“I wonder who those guys are, rubbering around?” is my remark to Murphy, speaking in the vernacular, as we are working away. I was taking good care not to stare hard at them in my turn.
“They’re not looking at you, anyhow,” is Murphy’s report. I steal another glance and catch an intent, searching look from one of the visitors. I am just finishing off a basket bottom and have on eyeglasses of unusual shape—rather too fine for Tom Brown. I fear that the visitor may have spotted these. However, I return his stare insolently, with as much of the air of an old timer as I can muster on the spur of the moment. At the same instant I whisper some joke over to Murphy that makes him smile; and the guy moves on, staring at others of my shopmates in their turn.
“I guess he was after me, all right,” I remark to my partner, “and I’m afraid these infernal specs may have given me away.”
As a matter of fact the two visitors returned from the basket-shop again disappointed. One of them thought he had seen Tom Brown, but wasn’t quite sure. My identity seems to be sufficiently merged—so far as outsiders are concerned.
Toward the close of the afternoon my talk with my partner becomes more serious. In spite of the rules, newspapers seem to circulate here and are precious in proportion to their rarity. Some one hands a paper to Murphy, who passes it over to me; and I, after glancing over it, hand it back to him to be returned. The editor of this particular sheet, in commenting upon my adventure, expressed doubt as to the possibility of “the amateur convict” being able to get hold of the real life of the prison. This view makes me smile, under the circumstances, and I ask Murphy what he thinks about it. His reply is that there is no doubt of my being able to get all I want, and getting it straight.
“Well, I want to know all there is,” I lightly rejoin, “and I’m thinking of breaking the rules in some way before I get out of here, so as to be sent down to the punishment cells.”
A look of genuine concern comes over my partner’s face, and his voice sinks to an awestruck whisper. “Do you mean the jail?” he asks.
“Yes,” I answer; “I want to learn everything possible about this place, so I think I may as well spend at least one night in jail.”
“Well, you’d better be careful.” My partner speaks slowly and impressively. There can be no doubt of his sincerity; a glance at his earnest, troubled face settles that. “I went down to that place once,” he continues; “and I want to tell you—after eight hours of it I just caved right in! I told them that they could do anything they liked with me.”
“Was it so very bad?” I ask.