A CHILD'S HEART-HUNGER
I
With deep gratification I observe the unfoldment of Harry's mind. My
friendship has wakened in him hope and interest in life. Merely to
please me, he smilingly reiterated, he would apply himself to reading
the mapped-out course. But as time passed he became absorbed in the
studies, developing a thirst for knowledge that is transforming his
primitive intelligence into a mentality of great power and character.
Often I marvel at the peculiar strength and aspiration springing from
the depths of a prison friendship. "I did not believe in friendship,
Aleck," Harry says, as we ply our brooms in the day's work, "but now I
feel that I wouldn't be here, if I had had then a real friend. It isn't
only that we suffer together, but you have made me feel that our minds
can rise above these rules and bars. You know, the screws have warned me
against you, and I was afraid of you. I don't know how to put it, Aleck,
but the first time we had that long talk last year, I felt as if
something walked right over from you to me. And since then I have had
something to live for. You know, I have seen so much of the priests, I
have no use for the church, and I don't believe in immortality. But the
idea I got from you clung to me, and it was so persistent, I really
think there is such a thing as immortality of an idea."
For an instant the old look of helpless wonder is in his face, as if he
is at a loss to master the thought. He pauses in his work, his eyes
fastened on mine. "I got it, Aleck," he says, an eager smile lighting up
his pallid features. "You remember the story you told me about them
fellers--Oh,"--he quickly corrects himself--"when I get excited, I drop
into my former bad English. Well, you know the story you told me of the
prisoners in Siberia; how they escape sometimes, and the peasants,
though forbidden to house them, put food outside of their huts, so that
an escaped man may not starve to death. You remember, Aleck?"
"Yes, Harry. I'm glad you haven't forgotten it."
"Forgotten? Why, Aleck, a few weeks ago, sitting at my door, I saw a
sparrow hopping about in the hall. It looked cold and hungry. I threw a
piece of bread to it, but the Warden came by and made me pick it up, and
drive the bird away. Somehow I thought of the peasants in Siberia, and
how they share their food with escaped men. Why should the bird starve
as long as I have bread? Now every night I place a few pieces near the
door, and in the morning, just when it begins to dawn, and every one is
asleep, the bird steals up and gets her breakfast. It's the immortality
of an idea, Aleck."
II
The inclement winter has laid a heavy hand upon Harry. The foul hot air
of the cell-house is aggravating his complaint, and now the physician
has pronounced him in an advanced stage of consumption. The disease is
ravaging the population. Hygienic rules are ignored, and no precautions
are taken against contagion. Harry's health is fast failing. He walks
with an evident effort, but bravely straightens as he meets my gaze. "I
feel quite strong, Aleck," he says, "I don't believe it's the con. It's
just a bad cold."
He clings tenaciously to the slender hope; but now and then the cunning
of suspicion tests my faith. Pretending to wash his hands, he asks: "Can
I use your towel, Aleck? Sure you're not afraid?" My apparent confidence
seems to allay his fears, and he visibly rallies with renewed hope. I
strive to lighten his work on the range, and his friend "Coz," who
attends the officers' table, shares with the sick boy the scraps of
fruit and cake left after their meals. The kind-hearted Italian, serving
a sentence of twenty years, spends his leisure weaving hair chains in
the dim light of the cell, and invests the proceeds in warm underwear
for his consumptive friend. "I don't need it myself, I'm too
hot-blooded, anyhow," he lightly waves aside Harry's objections. He
shudders as the hollow cough shakes the feeble frame, and anxiously
hovers over the boy, mothering him with unobtrusive tenderness.
* * * * *
At the first sign of spring, "Coz" conspires with me to procure for
Harry the privilege of the yard. The consumptives are deprived of air,
immured in the shop or block, and in the evening locked in the cells. In
view of my long service and the shortness of my remaining time, the
Inspectors have promised me fifteen minutes' exercise in the yard. I
have not touched the soil since the discovery of the tunnel, in July
1900, almost four years ago. But Harry is in greater need of fresh air,
and perhaps we shall be able to procure the privilege for him, instead.
His health would improve, and in the meantime we will bring his case
before the Pardon Board. It was an outrage to send him to the
penitentiary, "Coz" asserts vehemently. "Harry was barely fourteen then,
a mere child. Think of a judge who will give such a kid sixteen years!
Why, it means death. But what can you expect! Remember the little boy
who was sent here--it was somewhere around '97--he was just twelve years
old, and he didn't look more than ten. They brought him here in
knickerbockers, and the fellows had to bend over double to keep in
lockstep with him. He looked just like a baby in the line. The first
pair of long pants he ever put on was stripes, and he was so frightened,
he'd stand at the door and cry all the time. Well, they got ashamed of
themselves after a while, and sent him away to some reformatory, but he
spent about six months here then. Oh, what's the use talking," "Coz"
concludes hopelessly; "it's a rotten world all right. But may be we can
get Harry a pardon. Honest, Aleck, I feel as if he's my own child. We've
been friends since the day he came in, and he's a good boy, only he
never had a chance. Make a list, Aleck. I'll ask the Chaplain how much
I've got in the office. I think it's twenty-two or may be twenty-three
dollars. It's all for Harry."
* * * * *
The spring warms into summer before the dime and quarter donations total
the amount required by the attorney to carry Harry's case to the Pardon
Board. But the sick boy is missing from the range. For weeks his dry,
hacking cough resounded in the night, keeping the men awake, till at
last the doctor ordered him transferred to the hospital. His place on
the range has been taken by "Big Swede," a tall, sallow-faced man who
shuffles along the hall, moaning in pain. The passing guards mimic him,
and poke him jocularly in the ribs. "Hey, you! Get a move on, and quit
your shammin'." He starts in affright; pressing both hands against his
side, he shrinks at the officer's touch. "You fakir, we're next to
_you_, all right." An uncomprehending, sickly smile spreads over the
sere face, as he murmurs plaintively, "Yis, sir, me seek, very seek."