“Come with me.”
For a moment I wonder what he would do if I refused. I should like to try; but reluctantly conclude it would be better not. I turn and get one last glimpse of Jack’s mournful face, as he stands at a distance with the pail of hot water which he has just secured. Waving my hand to him and stepping off in front of the officer, I make my way out of the shop in the face of its surprised inmates.
In this order we traverse the yard; and again, as on the day of my advent, I feel strangely conscious of many sharp eyes looking out from the various buildings. It is about half past three o’clock.
Just at the end of the south wing is a low building faced with stone, upon the ground floor of which is the jail office. The keeper who has me in charge guides me in and orders me to sit down. I do so. He then exchanges a few words with Captain Martin, who presides at the desk; hands him a yellow slip of paper and disappears up the yard toward the main building.
As I have said before, the one necessary virtue of prison life seems to be patience. I sit, and sit; and my sitting continues, as Mark Twain says about the circular staircase at Niagara Falls, “long after it has ceased to be a novelty and terminates long before it begins to be a pleasure.”
In the meantime, the members of the coal gang, returning from work to their cells in the south wing, pass by the door and, looking in, see me awaiting my doom. There is deep surprise on the faces of most of them. The young negro who offered me his mittens, the day we moved the coal cars—Tuesday morning, I think it was, but it seems a long time ago—gives me a cheering nod as he begins to climb the stairs. Then Captain Martin, noticing the attention I am attracting, shuts the door. But it is too late. Undoubtedly the wireless has flashed the message, “Tom Brown’s pinched,” into every nook and corner of the prison by this time.
At last the P. K. makes his appearance. He takes his seat with an assumption of great dignity in an arm chair; and I rise and stand silently before him. He examines at leisure the yellow slip of paper which Captain Martin has handed to him, and clears his throat. “Thomas Brown,” he begins, “you are reported for refusing to work”; and he looks up interrogatively.
“Yes, sir.”
“What have you to say for yourself?”
“Well, sir, the rattan has been so stiff and rotten that we couldn’t do good work, sir; and you can see for yourself that my fingers are getting swollen and blistered.”