Chapter 47: Chum
I
THE ABLE BODIED MEN have been withdrawn to the shops, and only the old and decrepit remain in the cell-house. But even the light duties of assistant prove too difficult for the Swede. The guards insist that he is shamming. Every night he is placed in a strait-jacket, and gagged to stifle his groans. I protest against the mistreatment, and am cited to the office. The Deputy's desk is occupied by "Bighead," the officer of the hosiery department, now promoted to the position of Second Assistant Deputy. He greets me with a malicious grin. "I knew you wouldn't behave," he chuckles; "know you too damn well from the stockin' shop."
The gigantic Colonel, the new Deputy, loose-jointed and broad, strolls in with long, swinging step. He glances over the report against me. "Is that all?" he inquires of the guard, in cold, impassive voice.
"Yes, sir."
"Go back to your work, Berkman."
But in the afternoon, Officer "Bighead" struts into the cellhouse, in charge of the barber gang. As I take my turn in the first chair, the guard hastens toward me. "Get out of that chair," he commands. "It ain't your turn. You take that chair," pointing toward the second barber, a former boilermaker, dreaded by the men as a "butcher."
"It is my turn in this chair," I reply, keeping my seat.
"Dat so, Mr. Officer," the negro barber chimes in.
"Shut up!" the officer bellows. "Will you get out of that chair?" He advances toward me threateningly.
"I won't," I retort, looking him squarely in the eye.
Suppressed giggling passes along the waiting line. The keeper turns purple, and strides toward the office to report me.
II
"This is awful, Aleck. I'm so sorry you're locked up. You were in the right, too," "Coz" whispers at my cell "But never min', old boy," he smiles reassuringly, "you can count on me, all right. And you've got other friends. Here's a stiff some one sends you. He wants an answer right away. I'll call for it."
The note mystifies me. The large, bold writing is unfamiliar; I cannot identify the signature, "Jim M." The contents are puzzling. His sympathies are with me, the writer says. He has learned all the details of the trouble, and feels that I acted in the defense of my rights. It is an outrage to lock me up for resenting undeserved humiliation at the hands of an unfriendly guard; and he cannot bear to see me thus persecuted. My time is short, and the present trouble, if not corrected, may cause the loss of my commutation. He will immediately appeal to the Warden to do me justice; but he should like to hear from me before taking action.
I wonder at the identity of the writer. Evidently not a prisoner; intercession with the Warden would be out of the question. Yet I cannot account for any officer who would take this attitude, or employ such means of communicating with me.
Presently "Coz" saunters past the cell. "Got your answer ready?" he whispers.
"Who gave you the note, Coz?"
"I don't know if I should tell you."
"Of course you must tell me. I won't answer this note unless I know to whom I am writing."
"Well, Aleck," he hesitates, "he didn't say if I may tell you."
"Then better go and ask him first."
Considerable time elapses before "Coz" returns. From the delay I judge that the man is in a distant part of the institution, or not easily accessible. At last the kindly face of the Italian appears at the cell.
"It's all right, Aleck," he says.
"Who is he?" I ask impatiently.
"I'll bet you'll never guess."
"Tell me, then."
"Well, I'll tell you. He is not a screw."
"Can't be a prisoner?"
"No."
"Who, then?"
"He is a fine fellow, Aleck."
"Come now, tell me."
"He is a citizen. The foreman of the new shop."
"The weaving department?"
"That's the man. Here's another stiff from him. Answer at once."
III
Dear Mr. J. M.: