_THOSE JAIL-BIRDS._
ALTHOUGH the people of Laketon could not forgive Mr. Morton and Paul
Grayson for not talking more about themselves and their past lives, they
could not deny that both the teacher and his pupil were of decided value
to the town. All the boys, whether in Mr. Morton’s school or the public
school, seemed to like Paul Grayson when they became acquainted with
him, and the parents of the boys sensibly argued that there could not be
anything very bad about a boy who was so popular. Besides, the other
boys in talking about Paul declared that he never swore and never lied;
and as lying and swearing were the two vices most common among the
Laketon boys, and therefore most hated by the parents, they felt that
there was at least no occasion to regard the new-comer with suspicion.
As for Mr. Morton, he rapidly made his way among the more solid
citizens. He was willing to work, whether his services were required by
church, Sunday-school, or society, and he did not care to hold office of
any sort, so his sincerity was cheerfully admitted by all. When,
however, he had one day, soon after his arrival, asked several prominent
men why the town had no society, or even person, to visit the very poor
and the persons who might be in prison, he ran some risk of being
considered meddlesome.
“We know our own people best,” said Sam Wardwell’s father. “The only
people here who suffer from poverty are those who won’t work, while the
few people who get into our jail are hard cases; half of them wouldn’t
listen to you if you talked to them, and the others would listen only to
have an excuse to beg tobacco or something. There’s a man in the jail
now for passing counterfeit money; he’s committed for trial when the
County Court sits in September; that man is just as smart as you or I.
He is as fine a looking fellow as you would wish to see, talks like a
straightforward business man, and yet he passed counterfeit bills at
four different places in this town. What would talk do for such a
fellow?”
“No one knows until some one tries it,” replied the teacher, quietly.
“Well, all I have to say is,” remarked Mr. Wardwell, in a tone that was
intended to be very sarcastic, “those who have plenty of time to waste
must do the trying. If you want such work done, why don’t you do it
yourself?”
“I would cheerfully do it if it did not seem to be presumptuous on the
part of a stranger.”
“Don’t trouble your mind about that,” said the store-keeper, with a
laugh; “the counterfeiter is a stranger too, so matters will be even.
There’s the sheriff, in front of the post-office; do you know him? No?
Let us step over, and I’ll introduce you; and I’ll wish you more luck
than you’ll have in the jail, if that will be of any consolation.”
Mr. Morton found Sheriff Towler quite a pleasant man to talk to, and
perfectly willing to have his prisoners improve in body and mind by any
method except that of getting out of jail before their respective terms
of imprisonment had expired, or before they were by superior authority
ordered to some other place of confinement, as he, the sheriff, wished
might at once be the case with John Doe, the man who was awaiting trial
for passing bad bank-notes. All this the sheriff said as he walked with
Mr. Morton from the post-office to the jail. Arrived at the last-named
building, the sheriff instructed his deputy, who had charge of the
place, to admit Mr. Morton at any time that gentleman might care to
converse with any of the prisoners.
The teacher walked first through the upper rooms, where a small but
choice assortment of habitual drunkards and petty thieves were confined;
these, as Sam Wardwell’s father had predicted, either declined to
converse or talked stupidly for a moment or two, and then begged either
tobacco or money to buy it with. Still, Mr. Morton thought he saw in
these wretched fellows some material to work upon, when time allowed.
Then he went below, and the deputy took him to the small grated window
in the door of the strong cell for desperate offenders, and said to John
Doe that a gentleman who was visiting the prisoners would like to speak
with him. The deputy went away immediately after saying this, and Mr.
Morton quickly put his face to the grated window. A face appeared on the
other side of the grating, and then, as Mr. Morton placed his hand
between the bars, which were barely wide enough apart to admit it, he
felt his fingers grasped most earnestly by the hand of the prisoner. If
Mr. Wardwell could have felt that grasp and seen the prisoner’s face, he
might have greatly changed his opinion of smart prisoners in general.
Somehow John Doe preferred to restrict his remarks to whispers, and for
some reason Mr. Morton humored him. The interview lasted but a few
moments, and ended with a plea and a promise that another call should be
made. Meanwhile, Mr. Wardwell had stood on a corner that commanded the
jail, and when the teacher reappeared the merchant asked, “Well?”
“They are a sad set,” Mr. Morton admitted.
“I told you so,” said Wardwell, rubbing his hands, as if he were glad
rather than sorry that the prisoners were as bad as he had thought them.
“And how did you find that rascally counterfeiter? I’ll warrant he
didn’t care to see you?”
“On the contrary,” replied the teacher, gravely, “he was very glad to
see me. He begged me to come again. He was so glad to see some one not a
jailer that he cried.”
“Well, I never!” exclaimed the merchant. And he told the truth.
It was soon after this first visit of a series that lasted as long as
Mr. Morton remained in the village that the boys changed their base-ball
ground. They had generally played in some open ground on the edge of the
town, but the teacher one day asked why they should go so far, when the
entire square on which the court-house and jail stood was vacant, except
for those two buildings. The boys spent a whole recess in considering
this suggestion; then they reported it favorably to the other boys of
the town, and it was adopted almost unanimously that very week; and
Canning Forbes could always remember even the day of the month on which
the first game was played, for he, as a “fielder,” caught the ball
exactly on the tip of the longest finger of his left hand, and he stayed
home with that finger, and woke up nights with it, for a full week
afterward.
Paul Grayson had not attended Mr. Morton’s school a fortnight before
every one knew that ball was his favorite game. This preference on the
part of the new boy did not entirely please Benny Mallow, who preferred
to have his new friend play marbles, and with him alone, because then he
could talk to him a great deal; whereas at ball, even “town-ball,” which
needed but four boys to a game, there was not much opportunity for
talking, while at baseball the chances were less, even were Benny not so
generally out of breath when he met Grayson on a “base” that
conversation was impossible.
But Grayson clung to ball; he did not seem to care much for it in the
school-yard, which, indeed, was rather small for such games, but after
school was dismissed in the afternoons he always tried to get up a game
on the new grounds, and he generally succeeded. Even boys who did not
care particularly for the sport had been told by Mr. Morton that about
the only diversion of the wretched men in the jail was to look out the
window while ball-playing was going on; and as Mr. Morton had begun to
attain special popularity through his work among the prisoners, the boys
who liked him, as most of them did, were glad to help him to the small
extent they were able.
“I really can’t see why Grayson should be so fond of ball,” said Canning
Forbes one afternoon, as he and several other boys lay under the big
elm-tree behind the court-house and criticised the boys who were
playing. “He isn’t much of a pitcher, he doesn’t bat very well, and he
often loses splendid chances, while he’s catcher, by not seeming to see
the ball when it’s coming. I wonder if his eyes can be bad?”
“I don’t believe they are,” said Will Palmer; “he is keen-sighted enough
about everything else. Absent-mindedness is his great trouble; every
once in a while he gets his eyes fixed on something as if he couldn’t
move them.”
“He gets into a brown-study, you mean,” suggested Forbes.
“That’s it,” assented Will.
“He’s thinking about the splendors of the royal home that he is being
kept away from,” said Napoleon Nott. “You just ought to read what sort
of a place a royal home is,” continued Notty. “I’ll bring up a book
about it some day, and read it aloud to all of you fellows.”
“No you won’t, Notty,” said Canning Forbes; “not if we have any legs
left to run away with.”
Some internal hints that supper-time was approaching broke up the game,
and the boys moved off the ground, by twos and threes, until only Paul
and Benny remained. Paul seemed in no particular hurry to start, and as
Benny never seemed to imagine that Paul could see himself safely home
from any place, he remained too.
“Benny,” said Paul, suddenly, “did you ever see any one in jail?”
“No,” said Benny, “I never did.”
“Neither did I,” said Paul, “but I’m curious to do so now. You needn’t
go with me; the sight might pain you too much.”
“What! Just to go to the jail, and look up at the windows? Oh no; _that_
won’t hurt me. I’ve done that lots of times.”
“Very well,” said Paul, moving toward the jail. He looked up at the
windows as he walked; finally he stopped where he could look fairly at
the small window of the cell where the counterfeiter was. The sun was
not shining upon that side of the jail, so Benny could barely see there
was a face behind the window. Evidently the prisoner was standing on a
chair, for the little window was quite high. Paul’s eyes seemed better
than Benny’s, however, for he continued looking at that window for some
moments. When he finally turned away, it was because he could not see
any longer, for his eyes were full of tears.
[Illustration: THE WINDOW OF THE COUNTERFEITER’S CELL.]
“Why, you’re crying!” exclaimed Benny, in some astonishment. “What is
the matter?”
“I’m so sorry for the poor fellow,” replied Paul.
“I am too,” said Benny—“awfully sorry. I wish I could cry about it, but
somehow my eyes don’t work right to-day. Some days I can cry real
easily. Next time one of those days comes, I’ll come over here with you,
and let you see what I can do.”