Part 39 (2/2)

The door sla, and the dull, heavy thuds of striking clubs A loud cry and a e, and down the stairway The rotunda door creaks, and the clamor dies away

A few h the pipes; insane solitaries bark and crow Loud coughing drowns the noises, and then the rotunda door opens with a plaintive screech

The rangero trusty dusts and brushes the officers, their hacks and arainst the wall

Their clothes cleaned and suards loll in the chairs, and sit on the desk They look soes upon the piquant gossip ”Wild Bill,” notorious invert and protege of the Warden, he relates, had been hanging around the kids fro shop; he has been after ”Fatty Bobby” for quite a while, and he's forever pestering ”Lady Sally,” and Young Davis, too The guards are astir with curiosity; they ply the negro with questions He responds eagerly, raises his voice, and gesticulates excitedly There is hter at the officers' desk

VI

Dinner hour is approaching Officer Gerst, in charge of the kitchen squad, enters the cell-house Behind hie wooden tubs filled with stearo trusty, his nostrils expanded and eyes glistening, sniffs the air, and announces with a grin: ”Dooke's mixchoor foh dinneh teh day!”

The scene becomes animated at the front Tables are noisily moved about, the tinplate rattles, and e ladle the soup is dished out fro rows The Deputy Warden flounces in, splutters sonored, and looks critically at the dinner pans He produces a pocket knife, and a a potato here, a bit of floating vegetable there Guard Hughes, his inspection of the cells coreedy eyes at the food He hovers about, waiting for the Deputy to leave The latter stands, hands dug into his pockets, short legs wide apart, scraggy beard keeping tihes winks at one of the kitchen men, and slinks into an open cell The prisoner fusses about, pretends to move the empty tubs out of the way, and then quickly snatches a pan of soup, and passes it to the guard Negro Jasper, alert and watchful, strolls by Woods, surreptitiously whispering The officer walks to the open cell and surprises the guard, his head thrown back, the large pan covering his face Woods sle and chuckle

”Chief Ji twelve years for e-bellied and whitecapped, he wears an air of prosperity and independence With swelling chest, sto, and hand wrapped in his dirty apron, the Chief walks leisurely along the cells, nodding and exchanging greetings He pauses at a door: it's Cell 9 A,--the ”Fat Kid” Jiainst the wall, his back toward the dinner tables; presently his hand steals between the bars Now and then he glances toward the front, and steps closer to the door He draws a large bundle from his bosom, hastily tears it open, and produces a piece of cooked meat, several raw onions, so prisoner, forcing thes between the bars He lifts his apron, fans the door sill, and carefully wipes the ironwork; then he srips the bars with both hands, and vanishes into the deep niche

As suddenly he appears to view again, takes several quick steps, then pauses at another cell Standing away frohs boisterously, his hands fu to the dinner tables He approaches the rangely, and winks The man nods affirmatively, and retreats into his cell The Chief dives into the bosoh the open door He holds out his hand, whispering: ”Two bits Broke now? Be sure you pay ong tolls the dinner hour The negro trusty snatches two pans, and hastens away The guards unlock the prisoners, excepting the men in solitary who are deprived of the sole le file, and advances slowly to the tables; then, pan in hand, the alleries, and are locked in their cells

The loud te in step, sounds from the yard

The shop workers enter, receive the pan of soup, and walk to the cells

Some sniff the air, make a wry face, and pass on, e

Gradually the sounds die away It is the noon hour Every prisoner is counted and locked in Only the trusties are about

VII

The afternoon brings a breath of relief ”Old Jih-spoken and kind, heads the second shi+ft of officers, on duty froes past the cells, stroking his flohite beard, and profusely swearing at the , and discourages trouble-seeking guards

Head doard, he thu the hall, on his first round of the bottoes Presently a voice hails him: ”Oh, Mr Mitchell! Come here, please”

”daes, ”don't you know better than to bother , eh? Shut up now, God damn you You've ins to count again, pointing his finger at each occupied cell This duty over, and his report filed, he returns to the offending prisoner

”What t' hell do you want, Butch?”

”Mr Mitchell,on , anyhow? To a ball?”

”Papa Mitchell, be good noon't you?” the youth coaxes