It was my third morning in prison. I stood beside the mush boiler with
Annie O'Brien, who had been scraping it, and was wiping it out with a
dry cloth.
McMullins came along, and demanded the cloth from her. An altercation
ensued. I hushed the noise, and asked,--
"To whom does the cloth belong?"
"It is my dish-cloth," said McMullins.
"You might let me have it a moment just to wipe this out!"
"I want it meself, I'm in hurry for it."
"Where is yours?" I asked O'Brien.
"I don't know, ma'am. I left it on the boiler, and some one has taken
it."
She still kept on using McMullins'.
"I want my dish-cloth; I'm in hurry," said McMullins, impatiently.
"Give her the dish-cloth, and go find your own!" I said.
Annie O'Brien's temper was like a lucifer match. At the command she
threw the cloth in McMullins's face.
Quick as a cat would spring upon a mouse, McMullins was upon her; and
the report of the slaps that fell quick, and followed each other fast on
the side of O'Brien's face, sounded through the room.
It was in vain that I called upon them to stop. O'Brien was enraged. She
caught up an iron rod that lay upon the window seat, and struck
McMullins a blow upon her forehead that brought blood.