So we make arrangements by which he can be aided in this way, and I sit down to write a note relative to the matter, but am interrupted by breakfast.
As we march to breakfast I try my hand, or rather my throat, at motionless conversation. Wishing to get word to one of the prisoners to procure a certain definite piece of information about the Wednesday evening incident, I seize upon a favorable moment to communicate with Roger Landry, who is marching ahead of me. In the faintest whisper and without moving my lips, I say: “Cun to ny cell a’ter dreak’ast.” The ghost of a nod shows that he has heard and understood, and so we march in to our morning meal.
This time it is again hash, with the usual accompaniments—the rather sour bread and nasty coffee. (Whatever else changes, the bootleg remains the same.) The hash is better than that which we had for breakfast on—Wednesday, was it? I place aside only one piece of bone and one of gristle.
During the meal I look around more closely than I have previously done at the officers within my range of vision. There is one who wears a flannel shirt, and is so unshaven that he looks like a tramp. I’m glad I’m not under that Captain. At first I thought he was some one who had been drafted temporarily for duty, but I find he is one of the regular officers.
Here is an interesting psychological fact: that much as a man dislikes being treated as a slave, yet if he is to be so treated he wants his master to be the most efficient and best-looking master of the lot. I find myself comparing our Captain with this untidy-looking person in the flannel shirt, and having a distinct feeling of pride in the good looks and clean-cut appearance of our master. I know that if I were serving under that flannel-shirted and collarless officer I should have very little respect for myself and none for him. I don’t know who he is, and he may be one of the kindest and best tempered of men; but I would be willing to wager that the prisoners under his charge are difficult to handle. It does not speak well for the general discipline of the prison that such a breach of official decorum should be permitted. The officer’s cap on top of the unshaven face and the flannel shirt looks ridiculously out of place.
Soon after our return to the cells comes Landry, having understood perfectly my first attempt at convict conversation. I give him my message and he engages to see that it is delivered. As we are talking, another of the trusties passes by; and, before I can see who it is, a large sheet of paper is thrust under the door and the man is gone. I turn the paper over and on the other side is a most elaborate pencil sketch of myself, copied with extraordinary pains, apparently from some newspaper cut, and with it a slip of paper with this inscription: “Auburn Prison, September 30, 1913. To Hon. Thomas M. Osborne, Auburn, N. Y. As a memento of the days spent in our midst and sacrificed in our behalf. Auburn No. 31——.”
Arrived at the basket-shop and soon after Jack and I have started working, I have a bad attack of nausea. I was very thirsty at breakfast time and inadvertently drank some bootleg. That must be the reason. No human stomach, without practice, can stand that stuff. I keep on working, hoping the feeling will wear off, but it does not. Then I walk up and down energetically while we are waiting for a new stock of rattan, but that has no better effect. Jack is much concerned and insists upon appealing to the Captain, who promptly sends to the hospital for medicine. In the meantime I go to the large door in the rear of the shop with a hope of relief from the cause of disturbance, but am only partially successful. A young prisoner who is washing windows asks me if I would not like some hot water. Indeed I would, it is the very thing I want. So he goes and gets it. He is a good-looking lad, a Greek, with the appealing eyes I have noticed in some of the Italian prisoners. I drink large quantities of hot water and rest awhile before continuing my work. Jack and all the other men about me are most kind and solicitous for my comfort, and I have never seen a more ready and friendly expression of sympathy. It is worth being ill to experience it.
The young Greek keeps my jar of hot water filled as fast as I empty it, and even before the medicine arrives from the hospital I already feel better. I take a dose, however, and go to work again. By the time the morning work hours are over I am in shape to march back to the north wing, although for a moment at the bucket stands I feel as if I were about to keel over.
In my cell I slump into the chair. (I don’t think I have mentioned that the large chair which gave so much trouble on Tuesday night was replaced the next day by one of more manageable proportions.) I rest my head against the mattress, as it hangs over the bed, and feel ill for a few moments. But I take another dose of the Doctor’s medicine and by the time the march to dinner comes I feel better; so much better that, carefully avoiding the bootleg, I manage to make a fairly good meal.
The menu to-day consists of very excellent hot soup, cold salmon, and pickles. I avoid the salmon and pickles, passing them along to another man, and contenting myself with the soup and sour bread. This passing to others of what one does not want seems to be very general. As it has to be done without visible conversation it is a little difficult for the newcomer always to know what is expected of him, and I’m afraid I have not always disposed of my meal to the best advantage. I notice that Landry eats sparingly. As he has what might be called a semi-official position, I suspect that he reserves some of his gastronomic energies for the back pantry.