“Well, it’s your own affair,” says the warden, turning to his desk. “The fare to Raymond is $2.50. I am also authorized to give you $5 cash, to which I have added $10. You have assisted me about the books of the institution and have been in every respect a model prisoner. In fact,” supplements Mr. Chase, with a smile, “under different circumstances I should be sorry to part with you.”
“Thank you,” acknowledges Stanley, in the same impassive tones.
“And now, my boy,” counsels the warden, laying one hand kindly on the young man’s shoulder, “try to make your future life such that you will never be compelled to see the inside of another house of this kind. I am something of a judge of character. I am confident that you have the making of a man in you. Here are your things,” as the attendant arrives with Stanley’s effects.
Mr. Chase resumes his writing and Stanley withdraws. Once within the familiar cell, which is soon to know him no more, his whole mood changes.
“Free!” he breathes, exultingly, raising his clasped hands to heaven. “What matter it if my freedom be of a few days only, of a few hours? It will be enough for my purpose. Heavens! Two years in this hole, caged like a wild beast, the companion of worse than beasts—a life wrecked at 28. But I’ll be revenged! As surely as there is a heaven above me, I’ll be repaid for my months of misery. An eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth!”
He throws his prison suit from him with loathing. Then he sinks back into his apathy and the simple toilet is completed in silence.
A suit of light gray, of stylish cut, a pair of well-made boots, a negligee shirt and a straw hat, make considerable change in his appearance. He smiles faintly as he dons them.
He ties his personal effects in a small package. They are few—half a dozen letters, all with long-ago post-marks, a couple of photographs, and a small volume of Shakespeare given him by the warden, who is an admirer of Avon’s bard.
“Off?” asks Mr. Chase, as he shakes hands. “Well, you look about the same as when I received you. A little older, perhaps”—surveying him critically—“and minus what I remember to have been a handsome mustache. Good-by, my boy, and good luck. And, I say,” as Stanley strides toward the door, “take my advice and the afternoon train for New York. Get some honest employment and make a name for yourself. You’ve got the right stuff in you. By the way, do you know what day it is?”
“I have not followed the calendar with reference to any particular days.”