There are two heavy cars of coal, it seems, to be moved up grade to the coal pile; and as the prison possesses no dummy or yard engine, this has to be done by hand labor. It seems singularly unintelligent to have things so arranged; but for the present it is all the better for me, as it serves well for exercise. A block and tackle is rigged up and we have repeated tugs of war, during which I get my hands very grimy and receive a number of friendly admonitions not to work too hard. There is also the offer on the part of a pleasant young negro to lend his leather mittens.
“Thank you,” I say, “but I think you need them more than I do.” (It was stupid of me not to give him the satisfaction of doing this slight service.)
The men on the coal gang, in view of their heavy and disagreeable work, are allowed to talk, it seems; and they certainly make good use of this privilege. There were several negroes among the lot, and they kept us all in roars of laughter. In fact it was as cheery and jolly a lot of fellows as one could find, joking about their work, and about their breakfast, and joshing each other in the best of tempers. While we were waiting to get things arranged for the second car, one of the men who works in our shop good naturedly disposed of much of his week’s allowance of chewing tobacco to the crowd.
During all these proceedings I stick pretty close to Murphy, both that I may make no mistakes, and because I am already getting to have a great liking for my sturdy partner. Yesterday I was on my guard with him and I think he was quietly sizing me up; but to-day there is an absence of restraint and a pleasant feeling of comradeship growing up between us, which is not lessened by the discovery that we both like fresh air and exercise. Poor fellow! he gets little enough of either. The forty minutes spent in the vigorous tugs of war with the coal cars start an agreeable glow of health and spirits in both of us.
After the coal job is finished I am for going back at once to the shop, which is close at hand, but Murphy halts me again. “Hold on, Brown, we can’t go back just yet.” It seems that we must again line up and be counted; then we are escorted by the officer temporarily in charge of us back into the shop, where we are once more counted before we return to our regular places.
In order to make up for lost time Murphy and I work steadily on our basket bottoms; he suggesting that we each watch the other’s work, to see whether we are keeping the sides even. A mistake is easier to notice across the table than in your own work closer at hand. My fault seems to be to pull the withes too tight, making the sides somewhat concave; while Murphy has just the opposite fault—he makes his sides too convex. So I watch his work and he watches mine, and all things go on very agreeably.
At one stage in the morning’s proceedings I forget where I am, for the moment, and begin to whistle; but a swift and warning look from Murphy startles me into silence.
“Look out,” he warns me, “whistling’s not allowed. You’ll get punished if you ain’t careful.”
“Is a whistling prisoner worse than a whistling girl?” I ask; but I see that my partner is not acquainted with the proverb, so I repeat it to him:
“Whistling girls, like crowing hens,
Always come to some bad ends.”