TUESDAY AFTERNOON AND EVENING
In my cell, Tuesday evening, September 30.
Laying aside my journal this noon, I don my coat and cap and stand ready
at the cell door. The Captain passes by, unlocking the levers; then
repasses, pushing them down, and I am ready to fall in line as usual; but
one of the gray figures stops suddenly and whispers to me, "Your cup!
You've forgotten your cup!" So I create a momentary halt and confusion in
the gallery as I dash back into the cell to get my tin cup and out again,
leaving it on the shelf at the entrance. We traverse the gallery, descend
the iron stairs, line up at the door, march first slowly then rapidly down
the yard, through the sewage disposal building to the bucket stands; and
so to the basket-shop again.
"Well, Brown, how did you enjoy your dinner, good?" This question is my
partner's afternoon greeting.
"Good! I should say it was! I'd like to tackle another car of coal this
afternoon to give me such an appetite. No, on second thoughts, not this
afternoon--to-morrow morning. I don't think I'd better get up much of an
appetite with nothing but bread and water ahead of me."
Murphy laughs. "Well, we've got two bottoms each to do this afternoon, to
make up for our exercise this morning; so we must hustle up and get 'em
done."
So we both start basket-making; he joking at my efforts to keep up with
him, and I, in a futile attempt to do so, "working like a race-horse," as
he expresses it. With pleasant chat the time passes quickly. The
strangeness of my situation is beginning to wear away; and the men are
getting over their aloofness as they see that, in Joe's words, I mean
business; and also see how well I get along with my partner and my boss.
The latter, the smiling Stuhlmiller, drops round to our table frequently;
makes valuable and friendly criticism and suggestion as to my work, by
which I try to profit; and incidentally tells many things which both
directly and indirectly throw valuable light upon the life here. As a
workman I must pay my tribute of admiration to Stuhlmiller; his small,
delicate hands with strong, pliable fingers are made for craftsmanship. It
gives positive delight to see him take hold of the weaving, to show me or
someone else how it should be done. There are the elements of the real
artist of some sort in that chap. What a pity to have these rare qualities
wasted in prison!
In the course of the afternoon a party of visitors is shown through the
shop by the Warden in person. It is only this evening that I have learned
all the facts of this incident, as I was so busy working that I never
noticed the party at all; although they walked by, only a few feet away,
passing directly between me and the keeper. This is the story as I get it
first hand, from the Warden himself.
It seems that some newspaper men from New York were in town to-day and
were most anxious to see Tom Brown at work. The strict order that
everything at the prison was to go on exactly as usual forbade their
interviewing me, or even having me pointed out; but there was nothing to
prevent their being shown over the prison in the ordinary way. The Warden,
who had returned from Albany, thinking he would like to take the
opportunity of himself seeing his "new boarder" at work, offered to
conduct them. So down through the yard they all came and in due course
reached the basket-shop.
"This is the place where Tom Brown is working," remarked the Warden; "but,
gentlemen, please remember you are not to speak to him or even seem to
give him special notice."
So they entered the shop and leisurely made their way through; the Warden
exchanging a word or two with the Captain as he went by, and all of them
looking curiously at the various basket-makers within sight.
After they had passed out of the shop at the farther end, one of the
visitors said,
"But, Warden, I didn't see him."
"Neither did we," chimed in the rest.
"Well, gentlemen," laughed the Warden, "this is certainly one on me; for I
looked everywhere and I couldn't find him myself."
It was true; the whole party had passed within twenty feet of me, and not
one of them--not even my intimate friend--had recognized me.
"But I'm very sure he's there," continued the Warden; "at any rate I can
verify it at my office."
So they returned to the main building and found out, sure enough, that
Thomas Brown was duly registered in the basket-shop.
Two of the visitors insisted upon returning; they had known me very well
by sight and were sure they could find me out. So back they came to the
shop, and this time I noticed them.
"I wonder who those guys are, rubbering around?" is my remark to Murphy,
speaking in the vernacular, as we are working away. I was taking good
care not to stare hard at them in my turn.
"They're not looking at you, anyhow," is Murphy's report. I steal another
glance and catch an intent, searching look from one of the visitors. I am
just finishing off a basket bottom and have on eyeglasses of unusual
shape--rather too fine for Tom Brown. I fear that the visitor may have
spotted these. However, I return his stare insolently, with as much of the
air of an old timer as I can muster on the spur of the moment. At the same
instant I whisper some joke over to Murphy that makes him smile; and the
guy moves on, staring at others of my shopmates in their turn.
"I guess he was after me, all right," I remark to my partner, "and I'm
afraid these infernal specs may have given me away."
As a matter of fact the two visitors returned from the basket-shop again
disappointed. One of them thought he had seen Tom Brown, but wasn't quite
sure. My identity seems to be sufficiently merged--so far as outsiders are
concerned.
Toward the close of the afternoon my talk with my partner becomes more
serious. In spite of the rules, newspapers seem to circulate here and are
precious in proportion to their rarity. Some one hands a paper to Murphy,
who passes it over to me; and I, after glancing over it, hand it back to
him to be returned. The editor of this particular sheet, in commenting
upon my adventure, expressed doubt as to the possibility of "the amateur
convict" being able to get hold of the real life of the prison. This view
makes me smile, under the circumstances, and I ask Murphy what he thinks
about it. His reply is that there is no doubt of my being able to get all
I want, and getting it straight.
"Well, I want to know all there is," I lightly rejoin, "and I'm thinking
of breaking the rules in some way before I get out of here, so as to be
sent down to the punishment cells."
A look of genuine concern comes over my partner's face, and his voice
sinks to an awestruck whisper. "Do you mean the jail?" he asks.
"Yes," I answer; "I want to learn everything possible about this place, so
I think I may as well spend at least one night in jail."
"Well, you'd better be careful." My partner speaks slowly and
impressively. There can be no doubt of his sincerity; a glance at his
earnest, troubled face settles that. "I went down to that place once," he
continues; "and I want to tell you--after eight hours of it I just caved
right in! I told them that they could do anything they liked with me."
"Was it so very bad?" I ask.
"Well, my advice to you is to give it a wide berth," is his evasive
answer. Then there is silence between us for a moment, and when he begins
again it is evident that his thoughts have turned into a still more
serious channel. "Yes, you can learn a great deal, but let me tell you
this, Brown: no one can realize what this place really is like,
until--until--well, until there is someone he cares about who is sick and
he can't get away." There is a tremor in his voice. Poor fellow! The
Chaplain told me last night that Murphy had recently lost his mother and
felt her death very deeply.
This talk occurs at the end of the day's work when we are waiting for the
Captain's signal of return, and Murphy is sitting on the edge of the table
talking quietly, turning his head away from the Captain and toward me as I
stand on my regular side of the table.
I place a hand on my partner's broad shoulder. "Yes," I say, "it must
indeed be terrible in such a case."
"Oh, nobody can know how bad it is," he goes on, my evident sympathy
opening up the depths. "My mother was sick in the hospital, very sick, and
I knew that she was going to die; and I--and I couldn't get to her. Oh
God! if they could only have let me go! I'd have come back! I'd have come
back. Honest I would. And now--and now----"
"Yes," I say, "I understand. And I know myself what it means. It's
something we never get over--in prison or out."
For a moment I fear that he is going to break down; but he is strong and
schooled in self-repression, and quickly regains control of himself. To
give him time I tell him something of my own experience; and he grasps my
hand fervently. Whatever may come out of my prison experiment, I have made
at least one warm friend in Jack Murphy. The barriers are down between us
two at least. Death, for all its cruelty, is after all the one great
unifying force; it forges the one great bond of human brotherhood.
As I have said, this last talk takes place toward the end of the
afternoon. Before it occurred Jack had said, "Now it's my turn to sweep up
to-night." And he proceeded to do it, while I took a bit of exercise,
walking up and down the short space permitted by the rules--about ten
steps each way across and back.
The order comes to fall in. "Well, good night, Brown!" "Good night, Jack!"
and off we go; first back to the bucket stands, for the benefit of those
who did their housecleaning this afternoon instead of this morning. Then
we march up through the yard to the main building, where, with the others,
I snatch my slice of bread, mount the iron stairs, traverse the gallery,
and lock myself in my cell for the night.
Captain Lamb comes to bid me good-bye. He is off on his vacation to-morrow
and his place is to be filled temporarily by one of the night officers. I
am sorry to have him go as I have taken a liking to him and wanted to
discuss with him further his views on the Prison Problem. However, I shall
be interested to find out how we get along with his successor.
The armchair, which George has secured for me in place of the stool, is
unfortunately much too large for the cell. When my shelf table is hooked
up there is not room enough for the chair to be placed anywhere
conveniently. When I sit back in it my head bumps against the locker; and
how I'm going to manage when the bed is let down I don't know. The chair
is not my only acquisition; when I came in to-night I found three tempting
apples on the shelf above my door. I suspect my friend in the blue shirt,
who asked me this noon if I didn't want an apple, as his Captain had given
him some. I shall save them for to-morrow, although I find my bread and
water rather tasteless and unsatisfactory to-night.
The evening wears along. I do not know now just what time it is, but
somewhere between seven and eight. We have had the twenty minutes of
music, beginning again with the sweet strains of the Mendelssohn Spring
Song, into which the other instruments rudely break. My unknown musician
plays other good selections, all with equal skill and feeling, so far as I
can tell through the din. At the present moment everything is quiet along
the corridors, except the inexplicable clicking or tapping I heard last
evening and wondered whether it was telegraphic in character. One of the
night officers, who has just paid me a friendly call and chatted at some
length, tells me that it is caused by the endeavors of the men in the
cells to strike sparks with flint and steel--owing to their monthly supply
of matches having given out. As the monthly supply of each man is only one
box, I am not surprised at the number of clicks that I hear. A cigarette
smoker might easily use up one box in a day--let alone a month.[8]
It is very curious the difference between last evening and this in my
feelings. Then I was so excited that each noise got on my nerves. To-night
I am quiet; and I think sleep will come more easily and stay longer.
Perhaps I can even slumber through the visits of the watchman with his
electric bull's-eye.
At this point I was interrupted by the Warden and Grant, who have just
paid me a long call. As I feel even more possessed with the desire to talk
than I did last night, I could hardly bear to let them go. They came up to
the entrance of my cell very quietly so as not to attract attention, and I
was taken almost by surprise when I heard their voices. I had rather
expected a visit from the Warden this evening, but knew nothing for
certain.
"Well, how are you coming on?" is the first question.
"Fine!"
"How are you feeling?"
"First rate!"
"How do you like your job?"
"Couldn't ask anything better."
"How do the men treat you?"
"As fine a lot of fellows as I was ever thrown with."
The Warden and Grant stifle their laughter.
"Well," I remark, "I suppose it does sound rather funny, but I mean it. I
wouldn't ask for any better treatment than I'm getting. The men are
certainly acting like gentlemen. They are doing just what I asked of
them--treating me exactly like one of themselves; and as for my partner,
Murphy, we're the very best of friends. He's a fine fellow. But look
here," I continue, "I'm making no kick, and I'm perfectly satisfied where
I am; but what was the reason for the change of plan? Why didn't the P. K.
put me where we had decided? When shall I be placed with that tough
bunch?"
This time my two visitors cannot control their amusement; they laugh
loudly.
"Why," says the Warden, as soon as he can catch his breath, "you are with
the tough bunch!"
"Oh, come off! you know what I mean, the Idle Company that I was to be
placed with for the first day or two."
"You're with the Idle Company," explains the Warden; "only they're not
idle any longer, they've been put to work. It is the same one where we
planned for you to begin."
I was never more surprised; but in order to turn the joke on them I assume
the toughest manner at my disposal and say, "Gee! Did you think I wasn't
wise? I was only kiddin' youse guys! But take this from me--straight. If
we're the toughest bunch in this stir the other guys must be skypilots,
all right!"
"Well, he seems to be getting some of the lingo down pretty fine," is
Grant's quiet comment; and then we turn seriously to the events of the
day, to my health and other matters. The Warden describes his visit to the
shop with the newspaper men, and the failure of all concerned, including
himself, to recognize me.
I tell him that it is quite evident that the prison atmosphere has been
successful in disguising my individuality, at least so far as appearance
is concerned. Then, after some more serious talk, we reach an agreement of
opinion that I am probably getting as much experience as possible where I
am now working; and so it would be better to continue in the basket-shop
for the present. The Warden makes me a promise to come again to-morrow
evening, and they take their departure. I wish they'd come back, I haven't
talked half enough.
The Warden told me that one of the convicts who works in his household
quarters locks in (to use the prison expression denoting temporary
residence) next to me--Number 14 on this tier; and that he had felt rather
hurt that I did not answer his taps. It seems that after finishing his
evening's work he gets back to his cell at ten o'clock, and that he tapped
me a greeting last night. That was just about the time I fell asleep. I
remember getting the impression in a vague way of some noises on the
gallery near by, just as I was dropping off; that must have been the night
officer letting him into his cell. To-night I shall stay awake and answer
his message.
So the company I am in is the one I have been dreading, is it? "The
toughest bunch of fellows in the prison"--Murphy and Stuhlmiller and
"Blackie," the good-natured fellow who gave away his tobacco and brings us
the material for our baskets; and the other pleasant men whose
acquaintance I have been making these last two days in the shop. It is
incredible, inconceivable. What can be the explanation of it all?
Is it possible that I am being made the victim of a clever system of
deception? This is naturally my first thought. I can well imagine that
Jack Murphy enjoys the novel sensation of having as his partner a man who
is for the moment an object of peculiar interest to this community, that
is simply human nature. No doubt Harley Stuhlmiller enjoys giving
directions to the member of a state commission, that again is human
nature. But that these men could assume virtues which they have not, and
carry out a wholesale system of deceit--that is not possible. I have been
on my guard every moment I have been here, and I have observed some few
attempts to get into my good graces, with a possible expectation of
future benefits; but on the other hand there has been a remarkable and
most successful effort to carry out my request--to treat me as plain Tom
Brown.
No, that explanation doesn't explain; the truth must lie in another
direction. And here is my idea. I am not seeing the worse side of these
men because there is no occasion for them to show me their worse side; but
I have no intention of overlooking or denying that side. They wouldn't be
in prison if they did not have it. But, although they may form the
toughest bunch in prison, they evidently have their better side also, and
is that not just as real as the worse side? And is it not the better side
that is the more important for us to consider? Important--whether we
approach the matter from the side of philanthropy or from that of
political economy. In either case we must consider it important that men
should not leave prison in such condition, mental, moral or physical, that
they will almost certainly commit more crimes and be returned to prison.
To which side, the better or the worse, does the Prison System now appeal?
Which does it encourage and develop? These are pretty vital questions.
At any rate it seems to me to have been great good luck that I was placed
in the basket-shop where I should associate with just these men; for if
these fellows are really among the more difficult cases in the prison,
then I think----
Wednesday morning, October 1.
At that interesting moment, while still writing my journal, the lights
suddenly went out on me; so I am finishing this next morning. The Warden
and Grant arrived soon after eight and must have stayed longer than I
thought; and somehow I seem to have missed the warning bell. I had not
begun to prepare for bed, when suddenly I was left in darkness. I had to
get my writing materials into the locker and make my evening toilet the
best way I could, with the help of the dim light from the corridor coming
through the grated door. There was one good thing about it, however; I was
too busy for a while to notice the blackness of the bars which had given
me such a shock the night before. It did not take so very long to make my
preparations, for the state of New York allows its boarders neither night
shirts nor pajamas. We have to sleep in the underclothes in which we have
worked all day. An arrangement which strikes one as being almost more
medieval than the sewage disposal system.
On Monday night, according to Jack Murphy, the men in my corridor all
waited to hear if I had the usual difficulties with my bed; and as some
other fellow's bed went down with him during the evening they thought they
had the laugh on me. This Tuesday night they certainly had. That infernal
armchair could not be placed where it did not catch the edge of the bed
when I let it down, so as to leave one leg dangling loose, as only one
could touch the floor at a time. In the course of my struggles with the
bed, the whole miserable contrivance came off the hooks and fell down with
a metallic rattle and bang that could be heard all over the corridor. Then
came snickers from various distances, and my frantic effort to straighten
things out only made more noise than ever. Bursts of smothered laughter
came through the bars; and I laughed, myself, until I was almost in
hysterics. Finally I got the bed hitched on to the back hooks, folded it
up against the wall and started all over again. I began by putting the
chair on its back as far away from the bed as possible, which wasn't very
far, and this time I just managed to get the legs of the bed to the floor.
After that it was short work to get ready for the night.
I have not yet described my bed covering. I have one double and one single
blanket and a thin blanket sheet--no cotton or linen of any sort. I do not
need, in this weather, more than one of the three blankets; but if I were
to be here long I know I should like some cotton bedclothes and pillow
cases. These can be secured, apparently, only by buying them, and many
prisoners have not the money to buy them. It seems as if the State should
furnish them to all prisoners; certainly the present arrangement leaves
much to be desired from a sanitary point of view.
Having thus at last got into bed, I found myself not so sleepy as when I
started; moreover, now that I was in bed, that black grating began again
to have its nervous effect upon me. If I thought it would be any better I
should turn, facing the other way; but that would bring my head so close
to the grating that anyone from outside could poke me with his fingers.
Moreover, it wouldn't help matters, for as long as I know that grating is
there I might as well look at it; I should certainly feel it even worse if
I turned my back.
I heard the nine-fifty train drawing into the station. I wondered who, if
any, of my friends were boarding the train for New York. How often have I
done so without ever thinking of the poor fellows over here, lying
restless in their cells and marking the time by the arrival and departure
of trains. After a suitable interval I heard the train draw away. Then I
knew that in a few moments my neighbor from the Warden's rooms would be
down.
Soon I heard the opening and closing of a distant door, then stealthy
footfalls along the corridor, the faint sound of a lock, and I saw the
long iron bar slowly and noiselessly raise itself from the top of the cell
opening. Then more stealthy footfalls, the sound of the great key turning
in a lock close at hand, the click of a lever, and a few faint sounds
through the wall at my right. Then the lever clicked again as the door
closed, the key turned in the lock, soft footfalls died away along the
gallery, the long bar dropped down, and all was so quiet for a moment that
it seemed as if the very building were holding its breath.
Then through the wall I heard the very faintest possible sound:
tap-ta-tap-tap; tap-ta-tap-tap. Then silence. It was so faint that if I
had not been waiting for some sound I might not have heard it at all.
Tap-ta-tap-tap. It said quite plainly, "How do you do?" I stretched out my
left hand to the wall on my right and with my ring gave an answering
signal: Tap-tap; tap-tap; tap-tap; which was the nearest I could come to,
"All right; all right." Then I waited to see if I was answered; and sure
enough in a few seconds the answer came.
After some moments, during which I presume my unseen friend was preparing
for bed, I heard again a different sound; rap-rap, rap-rap, rap-rap. It
said as plain as possible, "Good-night, good-night." So I returned it in
the same way. Then turning over in my narrow bed I fell asleep, and
although my sleep was neither deep nor continuous it was much better than
the night before.