Prison Memoirs of an Anarchist Part 17

who report everything to the officers. Wingie is familiar with the history of every keeper. Most of them are "rotten," he a.s.sures me.

Especially the Captain of the night watch is "fierce an' an ex-fly."[16]

Only three "screws" are on night duty in each block, but there are a hundred overseers to "run th' dump" during the day. Wingie promises to be my friend, and to furnish "more pointers bymby."

[16] Fly or fly-cop, a detective.

CHAPTER V

THE SHOP

I

I stand in line with a dozen prisoners, in the anteroom of the Deputy's office. Humiliation overcomes me as my eye falls, for the first time in the full light of day, upon my striped clothes. I am degraded to a beast! My first impression of a prisoner in stripes is painfully vivid: he resembled a dangerous brute. Somehow the idea is a.s.sociated in my mind with a wild tigress,--and I, too, must now look like that.

The door of the rotunda swings open, admitting the tall, lank figure of the Deputy Warden.

"Hands up!"

The Deputy slowly pa.s.ses along the line, examining a hand here and there. He separates the men into groups; then, pointing to the one in which I am included, he says in his feminine accents:

"None crippled. Officers, take them, hm, hm, to Number Seven. Turn them over to Mr. Hoods."

"Fall in! Forward, march!"

My resentment at the cattle-like treatment is merged into eager expectation. At last I am a.s.signed to work! I speculate on the character of "Number Seven," and on the possibilities of escape from there.

Flanked by guards, we cross the prison yard in close lockstep. The sentinels on the wall, their rifles resting loosely on crooked arm, face the striped line winding snakelike through the open s.p.a.ce. The yard is s.p.a.cious and clean, the lawn well kept and inviting. The first breath of fresh air in two weeks violently stimulates my longing for liberty.

Perhaps the shop will offer an opportunity to escape. The thought quickens my observation. Bounded north, east, and south by the stone wall, the two blocks of the cell-house form a parallelogram, enclosing the shops, kitchen, hospital, and, on the extreme south, the women's quarters.

"Break ranks!"

We enter Number Seven, a mat shop. With difficulty I distinguish the objects in the dark, low-ceilinged room, with its small, barred windows.

The air is heavy with dust; the rattling of the looms is deafening. An atmosphere of noisy gloom pervades the place.

The officer in charge a.s.signs me to a machine occupied by a lanky prisoner in stripes. "Jim, show him what to do."

Considerable time pa.s.ses, without Jim taking the least notice of me.

Bent low over the machine, he seems absorbed in the work, his hands deftly manipulating the shuttle, his foot on the treadle. Presently he whispers, hoa.r.s.ely:

"Fresh fish?"

"What did you say?"

"You bloke, long here?"

"Two weeks."

"Wotcher doin'?"

"Twenty-one years."

"Quitcher kiddin'."

"It's true."

"Honest? Holy gee!"

The shuttle flies to and fro. Jim is silent for a while, then he demands, abruptly:

"Wat dey put you here for?"

"I don't know."

"Been kickin'?"

"No."

"Den you'se bugs."

"Why so?"

"Dis 'ere is crank shop. Dey never put a mug 'ere 'cept he's bugs, or else dey got it in for you."

"How do _you_ happen to be here?"

"Me? De G.o.d d.a.m.n ---- got it in for me. See dis?" He points to a deep gash over his temple. "Had a sc.r.a.p wid de screws. Almost knocked me glimmer out. It was dat big bull[17] dere, Pete Hoods. I'll get even wid _him_, all right, d.a.m.n his rotten soul. I'll kill him. By G.o.d, I will.

I'll croak 'ere, anyhow."

[17] Guard.

"Perhaps it isn't so bad," I try to encourage him.

"It ain't, eh? Wat d'_you_ know 'bout it? I've got the con bad, spittin'

blood every night. Dis dust's killin' me. Kill you, too, d.a.m.n quick."

As if to emphasize his words, he is seized with a fit of coughing, prolonged and hollow.

The shuttle has in the meantime become entangled in the fringes of the matting. Recovering his breath, Jim s.n.a.t.c.hes the knife at his side, and with a few deft strokes releases the metal. To and fro flies the gleaming thing, and Jim is again absorbed in his task.

"Don't bother me no more," he warns me, "I'm behind wid me work."

Every muscle tense, his long body almost stretched across the loom, in turn pulling and pushing, Jim bends every effort to hasten the completion of the day's task.

The guard approaches. "How's he doing?" he inquires, indicating me with a nod of the head.

"He's all right. But say, Hoods, dis 'ere is no place for de kid. He's got a twenty-one spot."[18]