THE CHAPLAIN READS HIS MAIL
The chaplain was sorting his morning mail. He did it deftly and quickly,
opening (with a thin-bladed paper knife; no ripping or tearing with
hasty fingers), glancing over, destroying, filing, or laying in the
"Answer immediately" pile. All this with his swift, careful fingers and
half of his careful mind; the other half was busy over problems.
Problems of Tom, of Dick, of Harry; problems mental, moral, physical. If
he could only keep them apart, how much simpler it would be! But the
three _would_ run together, act and react one upon the other. One of his
trusties was "wobbling," the guard told him; growing surly, careless,
shirking his work here and there, getting up steam, Wilson the guard
opined; liable to turn ugly any minute. What had happened? Well, he
thought his egg had been smaller than the rest, last egg day; he'd been
chewing the rag ever since. The chaplain sighed. What children they
were!
He ran his eyes over a letter. It was from a prisoner's wife, begging to
know how Nate was. She had been sick; would chaplain please tell Nate
that was why she couldn't come last Tuesday? (Tuesday was visitors'
day.) The children was smart. Joe and Susy was at school, but Benny had
no shoes till she got her pay from the factory; she was working extra
time to try and have something left over from the rent. They would get
along all right till he, Nate, was out, and he could get a place right
off in the mill, she guessed.
The chaplain sighed again, and laid the note on the growing pile of
"Answer immediately." Poor Susan! She worked so hard, and was so
hopeful! She always thought the last spree would remain the last; better
so! He shook his head, seeing Nate's weak, comely face, sodden with
drink. Poor Susan! Poor women! God help them all!
He opened another letter, and learned that "yrs. respect'ly, Wm.
Billiam," hadn't got no work yet; no wun appeared to want him though he
show them the note, sir and sum sed when they was a plaice he shood have
it and a Nother man sed there wos not work enuf for strate men and he
gessed crooks wood haf to wate till the pigs begin to fly "but I
ramember wot you sed chapple In and i will keep strate sir you betcher
life excusin bad writin'." This letter, written all downhill with no
sign of punctuation, smudged and smeared by a not too clean shirtsleeve,
might have brought a smile to some faces, but the chaplain's face was
grave enough. The endless problem, the riddle without an answer. Not
work enough for the honest men; yet if the discharged criminal cannot
get work, how to prevent him from relapsing into crime? Who can blame
him? He goes out with his little newborn resolve, a feeble, tottering
thing, and tries for honest work. He has learned a trade behind the
bars, perhaps; he can make brooms and mats, weave rough baskets, cobble
shoes. He finds a dozen applicants before him. Questions are asked:
Where has he worked? What references can he give? If he tells the truth,
seven employers out of ten shake their heads. If he lies, he is found
out after a time and the result is the same; he is "bounced." Who can
blame the boss? Who can blame the man if--Round and round, over and
over! No royal road anywhere. Nothing to do but keep on trying.
The chaplain raised his head, and the fighting look came into his eyes.
Keep on! Never say die! The scroll--his eyes fell on the letter with its
forlorn smudges; that one looked as if a tear had fallen and been wiped
off with a grimy hand--the scroll was growing clearer; slowly, yes, but
steadily. You had only to look back twenty years, ten years, five! Line
upon line, precept upon precept; here a little and there a little--
"Aha!" The word was spoken aloud, in a tone of pleased surprise.
"Pippin, I verily believe!" said the chaplain. He studied the
superscription a moment. How he had labored over those upstrokes! It was
a good hand now, though the scamp would never be a professor of
calligraphy. Then he opened the envelope and read as follows:
DEAR FRIEND ELDER HADLEY RESPECTED SIR,
This is to state that I am first rate and hoping the same in
regard to yourself and all friends there. Well Elder I am having
a bully time right straight along. I am still to Kingdom in the
bakery and grindin same as I last wrote but dont think I shall
stop much longer, though I like first-rate and if I felt the
Lord intended bakin for mine there's no dandier place, no sir
nor one where I'd feel more at home. If they was my own folks
they couldn't be kinder to me than what Mr. and Mrs. Baxter is.
But I have fixed them all right with a nice boy will step right
along and make an A 1 baker if he has his health which appears
rugged up to the present and he likes real well and so do they.
Well Elder you said to tell you when I found a Leadin; well
sir I have, and it seems to squint like the Lord was showin me
His hand. I found a dandy place sir, the dandyest you ever see
and folks ekally so, and plenty of room; and savin this boy
like, or the Lord savin him through me is what I would say, made
me feel Elder I wanted to do _sompin for the boys_. Yes sir when
I see that dandy place and only a few old folks that pooty soon
their time would be up I thought fill that nice big house up
with boys and learn em farmin and gardenin and like that, why
twould be _great_ elder. Take kids like I was with no folks of
their own or bum ones which is worse; what I mean take em away
from the city and give em hens to take care of and feed the pigs
and learn ploughin and sowin and like that and live out doors
with a good house to come in nights and good food and some
person that knows boys and _feels for_ em and knows what some of
em has ben through, I think it would be great sir dont you. I
tell you Elder there's guys in there, and lifers some of 'em, if
they'd ben handled different when they was kids they'd _stayed_
different yes sir they would and you said the same often. Now
what I mean is when I've got this present job done and found
that kid Im going to follow this lead, because I feel Elder the
Lord is leadin me yes sir He sure is. I opened the lids of the
Testament you give me and looked and first thing I see was "This
should ye have done and not to leave the other undone." Now
wouldn't that give you a pain and so it did me and I said lo
here was I like Samuel and I am Elder so help me. Mr. Bailey
would like it firstrate but he thinks twould take time I tell
him I want to start right in soon as I have this job done. I am
leavin tomorrow so no more from yours in the Lord and thanking
you kindly Elder I am sure for all you done.
Yours resp'y.
PIPPIN.
The chaplain read this effusion through twice, a thoughtful frown
knitting his brow, a smile curling the corners of his mouth.
He tilted his chair back against the wall, and looked out of the window.
Pippin had been much in his mind since their parting two months before.
This was the second letter he had received from him. The first had been
written within a week of Pippin's leaving Shoreham, and told of his
finding Nipper Crewe dying by the roadside, and of the wheel that he
considered rightly his. That was a singular meeting, the chaplain
thought. The old sinner, full of evil deeds and memories, suspected of
many crimes large and small, yet so crafty withal and so passionately
bent on keeping out of prison that for the most part he had succeeded.
The chaplain shook his head, recalling one inmate and another, who,
shaking an impotent fist, choking with rage, had told how after the
"deal" for which he was "pinched," Nipper, the instigator of it, had
slipped quietly off under the very noses of the police. While his mate
and dupe was there, raging and choking, Nipper would be roaming the
country at large with his wheel, grinding more or less, observing a
great deal, planning the next neat little job. Yes, Nipper was a bad
one! And strange to think of Pippin's being chosen to comfort the old
sinner in his last hour and inherit the wheel that had been an innocent
_particeps criminis_ in so many "deals"! Well, Pippin could comfort him
if anyone could, thought the chaplain.
Still looking out of the window, he let his thoughts run back to the
day--could it be two years ago? It seemed hardly more than as many
months--when he first saw Pippin. His first Sunday as prison chaplain!
He had accepted the call because it seemed right; a new hand seemed
needed--his thoughts ran off the track, as other visions came crowding
in; he brought them back with an effort.
He felt anew, with almost the same shock of strangeness, the first
impression of seeing his new flock in chapel that day. The rows on rows
of faces, sharp or lowering, weak or silly or vacant, degenerate or
sodden, a few that were actually vicious--they were seldom _really_
vicious, his poor boys. Suddenly a head lifted, and he saw the face as
of a strayed seraph; then presently heard the voice, as of the same
seraph at home, singing. The chaplain broke into a little laugh.
Let the bright seraphim in burning row--
That line came insistently to his mind whenever he heard Pippin sing;
yet he knew perfectly well that Milton's seraphim were not singing, but
blowing their loud uplifted angel trumpets. Perhaps--perhaps voices and
trumpets were more alike there?--Anyhow, Pippin's voice had a trumpet
note in certain hymns that he specially loved.
The process of Pippin's conversion--to call it that; the chaplain sought
for a better word, rejecting in turn a dozen or more--had been the
happiest episode of the two years. Plenty of good and cheerful and
hopeful things, but that--what _had_ it been like? Chipping off the
baked ashes--in Herculaneum, say--and coming upon the lucid marble of
some perfect statue? No! A statue was after all a statue, and could give
back no warmth. Mining, then, in dark and cold and foul air--poor boys!
there was so much good in the worst of them, though!--and finding a vein
of virgin gold--No! Gold was nothing but gold, after all. What--Ah! Here
it was! Fumbling with the keys of an organ in the dark, feeling about,
waking here a mutter, there a discord, there again a shriek--till
suddenly one struck the true chord and the music broke out like
sunlight--Or wasn't it after all just that, just sunlight, breaking from
a cloud--
"Come in!" the chair was brought hastily to its normal position. A guard
touched his cap in the doorway. "Beg pardon, sir, but French Bill has
broke loose. Keeper said you was to be told--"
The chaplain was on his feet in an instant. "What has happened? Tell me
as we go along!"
"Fell foul of Tom Packard with his bucket, and mauled him consid'able.
I've been lookin' for it these two days. Tom was waitin' at his table,
and Bill thought he give him a small egg o' purpose."
"Dear me, sirs! Who is with him now?"
The guard chuckled. "There's no one _with_ him! Anybody wouldn't be very
comf'table there just now. Jones is handy by, lookin' after him. You can
hear him now!"
They could. A muffled roar, rising now and then into a bellow. As they
drew nearer, the roar became articulate, and resolved itself into a
sustained and passionate request for the blood, liver, and other vital
adjuncts of Thomas Packard. "Lemmegetaholdofhim--lemmegetaholdofhim!"
Coming down B corridor the clamor was deafening, echoed back from side
to side of the narrow passage; accompanied moreover by banging of fists,
kicking of feet against iron bars. The chaplain sighed and longed for
Pippin. Nobody could manage Bill like Pippin. He usually knocked him
down and sat on his chest singing "Onward, Christian Soldiers!" till the
fit was over. There wasn't a mite of harm in Bill, Pippin always
maintained, only he was nervous, and come to get worked up, he b'iled
right over.
The other inmates of B corridor were listening to the uproar, some
laughing, others sympathizing with Bill or Tom, as the case might be.
Opposite the grated door of the cell a turnkey leaned against the wall,
a stolid, unmoved figure. "Here comes chaplain!" the murmur ran from
cell to cell; and every face was pressed eagerly against the grating.
"Here's chaplain! Chaplain'll sort him!"
Bill himself seemed wholly unconscious of Mr. Hadley's approach. He was
a French Canadian, a slender, active fellow. In repose, his face was
gentle and rather pensive; now it was the face of a mad wildcat. Shaking
the bars with all his strength, he continued to pour out in a monotonous
roar his request for the vital organs, amply detailed and characterized,
of "Tompack_ard_!"
The chaplain surveyed him quietly for a few minutes in silence; then
drew a small square phial from his pocket, and unscrewing the metal top,
held it between the bars to the man's nose. With a howl of
twenty-wildcat power the fellow let go the bars and staggered backward.
Instantly Hadley unlocked the door and stepped inside, closing it
quickly after him.
"Now then, Bill," he said quietly, "what's all this row?"
Shaking and glaring, the man cowered in the farthest corner, rubbing his
nose, clutching his throat.
"W'at you kill me for?" he muttered hoarsely. "W'at you kill me for,
_mon père_? I do you no harm!"
"I haven't killed you. Sit down, Bill. You've been making a horrid row,
do you know it? And you've kicked the toe right out of your boot. Now
look at that! Those boots were new last month. You'll have to put a new
toe cap over that, or the Warden will have you up for untidiness." He
bent to examine the toe. "That's too bad! those new boots!"
"I mend heem!" Bill bent eagerly beside him. "I mend heem good, _mon
père_! Warden nevaire see; I mak heem better as new."
"Well, see you do! And while you're about it, I wish you would look over
my shoes, the pair you resoled for me, and see if you can't take the
squeak out of them. It doesn't do for the chaplain to go round with
squeaking boots, you know; he might disturb quiet fellows like you. By
the way, what was your row about, Bill? I heard you had been pitching
into Tom Packard."
They had sat down on the bed, the better to examine the injured toe cap.
Bill looked up with a shrug, half ashamed, half sulky, wholly Gallic.
"He been treatin' me mean, long time, two t'ree days. He geeve me de
smalles' egg he can find for my breakfast; leetle, leetle, like pigeon's
egg."
"Well, I got a bad egg the other day; halfway to a chicken it was; but I
didn't break the cook's head, as I understand you broke poor Tom's."
"Yes! yes! I break hees head; I kill heem if I could. Yes, sir!"
"And now you're ashamed, eh? You know you are, Bill, you may as well own
up." After some argument, Bill owned that he was ashamed and promised
amendment. "Then that's all right!" The chaplain rose with an air of
relief. "I'll speak a word to Father O'Neill, and he'll give you a nice
little penance, and you'll make it up with Tom. I'm going to see him
now, and I shall tell him you are sorry--yes, I shall, because you are,
you know, sorry and ashamed. But remember!" He drew out the square
green phial and held it up. "The next time you'll get it stronger!"
The man recoiled in terror, clasping his hands over his nose. "_Non!
non, mon père!_ Not kill me again! W'at ees eet? W'at you call eet?"
"Aromatic spirits of ammonia." The chaplain eyed the bottle gravely,
shook his head, and put it back into his pocket. "No joke, is it, Bill!
Well, good-by, old sport. Remember!"