“I told the P. K. that I would wait until Grant came. I told him I hadn’t had enough of the jail yet.” At this delirious joke there is laughter loud and long. Then Number Four says,
“Ah, don’t go, Tom! We need you down here!”
“That’s so. Sure we do!” chimes in the voice of Number Two.
And then there is a murmur of assent along the line.
“Well, boys,” I say, “I’ll see about it. I shouldn’t have any supper now if I did go out, and I suppose this floor is as soft as any pine planks I’ve ever slept on. But if I am to stay, we must get better acquainted.”
“Sure!” sings out Number Four. “Let’s all tell what we would like for supper. What do you say, boys, to a nice, juicy beefsteak with fried potatoes?”
At this there is a general howl of jovial protest; loudest of all the poor lad in Cell Two, who has had nothing but bread and water for thirty-six hours, and who, to emphasize the fact of his coming from Boston, says something humorous about beans. The way these prisoners can joke in the face of their sufferings and privations has been a continual wonder to me.
It is not long before our talk turns in a new direction. The popularity of the prison officials is discussed. They all agree that the present Superintendent of Prisons is all right; that Warden Rattigan is square; and not only tends to his business but is on the level. Joe from Cell Four expresses his opinion that the treatment by the prisoners of the Warden when he first took office last summer was inexcusable. “That strike was a dirty deal,” he says. I am glad to hear about this, and Joe goes on to give me some interesting details. It was not due to the poor food, he declares, although that was the supposed cause. In reality, he assures me, the strike was instigated by some of the officers who had no use for Rattigan. They spread all manner of stories against him before he was appointed, and after he took office they deliberately egged on the convict ringleaders to strike and fairly pushed the men into it. This tallies with certain inside information I had at the time of the strike so I am not indisposed to believe it.
As we are still discussing these interesting matters, once more the faint sound of a key turning in a lock is heard and the opening of the outer door. This surely must be Grant. Steps come along the passage, and Joe makes a final appeal. “Say, don’t go, don’t go!” he whispers at the last moment. “Stick it out, Tom! Stick it out!”
That settles it. I remain. Joe has won the day, or at least the night.