"I ain't powerful happy," returned Lem lugubriously. "This air the all-fired'st cave I ever been into. I 'low I'll never git used t' hit—leastways I air glad thet yo'-all come round t' talk. I ain't much on th' talk myse'f—I never could talk much, someways,—th' folks up my ways air all putty much thet-away—they don't any of 'em spill over with talkin'—'pears like they got so much to think about thet hit keeps their tongues stalled all th' time, most—but ef I can't say much—I air glad yo'-all come round, 'cause I like to heer yo' talk. Gawd'll Moughty! hit's powerful lonesome-like in heah."
"Sure," sympathized the convict. "It's lonesome'ern hell; but it ain't that altogether thet hurts a first-timer, Lutts—it's the gang of old-timers he's bound to meet inside every jail."
Lem smiled wearily, in a mirthless way, and delivered his short, eloquent gesture, implying acquiescence and approval, as he watched the convict's face with interest. Silently, Last Time produced a small tin box containing a bit of woolen rag and a tiny piece of flint, together with a button through which two cords passed through separate holes. Standing, he lifted his knee, placed the box thereon, and with dextrous skill started the button like an improvised buzz-saw against the flint. The spark flew and ignited the woolen rag. He then lighted his cigarette, replacing the box, and leaning his big shoulder against the bars, forced the smoke through his nostrils reflectively.
"I don't know what brought you here, Lutts—I ain't askin' you—it's none of my business—but I hope you don't come back here after your trial—it's the old-timers, like me, that the cul meets in jail that makes the criminals of this country. Just listen to that talk now—that ain't up-liftin', is it?—Sure not. Just hark to that swearing and them rabby songs—sure, that's all aginst the rules of the prison, but what can they do to stop it? Nothin'. They'd have to keep a bull at each door. The men are allowed to talk a little while to each other from their cells before the lights go out. They can't speak during the day—they got to let them talk some time or other in a place like this—if they didn't, they'd all go crazy—then where would the politicians and the prison contractors be?
"Then when these guys start in to talk, what do you hear? But there ain't much of that stuff comin' from the first-timers, Lutts—they're too thoughtful to-night—they ain't hard enough yet—but wait till they come back—very soon. If they do, they won't get any jobs when they get out, believe me—it's me that knows. What happens when a guard starts out to catch some of these cursers? A bull's got to be almost in front of his cell to be sure. And you take three hundred convicts with two-thirds of them cussin' all at the same time, and the echoes all jumbled up—he might as well try to take the ocean up in his arms—they get them—sometimes. When a bull slips up and starts along the tier, he don't no more than get started, when the guys that he's already passed gives out the signal and you won't hear a peep until the bull's gone down again—then they'll all give him the merry ha-ha, and cuss him for sneaking up. It's the people you meet here that makes the criminals, Lutts. I hope you don't come back here. If you do, you're gone—not that you want to be gone, but the world 'll sizzle you to a frazzle—they will want none of you—it's me that knows."
Lem was profoundly attentive. He pressed against the door and listened to the convict's words with growing interest. Last Time rolled another cigarette, manipulated the tinder-box, lighted up, and continued:
"It makes my gizzard ache," he said, "every time I see a first-timer. Their stories are all the same. If you'll listen, Lutts, I'll tear off nine rods of my own life, right at the spot, where I first got in jail."
"Once I had one of them good mothers—like everybody has or had. My daddy was killed in a mine, and my mother died three months later. They sent my little sister to an orphan asylum, and I went to work for a dairy-man for my board and clothes. I sure did sling the work—from four in the mornin' to eight at night, sometimes later. He fed me good enough, but the old stiff wouldn't give me a cent to spend—only two jits on Sunday to toss to the preacher. Course he didn't agree to give me any money, but if he had just a slipped me two bits on Saturday he could have squared my feelin'. I didn't kick out loud, and wouldn't a felt so bad at that if he had let me see my little sister once in a while. I begged him every month, but he turned me down cold."
"Well, I got to wantin' to see my sister so damn bad after a year that I swiped a set of single harness from the old guy. I kept them hid for two weeks, then I dug them up, sold them, and skated. I left a note tellin' ole Storman that I had gone West to make my fortune, like they say in books. Well, I see now that I hadn't ought to a stole the harness—I hadn't ought to a throwed that trick. Anyhow, them two months was the happiest I've seen since.
"When I left I meant to work for some one near the asylum who would pay me till I got money enough to pay for the harness and go back, as the old man had promised to pay me wages when I was eighteen, but I struck such luck that I forgot to go back; but I paid him for the harness—like a dub—and what did I get for it?