In this simple distribution of labor we shall learn many things which will be highly useful and remunerative when we go out into the world again.
I am finally alone in my new cell, which is spacious, clean, airy. I can walk seven or eight paces up and down, like an animal in a cage.
The steel beds are chained to the walls; instead of the filthy canvas, a steel wire is stretched across the frame, but there is no mattress or sheets as there were in the Tombs. There is also a covered bucket in the lower corner, and a tin cup. The bars are strong, but nevertheless plenty of air and light come in from the large windows opposite our cells. Two small hand towels and a piece of scrubbing soap are added to our simple belongings.
The number of my cell is 23, the last one in our row, and on the second tier, which contains men who work in the tailor shop. The shops stand together, in a separate building between the prison and the river, on the Brooklyn side. The shops where they make brushes, shoes, beds, and the tailor and repair shops, are under one roof, and under the control of a contractor. In the shops all kinds of work are performed: repairing, cutting and making clothes for outgoing prisoners; there are machines turning out underwear and socks; mattresses are made, stuffed and sewn up. At one end of the large room a keeper sits on a platform, while another surveys it from the other end.
Although the prisoners are forbidden to talk, nevertheless they communicate as freely as if the rule did not exist. When I attempted to ask my neighbour a question, he hushed me up with a hissing noise—but he answered my question. His lips did not move, but I could hear him talk in a faint murmur which would have been inaudible ten paces away.
It is very hard at first to follow this new method of carrying on conversation, as in everyday life one is used to watching a man's eyes and lips while listening to his voice. But after a while the hearing becomes used to it and is trained to listen and catch these slightest sounds, which escape the untrained ear of the keeper.
The convicts never glance into the speaker's face or at his lips; they look straight ahead and talk in the manner of ventriloquists, but instead of using a loud and clear tone they whisper in a low murmur. Men who have passed years in jail can always be recognized by their monotonous, whispering manner and their almost expressionless faces. This form of speech is necessary in order to avoid punishment.
Under the pretext of helping me, a young convict comes over to my side of the shop. He shows me the intricate workings of the machine which turns out the uncut cloth for the prisoners. Later it is cut and fashioned into prison underwear.
On top of the machine the spools feed the thread incessantly. Care has to be taken not to use "sabotage" methods, as punishment is meted out unmercifully by the contractor, who seems to have as much power over us as the warden.