Porter: I saw that.
Jennings: The courts are helpless; they’ve got to open the vault, and they daren’t use dynamite for fear of destroying the papers. So there’s Jimmie’s chance.
Porter: You mean, they want him to open it?
Jennings: The warden asked me what I thought of the possibility. I said, “I’ll lay you a wager he’ll do it in less than thirty seconds by a stop-watch.” “Will he have to have tools?” he asked. “He don’t use tools,” I said; “he has a little trick.” “Will he consent to do it?” “I don’t know that,” I said. “The state of Ohio has never done much for him, you must admit.” I tried to bargain for a pardon. I said, “Here’s a man that’s been in prison most of his life, since he was ten years old. He’s dying of T. B.—had three hemorrhages in the hospital. Surely it won’t hurt the state of Ohio to let him die in his old mother’s arms.” The warden said, “Tell him I’ll ask the governor for a pardon, and I think I can get it—at least, the governor has never yet turned down a request from me.” What do you think, Bill?
Porter: Well, Jimmie’s a peculiar fellow, you know.
Jennings: What the men here call a “stir bug”; got the prison poison in his soul. But I know him better than anybody else; we were on the range together. Jimmie was an alley-rat, like me; when he was ten years old, he stole a loaf of bread or something, and they sent him to the reformatory; when he came out, eight years later, they had reformed him into a thoroughly qualified cracksman. Now he’s a third-time offender—habitual criminal they call it—all privileges denied—can’t write a letter or even get one, can’t see his poor old mother—hasn’t seen her for sixteen years—
Porter: That’s the ghastliest thing about it, Colonel.
Jennings: I know. The warden says he’s powerless; it’s the law of this august state of Ohio.
(Joe enters, right, from the hospital; he has his broom and cleaning rags, and approaches diffidently)
Porter: Well, Colonel, we on the inside see what you might describe as the seamy side of the law.