In outward appearance he is, indeed, somewhat altered, since, at Pinkertown, his every-day suit was of fine Scotch tweed, and his Sunday attire of black broadcloth; while here, his secular and Sabbatical array is not only one and the same, but (queer freak of fancy!) it is parti-colored, red, yellow, and blue! Outside a prison a man's clothes do, more or less, affect his claim to favourable consideration. Behind the bars a less superficial standard holds. The elegant art of dress has been reduced to democratic simplicity.
For what saith "the Board?" "The convict's clothes are to be so calculated as to keep him warm."
They are not, let it be observed, to minister to his freakish taste, or to pamper his personal pride. Their sole purpose is "to keep him warm." Having thus defined the prison toilet, the worthy commissioners add—as an ethical afterthought—"they ought to be so arranged as to be considered a means of punishment." This seemingly original conception of the penal uses of clothes is not, however, peculiarly "the Board's," since, outside of prison circles, men's clothes are often "so arranged" by fashion as "to be considered a means of punishment." Be that as it may, Jehaziel Green, still true to himself, is no less Jehaziel, in red, yellow, and blue, than in gray or black.
In the prison, money is necessarily scarce; yet—under the rose—there is always a deal of swapping. Mr. Green hiding his accomplishments in the prison cabinet-making department, relieves the dull routine of existence by lively attention to that especial mode of traffic.
Purloining bits of plush, of damask, rosewood, and black walnut, and pilfering varnish and glue, he swaps these commodities,—much desired for inlaid boxes, picture frames, etc., by ingenious fellow convicts,—for fruit, tobacco, and other coveted luxuries. In process of time, the unique conception of establishing a "liquor concern" behind the bars dawns upon the alert mind of the ex-postmaster. For the furtherance of this bold scheme he subtracts, from time to time, small quantities of the alcohol, used in his shop for cabinet purposes, until, by unwearied effort, he has pilfered of this fiery liquid a sufficiency to set him up in trade. Under the circumstances, Mr. Green is compelled to transact by proxy; and Patrick Doniver, having been appointed his sole agent, is, to-night, "travelling for the Firm."
Let it not be supposed that our unmercenary runner is a salaried agent of the House of Green. Far from it! This risky service is not undertaken for filthy lucre; it is but a gratuitous kind office on the part of Mr. Doniver, mischievous enough to be undertaken for its own satisfying self—and its relish vastly enhanced by the good-natured reflection that "a bit of the crathur'll put a warrum linin' in 'em—poor sowls!" And a terrible warm lining, say we, would such a hot "crathur" impart! But Pat has anticipated us; for well aware that he is not catering for Salamanders, he does not once dream of subjecting Mr. Green's customers to "an ordeal by fire." Carefully diluting his alcohol with innocent water, he flavors it well with essence of peppermint,—saved up from a medicinal allotment for a bygone stomach-ache,—sweetens with molasses, and, adding a sup of vinegar from his private bottle, he produces a mixture which, if not delicious, is, undoubtedly, unique.
Having already disposed of several quarts of this mildly intoxicating beverage, Pat, recovered from his late apoplectic symptoms, prudently administers to himself, as a sedative, the balance of this rare "tap," and having, with many wry faces, drained his tin cup to the bitter dregs, composes himself to rest. On the ensuing morning several fresh patients are allowed to report themselves at hospital; and it is feared that an unfamiliar epidemic may prevail in the prison. Some half dozen convicts have been unaccountably attacked with severe vomiting, followed by extreme lassitude, and intense loathing of food. Pat Doniver is of the number, and is said to be very ill. These perplexing cases are vigorously treated by the mystified doctor, and, speedily yielding to his hit-or-miss prescriptions, the patients convalesce, and the alarm subsides. So also does the prison liquor business.
The residue of that fiery consignment,—harboured with great fear and trembling, in the innermost recesses of Mr. Doniver's straw mattress,—is, at the earliest opportunity, handed over to "the Firm;" Pat—transposing for the occasion a wise old saw—judiciously observes to his employer, that "it's a poor broth indade, that its own cook cannot drink!"
Jehaziel Green—impervious to the "sweet uses of adversity"—pilfered and swapped to the end of his prison chapter. Then, migrating to the far West, he became a prosperous wholesale grocer, and is said to have run for Congress. ("Why," queried the rural observer, "do the little rogues go to prison, and the big ones to Congress?")
After serving out his five years, Pat Doniver had the luck to be "taken on" again as hack man; and, as the outcome of his wild sleigh-ride, he lived, ever after, a wiser and a soberer man.