How he had managed to live through the night that followed McAllister
could never afterward understand. Locked in a cell, alone, to be sure,
but with no light, he took off his dripping coat and threw himself on
the wooden seat that served for a bed. It was about six inches too
short. He lay there for a few moments, then got wearily to his feet and
began to pace up and down the narrow cell. His legs and abdomen, which
had been the recipients of so much attention, pained him severely. The
occupant of the next apartment, awakened by our friend's arrival, began
to show irritation. He ordered McAllister in no gentle language to
abstain from exercise and go to sleep. A woman farther down the corridor
commenced to moan drearily to herself. Evidently sleep had made her
forget her sorrow, but now in the middle of the night it came back to
her with redoubled force. Her groans racked McAllister's heart. A stir
ran all along the cells--sounds of people tossing restlessly, curses,
all the nameless noises of the jail. McAllister, fearful of bringing
some new calamity upon his head, sat down. He had been shivering when he
came in; now he reeked with perspiration. The air was fetid. The only
ventilation came through the gratings of the door, and a huge stove just
beyond his cell rendered the temperature almost unbearable. He began to
throw off his garments one by one. Again he drew his knees to his chest
and tried to sleep, but sleep was impossible. Never had McAllister in
all his life known such wretchedness of body, such abject physical
suffering. But his agony of mind was even more unbearable. Vague
apprehensions of infectious disease floating in the nauseous air, or of
possible pneumonia, unnerved and tortured him. Stretched on the floor he
fell at length into a coma of exhaustion, in which he fancied that he
was lying in a warm bath in the porcelain tub at home. In the room
beyond he could see Frazier, his valet, laying out his pajamas and
dressing-gown. There was a delicious odor of that violet perfume he
always used. In a minute he would jump into bed. Then the valet suddenly
came into the bath-room and began to pound his master on the back of the
neck. For some reason he did not resent this. It seemed quite natural
and proper. He merely put up his hand to ward off the blows, and found
the keeper standing over him.
"Here's some breakfast," remarked that official. "Tom sent out and got
it for ye. The city don't supply no _aller carty_." McAllister vaguely
rubbed his eyes. The keeper shut and locked the door, leaving behind him
on the seat a tin mug of scalding hot coffee and a half loaf of sour
bread.
McAllister arose and felt his clothes. They were entirely dry, but had
shrunk perceptibly. He was surprised to find that, save for the
dizziness in his head, he felt not unlike himself. Moreover, he was most
abominably hungry. He knelt down and smelt of the contents of the tin
cup. It did not smell like coffee at all. It tasted like a combination
of hot water, tea, and molasses. He waited until it had cooled, and
drank it. The bread was not so bad. McAllister ate it all.
There was a good deal of noise in the cells now, and outside he could
hear many feet coming and going. Occasionally a draught of cold air
would flow in, and an officer would tramp down the corridor and remove
one of the occupants of the row. His watch showed that it was already
eight o'clock. He fumbled in his waistcoat-pocket and found a very
warped and wrinkled cigar. His match-box supplied the necessary light,
and "Chubby" McAllister began to smoke his after-breakfast Havana with
appreciation.
"No smoking in the cells!" came the rough voice of the keeper. "Give us
that cigar, Welch!"
McAllister started to his feet.
"Hand it over, now! Quick!"
The clubman passed his cherished comforter through the bars, and the
keeper, thrusting it, still lighted, into his own mouth, grinned at him,
winked, and walked away.
[Illustration: "Merry Christmas, Fatty!"]
"Merry Christmas, Fatty!" he remarked genially over his shoulder.
V
Half an hour later Tom and his "side partner" came to the cell-door.
They were flushed with victory. Already the morning papers contained
accounts of the pursuit and startling arrest of "Fatty Welch," the
well-known crook, who was wanted in Pennsylvania and elsewhere on
various charges. Altogether the officers were in a very genial frame of
mind.
"Come along, Fatty," said Tom, helping the clubman into his bedraggled
overcoat. "We're almost late for roll-call, as it is."
They left the cells and entered the station-house proper, where several
officers with their prisoners were waiting.
"We'll take you down to Headquarters and make sure we've got you
_right_," he continued. "I guess Sheridan'll know you fast enough when
he sees you. Come on, boys!" He opened the door and led the way across
the sidewalk to the patrol wagon, which stood backed against the curb.
It was a glorious winter's day. The sharp, frosty air stimulated the
clubman's jaded senses and gave him new hope; he felt sure that at
headquarters he would find some person to whom he could safely confide
the secret of his identity. In about ten minutes the wagon stopped in a
narrow street, before an inhospitable-looking building.
"Here's the old place," remarked one of the load cheerfully. "Looks just
the same as ever. Mott Street's not a mite different. And to think I
ain't been here in fifteen years!"
All clambered out, and each officer, selecting his prisoners, convoyed
them down a flight of steps, through a door, several feet below the
level of the sidewalk, and into a small, stuffy chamber full of men
smoking and lounging. Most of these seemed to take a friendly interest
in the clubman, a few accosting him by his now familiar alias.
Tom hurried McAllister along a dark corridor, out into a cold
court-yard, across the cobblestones into another door, through a hall
lighted only by a dim gas-jet, and then up a flight of winding stairs.
McAllister's head whirled. Then quickly they were at the top, and in a
huge, high-ceiled room crowded with men in civilian dress. On one side,
upon a platform, stood a nondescript row of prisoners, at whom the
throng upon the floor gazed in silence. Above the heads of this file of
motley individuals could be read the gold lettering upon the cabinet
behind them--Rogues' Gallery. On the other side of the room, likewise
upon a platform and behind a long desk, stood two officers in uniform,
one of them an inspector, engaged in studying with the keenest attention
the human exhibition opposite.
"Get up there, Fatty!"
Before he realized what had happened, McAllister was pushed upon the
platform at the end of the line. His appearance created a little wave
of excitement, which increased when his comrades of the wagon joined
him. It was a peculiar scene. Twenty men standing up for inspection,
some gazing unconcernedly before them, some glaring defiantly at their
observers, and others grinning recognition at familiar faces. McAllister
grew cold with fright. Several of the detectives pointed at him and
nodded. Out of the silence the Inspector's voice came with the shock of
thunder:
"Hey, there, you, Sanders, hold up your hand!"
A short man near the head of the line lifted his arm.
"Take off your hat."
The prisoner removed his head-gear with his other hand. The Inspector
raised his voice and addressed the crowd of detectives, who turned with
one accord to examine the subject of his discourse.
"That's Biff Sanders, con man and all-round thief. Served two terms up
the river for grand larceny--last time an eight-year bit; that was nine
years ago. Take a good look at him. I want you to remember his face. Put
your hat on."
Sanders resumed his original position, his face expressing the most
complete indifference.
A slight, good-looking young man now joined the Inspector and directed
his attention to the prisoner next the clubman, the same being he who
had remarked upon the familiar appearance of Mott Street.
"Hold up your hand!" ordered the Inspector. "You're Muggins, aren't you?
Haven't been here in fifteen years, have you?"
The man smiled.
"You're right, Inspector," he said. "The last time was in '89."
"That's Muggins, burglar and sneak; served four terms here, and then got
settled for life in Louisville for murder. Pardoned after he'd served
four years. Look at him."
Thus the curious proceeding continued, each man in the line being
inspected, recognized, and his record and character described by the
Inspector to the assembled bureau of detectives. No other voice was
heard save the harsh tones of some prisoner in reply.
Then the Inspector looked at McAllister.
"Welch, hold up your hand."
McAllister shuddered. If he refused, he knew not what might happen to
him. He had heard of the horrors of the "Third Degree," and associated
it with starvation, the rack, and all kinds of brutality. They might set
upon him in a body. He might be mobbed, beaten, strangled. And yet, if
he obeyed, would it not be a public admission that he was the mysterious
and elusive Welch? Would it not bind the chains more firmly about him
and render explanation all the more difficult?
"Do you hear? Hold up your hand, and be quick about it!"
His hand went up of its own accord.
The Inspector cleared his throat and rapped upon the railing.
"Take a good look at this man. He's Fatty Welch, one of the cleverest
thieves in the country. Does a little of everything. Began as a valet to
a clubman in this city. He got settled for stealing a valuable pin about
three years ago, and served a short term up the river. Since then he's
been all over. His game is to secure employment in fashionable houses as
butler or servant and then get away with the jewelry. He's wanted for a
big job down in Pennsylvania. Take a good look at him. When he gets out
we don't want him around these parts. I'd like you precinct-men to
remember him."
The detectives crowded near to get a close view of the interesting
criminal. One or two of them made notes in memorandum books. The slender
man had a hasty conference with the Inspector.
"The officer who has Welch, take him up to the gallery and then bring
him down to the record room," directed the Inspector.
"Get down, Fatty!" commanded Tom. McAllister, stupefied with horror,
embarrassment, and apprehension of the possibilities in store for him,
stepped down and followed like a somnambulist. As they made their way to
the elevator he could hear the strident voice of the Inspector beginning
again:
"This is Pat Hogan, otherwise known as 'Paddy the Sneak,' and his side
partner, Jim Hawkins, who goes under the name of James Hawkinson. His
pals call him 'Supple Jim.' Two of the cleverest sneaks in the country.
They branch out into strong arm work occasionally."
The elevator began to ascend.
"You seem kinder down," commented Tom. "I suppose you expect to get
settled for quite a bit down to Philadelphia, eh? Well, don't talk
unless you feel like it. Here we are!"
They got out upon an upper floor and crossed the hall. On their left a
matron was arranging rows of tiny chairs in a small school-room or
nursery. At any other time the Lost Children's Room might have aroused a
flicker of interest in McAllister, but he felt none whatever in it now.
Tom opened a door and pushed the clubman gently into a small, low-ceiled
chamber. Charts and diagrams of the human cranium hung on one wall,
while a score of painted eyes, each of a different color, and each
bearing a technical appellation and a number, stared from the other.
Upon a small square platform, about eight inches in height, stood a
half-clad Italian congealed with terror and expecting momentarily to
receive a shock of electricity. The slender young man was rapidly
measuring his hands and feet and calling out the various dimensions to
an assistant, who recorded them upon a card. This accomplished, he
ordered his victim down from the block, seated him unceremoniously in a
chair, and with a pair of shining instruments gauged the depth of his
skull from front to rear, its width between the cheekbones, and the
length of the ears, describing all the while the other features in brief
terms to his associate.
"Now off with you!" he ejaculated. "Here, lug this Greaser in and mug
him."
The officer in the case haled the Italian, shrieking, into another room.
"Ah, Fatty!" remarked the slender man. "I trust you won't object to
these little formalities? Take off that left shoe, if you please."
McAllister's soul had shrivelled within him. His powers of thought had
been annihilated. Mechanically he removed the shoe in question and
placed his foot upon the block. The young man quickly measured it.
"Now get up there and rest your hand on the board."
McAllister observed that the table bore the painted outline of a human
hand. He did as he was told unquestioningly. The other measured his
forefinger and the length of his forearm.
"All right. Now sit down and let me tickle your head for a moment."
The operator took the silver calipers which had just been used upon the
Italian and ran them thoughtfully forward and back above the clubman's
organs of hearing.
"By George, you've got a big head!" remarked the measurer. "Prominent,
Roman nose. No. 4 eyes. Thank you. Just step into the next room, will
you, and be mugged?"
McAllister drew on his shoe and followed Tom into the adjoining chamber
of horrors.
"No tricks, now!" commented the officer in charge of the instrument.
Snap! went the camera.
"Turn sideways."
Snap!
"That's all."
The clubman staggered to his feet. He entirely failed to appreciate the
extent of the indignity which had been practised upon him. It was hours
before he realized that he had actually been measured and photographed
as a criminal, and that, to his dying hour and beyond, these insignia of
his shame would remain locked in the custody of the police.
"Where now?" he asked.
"Time to go over to court," answered Tom. "The wagon'll be waitin' for
us. But first we'll drop in on Sheridan--record-room man, you know."
"Isn't there some way I can see the Commissioner?" inquired McAllister.
Tom burst into a roar of laughter.
"You _have_ got a gall!" he commented, thumping his prisoner
good-naturedly in the middle of the back. "The Commissioner! Ho-ho!
That's a good one! I guess we'll have to make it the Warden. Come on,
now, and quit yer joshin'."
Once more they entered the main room, where the detectives were
congregated. The Inspector was still at it. There had been a big haul
the night before. He intended running all the crooks out of town by New
Year's Day. Tom shoved McAllister through the crush, across an adjoining
room and finally into a tiny office. A young man with a genial
countenance was sitting at a desk by the single window. He looked up as
they crossed the threshold.
"Hello, Welch! How goes it? Let's see, how long is it since you were
here?"
Somehow this quiet, gentlemanly fellow with his confident method of
address, telling you just who you were, irritated McAllister to the
explosive point.
"I'm not Welch!" he cried indignantly.
"Ha-ha!" laughed Mr. Sheridan. "Pray who are you?"
"You'll find out soon enough!" answered McAllister sullenly.
"Look here," remarked the other, "don't imagine you can bluff us. If you
think you are not Welch, perhaps I can persuade you to change your
mind."
He turned to an officer who stood in the doorway of a large vault.
"Bring 2,208, if you please."
The officer pulled out a drawer, removed a long linen envelope, and
spread out its contents upon the desk. These were fifteen or twenty
newspaper clippings, at least one of which was embellished with an
evil-looking wood-cut.
"Let's see," continued Mr. Sheridan. "You began with a year up the
river. Took a pearl pin from a man named McAllister. Then you turned
several tricks in Chicago, St. Louis, Buffalo and Philadelphia, and got
away with it every time. Have we got you right?"
McAllister ground his teeth.
"You have not!" said he.
"Look at yourself," continued the other. "There's your face. You can't
deny it. I wonder the Inspector didn't have you measured and
photographed the first time you were settled. Still, the picture's
enough."
He handed the clubman a newspaper clipping containing a visage which
undeniably resembled the features which the latter saw daily in his
mirror. McAllister wearily shook his head.
"Well," said the expert, "of course you don't have to tell us anything
unless you want to. We've got you right--that's enough."
He pushed the clippings back into the envelope, handed it to the
officer, and turned away.
"Come on!" ordered Tom.
Once more McAllister and his mentor availed themselves of the only free
transportation offered by the city government, that of the patrol wagon,
and were soon deposited at the side entrance of the Jefferson Market
police court. A group of curious idlers watched their descent and
disappearance into what must have at all times seemed to them a concrete
and ever-present temporal Avernus. The why and wherefore of these
erratic trips were, of course, unknown to McAllister. Presumably he must
be some _rara avis_ of crime whose feet had been caught inadvertently in
the limed twig set by the official fowler for more homely poultry.
Fatty Welch, whoever he might be, apparently enjoyed the respect
incident to success in any line of human endeavor. It seemed likewise
that his presence was much desired in the sister city of Philadelphia,
in which direction the clubman had a vague fear of being unwillingly
transported. He did not, of course, realize that he was held primarily
as a violator of the law of his own State, and hence must answer to the
charge in the magistrate's court nearest the locus of his supposed
offence.
Inside the station house Tom held a few moments' converse with one of
its grizzled guardians, and then led our hero along a passage and opened
a door. But here McAllister shrank back. It was his first sight of that
great cosmopolitan institution, the police court. Before him lay the
scene of which he had so often read in the newspapers. The big room with
its Gothic windows was filled to overflowing with every variety of the
human species, who not only taxed the seating capacity of the benches to
the utmost, but near the doors were packed into a solid, impenetrable
mass. Upon a platform behind a desk a square-jawed man with
chin-whiskers disposed rapidly of the file of defendants brought before
him.
A long line of officers, each with one or more prisoners, stood upon the
judge's left, and as fast as the business of one was concluded the next
pushed forward. McAllister perceived that at best only a few moments
could elapse before he was brought to face the charge against him, and
that he must make up his mind quickly what course of action to pursue.
As he stepped down from the doorway there was a perceptible flutter
among the spectators. Several hungry-looking men with note-books opened
them and poised their pencils expectantly.
Tom, having handed over McAllister to the temporary care of a brother
officer, lost no time in locating his complainant, that is to say, the
gentleman whose house our hero was charged with having burglariously
entered. The two then sought out the clerk, who seemed to be holding a
sort of little preliminary court of his own, and who, under the
officer's instruction, drew up some formal document to which the
complainant signed his name. McAllister was now brought before this
official and briefly informed that anything he might say would be used
against him at his trial. He was then interrogated, as before, in regard
to his name, age, residence, and occupation, but with the same result.
Indeed, no answers seemed to be expected under the circumstances, and
the clerk, having written something upon the paper, waved them aside.
Nothing, however, of these proceedings had been lost to the reporters,
who escorted Tom and McAllister to the end of the line of officers,
worrying the former for information as to his prisoner's origin and past
performances. But Tom motioned them off with the papers which he held in
his hand, bidding them await the final action of the magistrate. Nobody
seemed particularly unfriendly; in fact, an air of general
good-fellowship pervaded the entire routine going on around them. What
impressed the clubman most was the persistence and omnipresence of the
reporters.
"I must get time!" thought McAllister. "I must get time!"
One after another the victims of the varied delights of too much
Christmas jubilation were disposed of. Fatty Welch was the only real
"gun" that had been taken. He had the arena practically to himself. Now
only one case intervened. He braced himself and tried to steady his
nerves.
"Next! What's this?"
McAllister was thrust down below the bridge facing the bench, and Tom
began hastily to describe the circumstances of the arrest.
"Fatty Welch?" interrupted the magistrate. "Oh, yes! I read about it in
the morning papers. Chased off in a cab, didn't he? You shot the horse,
and his partner got away? Wanted in Pennsylvania and Illinois, you say?
That's enough." Then looking down at McAllister, who stood before him
in bespattered dress suit and fragmentary linen, he inquired:
"Have you counsel?"
McAllister made no answer. If he proclaimed who he was and demanded an
immediate hearing, the harpies of the press would fill the papers with
full accounts of his episode. His incognito must be preserved at any
cost. Whatever action he might decide to take, this was not the time and
place; a better opportunity would undoubtedly present itself later in
the day.
"You are charged with the crime of burglary," continued the Judge, "and
it is further alleged that you are a fugitive from justice in two other
States. What have you to say for yourself?"
McAllister sought the Judge's eye in vain.
"I have nothing to say," he replied faintly. There was a renewed
scratching of pens.
The Judge conferred with the clerk for a moment.
"Any question of the prisoner's identity?" he asked.
"Oh, no," replied Tom conclusively. "The fact is, yer onner, we took him
by accident, as you may say. We laid a plant for a feller doin'
second-story work on the avenoo, and when we nabbed him, who should it
be but Welch! Ye see, they wired on his description from Philadelphia a
couple of weeks ago, but we couldn't find hide or hair of him in the
city, and had about give up lookin'. Then, quite unexpected, we scoops
him in. Here's his indentity," handing the Judge a soiled telegraph
blank. "It's him, all right," he added with a grin.
The magistrate glanced at the form and at McAllister.
"Seems to fit," he commented. "Have you looked for the scar?"
Tom laughed.
"Sure! I seen it when he was gettin' his measurements took, down to
headquarters."
"Turn around, Welch, and let's see your back," directed the magistrate.
The clubman turned around and displayed his collarless neck.
"There it is!" exclaimed Tom.
McAllister mechanically put his hand to his neck and turned faint. He
had had in his childhood an almost forgotten fall, and the scar was
still there. He experienced a genuine thrill of horror.
"Well," continued the magistrate, "the prisoner is entitled to counsel,
and, besides, I am sure that the complainant, Mr. Brown, has no desire
to be delayed here on Christmas Day. I will set the hearing for ten
o'clock to-morrow morning, at the Tombs police court. I shall be
sitting there for Judge Mason the rest of the week, beginning to-morrow,
and will take the case along with me. You might suggest to the Warden
that it would be more convenient to send the prisoner down to the Tombs,
so that there need be no delay."
The complainant bowed, and the officer at the bridge slapped McAllister
not unkindly upon the back.
"You'll need a pretty good lawyer," he remarked with a wink.
"Next!" ordered the Judge.
In the patrol wagon McAllister had ample time for reflection. A motley
collection of tramps, "disorderlies," and petty law-breakers filled the
seats and crowded the aisle. They all talked and joked, swinging from
side to side and clutching at one another for support with harsh
outbursts of profanity, as they rattled down the deserted streets toward
New York's Bastile. Staggering for a foot-hold, between four women of
the town, McAllister was forced to breathe the fumes of alcohol, the
odor of musk, and the aroma of foul linen. He no longer felt innocent.
The sense of guilt was upon him. He seemed part and parcel of this load
of miserable humanity.
The wagon clattered over the cobblestones of Elm Street, and whirling
round, backed up to the door of the Tombs. The low, massive Egyptian
structure, surrounded by a high stone wall, seemed like a gigantic
mortuary vault waiting to receive the "civilly dead." Warden and keepers
were ready for the prisoners, who were now unceremoniously bundled out
and hustled inside. McAllister stood with the others in a small anteroom
leading directly into the lowest tier. He could hear the ceaseless
shuffling of feet and the subdued murmur of voices, rising and falling,
but continuous, like the twittering of a multitude of birds, while
through the bars came the fetid prison smell, with a new and
disagreeable element--the odor of prison food.
"Keepin' your mouth shut?" remarked the deputy to McAllister, as he
entered the words "Prisoner refuses to answer," and blotted them.
"We're rather crowded just now," he added apologetically. "I guess I'll
send you to Murderer's Row. Holloa, there!" he called to someone above,
"one for the first tier!"
A keeper seized the clubman by the arm, opened a door in the steel
grating, and pushed him through. "Go 'long up!" he ordered.
McAllister started wearily up the stairs. At the top of the flight he
came to another door, behind which stood another keeper. In the
background marched in ceaseless procession an irregular file of men. In
the gloom they looked like ghosts. Aimlessly they walked on, one behind
the other, most of them with eyes downcast, wordless, taking that
exercise of the body which the law prescribed.
McAllister entered The Den of Beasts.
"All right, Jimmy!" yelled the keeper to the deputy warden below. Then,
turning to McAllister. "I'm goin' to put you in with Davidson. He's
quiet, and won't bother you if you let him alone. Better give him
whichever berth he feels like. Them double-decker cots is just as good
on top as they is below."
McAllister followed the keeper down the narrow gangway that ran around
the prison. In the stone corridor below a great iron stove glowed
red-hot, and its fumes rose and mingled with the tainted air that
floated out from every cell. Above him rose tier on tier, illuminated
only by the gray light which filtered through a grimy window at one end
of the prison. The arrangement of cells, the "bridges" that joined the
tiers, and the murky atmosphere, heightened the resemblance to the
"'tween decks" of an enormous slaver, bearing them all away to some
distant port of servitude.
"Get up there, Jake! Here's a bunkie for you."
McAllister bent his head and entered. He was standing beside a
two-story cot bed, in a compartment about six by eight feet square. A
faint light came from a narrow, horizontal slit in the rear wall. A
faucet with tin basin completed the contents of the room. On the top
bunk lay a man's soiled coat and waistcoat, the feet of the owner being
discernible below.
The keeper locked the door and departed, while the occupant of the
berth, rolling lazily over, peered up at the new-comer; then he sprang
from the cot.
"Mr. McAllister!" he whispered hoarsely.
It was Wilkins--the old Wilkins, in spite of a new light-brown beard.
For a few moments neither spoke.
"Sorry to see you 'ere, sir," said Wilkins at length, in his old
respectful tones. "Won't you sit down, sir?"
McAllister seated himself upon the bed automatically.
"You here, Wilkins?" he managed to say.
Wilkins laughed rather bitterly.
"I've been in stir a good part of the time since I left you, sir; an'
two weeks ago I pleaded guilty to larceny and was sentenced to one year
more. But I'm glad to see you lookin' so well, if you'll pardon me,
sir."
"I'm sorry for you, Wilkins," the master managed to reply. "I hope my
severity in that matter of the pin did not bring you to this!"
Wilkins hesitated for a moment.
"It ain't your fault, sir. I was born crooked, I fancy, sir. It's all
right. You've got troubles of your own. Only--you'll excuse me, sir--I
never suspected anything when I was in your service."
McAllister did not grasp the meaning of this remark; he only felt relief
that Wilkins apparently bore him no ill-will. Very few of his friends
would have followed up a theft of that sort. They expected their men to
steal their pins.
"Mebbe I might 'elp you. Wot's the charge, sir?"
With his former valet as a sympathetic listener, McAllister poured out
his whole story, omitting nothing, and, as he finished, leaned forward,
searching eagerly the other's face.
"Now, what shall I do? What shall I do, Wilkins?"
The latter coughed deprecatingly.
"You'll pardon me, but that'll never go, sir! You'll have to get
somethin' better than that, sir. The jury will never believe it."
McAllister sprang to his feet, in so doing knocking his head against the
iron support of the upper cot.
"How dare you, Wilkins! What do you mean?"
"There, there, sir!" exclaimed the other. "Don't take on so. Of course I
didn't mean you wouldn't tell the truth, sir. But don't you see, sir,
hit isn't I as am goin' to listen to it? Shall I fetch you some water to
wash your face, sir?" He turned on the faucet.
The clubman, yielding to the force of ancient habit, allowed Wilkins to
let it run for him, and having washed his face and combed his hair, felt
somewhat refreshed.
"That feels good," he remarked, rubbing his hands together.
It was obvious that so long as he remained in prison he would be either
"Fatty Welch" or someone else equally depraved; and since he could not
make anyone understand, it seemed his best plan to accept for the time,
with equanimity, the personality that fate had thrust upon him.
"Well, Wilkins, we're in a tight place. But we'll do what we can to
assist each other. If I get out first I'll help you, and _vice versa_.
Now, what's the first thing to be done? You see, I've never been here
before."
"That's the talk, sir," answered Wilkins. "Now, first, who's your
lawyer?"
"Haven't any, yet."
"All depends on the lawyer," returned the valet judicially. "Now,
there's Carter, and Herlihy, and Kemp, all sharp fellows, but they're
always after you for money, and then they're so clever that the jury is
apt to distrust 'em. The best thing, I find, is to get the most
respectable old solicitor you can--kind of genteel, 'family' variety,
with the goodness just stickin' hout all hover 'im. 'E creates a
hatmosphere of hinnocence, and that's wot you need. One as 'as white
'air and can talk about 'this boy 'ere' and can lay 'is 'and on yer
shoulder and weep. That's the go, sir."
"I understand," said McAllister.
Under the guidance of his valet our hero secured writing materials and
indicted a pitiful appeal to his family lawyer.
A gong rang; the squad of prisoners who had been exercising went back to
their cells, and the keeper came and unlocked the door.
McAllister stepped out and fell into line. His tight clothes proved very
uncomfortable as he strode round the tiers, and the absence of a
collar--yes, that was really the most unpleasant feature. His neck was
not much to boast of, therefore he always wore his shirts low and his
collars high. Now, as he stumbled along, he was the object of
considerable attention from his fellows.
At the end of an hour another gong sounded. In a moment the tiers were
empty; fifty doors clanged to.
"Well, Wilkins?"
"Being as this is Sunday, sir, we 'ave a few hours' service. Church of
England first, then City Mission. We're not hallowed to talk, but if you
don't mind the 'owlin' you can snatch a wink o' sleep. Christmas dinner
at twelve. Old Burridge, the trusty, was a-tellin' me as 'ow it's
hexcellent, sir!"
McAllister looked at his watch in despair. It was only a quarter past
ten. He had not been to church for fifteen years, but evidently he was
in for it now. Following his former valet's example, he took off his
shoes and stretched himself upon the cot.
On and on in never-varying tones dragged the service. The preacher held
the key to the situation. His congregation could not escape; he had a
full house, and he was bent on making the most of it.
The hands of McAllister's watch crept slowly round to five minutes
before eleven.
When at last the preacher stopped, carefully folded his manuscript, and
pronounced the benediction, a prolonged sigh of relief eddied through
the Tombs. Men were waking on all sides; cots creaked; there was a
general and contagious yawn.
Again the gong rang, and with it the smell of food floated up along the
tiers. McAllister realized that he was hungry--not mildly, as he was at
the club, but ravenous, as he had never been before. Presently the
longed-for food came, borne by a "trusty" in new white uniform. Wilkins,
who had been making a meagre toilet at the faucet, took in the dinner
through the door--two tin plates piled high with turkey and chicken,
flanked by heaps of potato and carrots, and one whole apple pie!
"Ha!" thought McAllister, "I was not so far wrong about this part of
it!" The chicken was perhaps not of the variety known as "spring"; but
neither master nor man noticed it as they feasted, sitting side by side
upon the cot.
"Carrots!" philosophized McAllister, looking regretfully at his empty
tin plate. "Now, I thought only horses ate carrots; and really, they're
not bad at all. I should like some more. Er--Wilkins! Can we get some
more carrots?"
Wilkins shook his head mournfully.
"Message for 34! Message for 34!"
A letter was thrust through the bars.
McAllister tore it open with feverish haste, and recognized the crabbed
hand of old Mr. Potter.
2 East Seventy-First Street.
F. Welch, Esq.
Sir: The remarkable letter just delivered to me,
signed by a name which you request me not to use in my
reply, has received careful consideration. I
telephoned to Mr. Mc----'s rooms, and was informed by
his valet that that gentleman had gone to the country
to visit friends over Christmas. I have therefore
directed the messenger to collect from yourself his
fee for delivering this answer. Yours, etc.,