“Can’t you give instructions to all the officers to say nothing about it outside?” I ask.
“Certainly I can,” is the Warden’s reply; “and you know as well as I just how much good it would do. Here are a hundred officers; they might have the best intentions, but each one would have to confide it to his wife, and she to her dearest friend; and it would be all over town in less than two hours. You must remember that this is a very interesting performance, and you can’t keep it quiet. I’ll try it if you say so, but my belief is that it would be a mistake. You might better see to it that it gets into the newspapers in the shape you want, rather than let it leak out and be misrepresented, intentionally or otherwise.”
The Warden has the old newspaper man’s instinct, and reluctantly I have to admit that his view is correct. So without more ado I turn my attention to aiding the press to get what there is, and if possible get it straight. Fortunately the local representative of many important papers is more than usually careful and intelligent. I hand him a copy of my address of this morning and he gets to work. If we cannot have secrecy then let us have all the publicity we can. After all, the newspapers may interest people in my adventure, and thus stimulate an interest in Prison Reform. I am willing to waive my personal preferences if by so doing I can help forward the cause; especially as the satisfaction of my personal preferences is manifestly impossible.
After this I give attention to my private affairs which are arranged for the coming week. Strict orders are issued that no attempt be made to reach me with personal matters of any sort, except in a case of the most extreme importance. I am to be as completely shut off from the world, from my family and friends, as any regular prisoner. So when it comes to this point I begin to feel rather serious. I am aware of a certain sinking at the heart, doubtless a form of fear; the unknown always has terrors.
The plan determined upon with the Warden is that I shall be placed with the Idle Company for the first day or two—those poor fellows whom I have often seen in the prison yard during the past summer, taking their melancholy exercise by marching aimlessly up and down, and occasionally resting by sitting on their buckets; then along about the third day to go to one of the shops—which one to be determined later. But the Warden told me this afternoon that upon mentioning this plan to one of the officials he had protested. “I shouldn’t like to have Mr. Osborne put with that Idle Company. They’re the toughest bunch of fellows in the Prison.”
“That’s just what he wants,” was the Warden’s reply.
It is true, I do want to make acquaintance with the worst as well as the best; but I can’t help feeling just a trifle uneasy at the prospect of close relations with the toughest bunch in the Prison; to say nothing of my query as to just how the toughest bunch in the Prison is going to meet me. What will they be like at close range? And, if they do not look with favor upon my action, in what way will their resentment be shown? These questions keep rising to the surface. At the same time, I begin to be aware of an ache in one of my teeth where a filling came out some time ago. Luckily I did not say on just what day my term would begin, although of course I’ve had to-morrow in mind right along. If my toothache gets worse, I can wait over another day and have it attended to. Perhaps, on the whole it would be best to wait over another day. On the other hand, I have an idea that the toothache is nothing but plain cowardice.
As we sit down to dinner, I attempt to be jocular with my youngest. “Well, Golfer,” I remark; “this is my last good meal. To-morrow your father goes to prison for a week!”
“Hm!” responds the interesting youth, “it’ll do you good.”
I recover myself with some difficulty. “Now what in thunder do you mean by that?”