches the ground floor. Oh! if he does not come to my cell quickly, he may have no letters left. But the next moment I smile at the childish thought,--if there is a letter for me, no other prisoner will get it. Yet some error might happen...No, it is impossible--my name and prison number, and the cell number marked by the Chaplain across the envelope, all insure the mail against any mistake in delivery. Now the dinner whistle blows. Eagerly I hasten to the cell. There is nothing on the floor! Perhaps on the bed, on the table...I grow feverish with the dread of disappointment. Possibly the letter fell under the bed, or in that dark corner. No, none there,--but it can't be that there is no mail for me to-day! I must look again--it may have dropped among the blankets...No, there is no letter!
* * * * * * * * * * Thus pass my days, dear friend. In thought I am ever with you and Fedya, in our old haunts and surroundings. I shall never get used to this life, nor find an interest in the reality of the moment. What will become of me, I don't know. I hardly care. We are revolutionists, dear: whatever sacrifices the Cause demands, though the individual perish, humanity will profit in the end. In that consciousness we must find our solace.
ALEX.
[26] Brave knight--affectionately applied to the great river.
[27] Folk-song.
_Sub rosa_, Last Day of November, 1892.
Beloved Girl: I thought I would not survive the agony of our meeting, but human capacity for suffering seems boundless. All my thoughts, all my yearnings, were centered in the one desire to see you, to look into your eyes, and there read the beautiful promise that has filled my days with strength and hope...An embrace, a lingering kiss, and the gift of Lingg[28] would have been mine. To grasp your hand, to look down for a mute, immortal instant into your soul, and then die at your hands, Beloved, with the warm breath of your caress wafting me into peaceful eternity--oh, it were bliss supreme, the realization of our day dreams, when, in transports of ecstasy, we kissed the image of the Social Revolution. Do you remember that glorious face, so strong and tender, on the wall of our little Houston Street hallroom? How far, far in the past are those inspired moments! But they have filled my hours with hallowed thoughts, with exulting expectations. And then you came. A glance at your face, and I knew my doom to terrible life. I read it in the evil look of the guard. It was the Deputy himself. Perhaps you had been searched! He followed our every moment, like a famished cat that feigns indifference, yet is alert with every nerve to spring upon the victim. Oh, I know the calculated viciousness beneath that meek exterior. The accelerated movement of his drumming fingers, as he deliberately seated himself between us, warned me of the beast, hungry for prey...The halo was dissipated. The words froze within me, and I could meet you only with a vapid smile, and on the instant it was mirrored in my soul as a leer, and I was filled with anger and resentment at everything about us--myself, the Deputy (I could have throttled him to death), and--at you, dear. Yes, Sonya, even at you: the quick come to bury the dead...But the next moment, the unworthy throb of my agonized soul was stilled by the passionate pressure of my lips upon your hand. How it trembled! I held it between my own, and then, as I lifted my face to yours, the expression I beheld seemed to bereave me of my own self: it was you who were I! The drawn face, the look of horror, your whole being the cry of torture--were _you_ not the real prisoner? Or was it my visioned suffering that cemented the spiritual bond, annihilating all misunderstanding, all resentment, and lifting us above time and place in the afflatus of martyrdom?
Mutely I held your hand. There was no need for words. Only the prying eyes of the catlike presence disturbed the sacred moment. Then we spoke--mechanically, trivialities...What though the cadaverous Deputy with brutal gaze timed the seconds, and forbade the sound of our dear Russian,--nor heaven nor earth could violate the sacrament sealed with our pain.
The echo accompanied my step as I passed through the rotunda on my way to the cell. All was quiet in the block. No whir of loom reached me from the shops. Thanksgiving Day: all activities were suspended. I felt at peace in the silence. But when the door was locked, and I found myself alone, all alone within the walls of the tomb, the full significance of your departure suddenly dawned on me. The quick had left the dead...Terror of the reality seized me and I was swept by a paroxysm of anguish-- I must close. The friend who promised to have this letter mailed _sub rosa_ is at the door. He is a kind unfortunate who has befriended me. May this letter reach you safely. In token of which, send me postal of indifferent contents, casually mentioning the arrival of news from my brother in Moscow. Remember to sign "Sister."
With a passionate embrace, YOUR SASHA.
[28] Louis Lingg, one of the Chicago martyrs, who committed suicide with a dynamite cartridge in a cigar given him by a friend.
CHAPTER IX PERSECUTION I Suffering and ever-present danger are quick teachers. In the three months of penitentiary life I have learned many things. I doubt whether the vague terrors pictured by my inexperience were more dreadful than the actuality of prison existence.
In one respect, especially, the reality is a source of bitterness and constant irritation. Notwithstanding all its terrors, perhaps because of them, I had always thought of prison as a place where, in a measure, nature comes into its own: social distinctions are abolished, artificial barriers destroyed; no need of hiding one's thoughts and emotions; one could be his real self, shedding all hypocrisy and artifice at the prison gates. But how different is this life! It is full of deceit, sham, and pharisaism--an aggravated counterpart of the outside world. The flatterer, the backbiter, the spy,--these find here a rich soil. The ill-will of a guard portends disaster, to be averted only by truckling and flattery, and servility fawns for the reward of an easier job. The dissembling soul in stripes whines his conversion into the pleased ears of the Christian ladies, taking care he be not surprised without tract or Bible,--and presently simulated piety secures a pardon, for the angels rejoice at the sinner's return to the fold. It sickens me to witness these scenes.
The officers make the alternative quickly apparent to the new inmate: to protest against injustice is unavailing and dangerous. Yesterday I witnessed in the shop a characteristic incident--a fight between Johnny Davis and Jack Bradford, both recent arrivals and mere boys. Johnny, a manly-looking fellow, works on a knitting machine, a few feet from my table. Opposite him is Jack, whose previous experience in a reformatory has "put him wise," as he expresses it. My three months' stay has taught me the art of conversing by an almost imperceptible motion of the lips. In this manner I learned from Johnny that Bradford is stealing his product, causing him repeated punishment for shortage in the task. Hoping to terminate the thefts, Johnny complained to the overseer, though without accusing Jack. But the guard ignored the complaint, and continued to report the youth. Finally Johnny was sent to the dungeon. Yesterday morning he returned to work. The change in the rosy-cheeked boy was startling: pale and hollow-eyed, he walked with a weak, halting step. As he took his place at the machine, I heard him say to the officer: "Mr. Cosson, please put me somewhere else."
"Why so?" the guard asked.
"I can't make the task here. I'll make it on another machine, please, Mr. Cosson."
"Why can't you make it here?"
"I'm missing socks."
"Ho, ho, playing the old game, are you? Want to go to th' hole again, eh?"
"I couldn't stand the hole again, Mr. Cosson, swear to God, I couldn't. But my socks's missing here."
"Missing hell! Who's stealing your socks, eh? Don't come with no such bluff. Nobody can't steal your socks while I'm around. You go to work now, and you'd better make the task, understand?"
Late in the afternoon, when the count was taken, Johnny proved eighteen pairs short. Bradford was "over."
I saw Mr. Cosson approach Johnny.
"Eh, thirty, machine thirty," he shouted. "You won't make the task, eh? Put your coat and cap on."
Fatal words! They meant immediate report to the Deputy, and the inevitable sentence to the dungeon.
"Oh, Mr. Cosson," the youth pleaded, "it ain't my fault, so help me God, it isn't."
"It ain't, eh? Whose fault is it; mine?"
Johnny hesitated. His eyes sought the ground, then wandered toward Bradford, who studiously avoided the look.
"I can't squeal," he said, quietly.
"Oh, hell! You ain't got nothin' to squeal. Get your coat and cap."
Johnny passed the night in the dungeon. This morning he came up, his cheeks more sunken, his eyes more hollow. With desperate energy he worked. He toiled steadily, furiously, his gaze fastened upon the growing pile of hosiery. Occasionally he shot a glance at Bradford, who, confident of the officer's favor, met the look of hatred with a sly winking of the left eye.
Once Johnny, without pausing in the work, slightly turned his head in my direction. I smiled encouragingly, and at that same instant I saw Jack's hand slip across the table and quickly snatch a handful of Johnny's stockings. The next moment a piercing shriek threw the shop into commotion. With difficulty they tore away the infuriated boy from the prostrate Bradford. Both prisoners were taken to the Deputy for trial, with Senior Officer Cosson as the sole witness.
Impatiently I awaited the result. Through the open window I saw the overseer return. He entered the shop, a smile about the corners of his mouth. I resolved to speak to him when he passed by.
"Mr. Cosson," I said, with simulated respectfulness, "may I ask you a question?"
"Why, certainly, Burk, I won't eat you. Fire away!"
"What have they done with the boys?"
"Johnny got ten days in the hole. Pretty stiff, eh? You see, he started the fight, so he won't have to make the task. Oh, I'm next to _him_ all right. They can't fool me so easy, can they, Burk?"
"Well, I should say not, Mr. Cosson. Did you see how the fight started?"
"No. But Johnny admitted he struck Bradford first. That's enough, you know. 'Brad' will be back in the shop to-morrow. I got 'im off easy, see; he's a good worker, always makes more than th' task. He'll jest lose his supper. Guess he can stand it. Ain't much to lose, is there, Burk?"
"No, not much," I assented. "But, Mr. Cosson, it was all Bradford's fault."
"How so?" the guard demanded.
"He has been stealing Johnny's socks."
"You didn't see him do 't."
"Yes, Mr. Cosson. I saw him this--" "Look here, Burk. It's all right. Johnny is no good anyway; he's too fresh. You'd better say nothing about it, see? My word goes with the Deputy."
* * * * *