XXI
Archie sat by the trial table and looked out the window toward the east. The window from being black became gray again—gray clouds, a scumbled atmosphere of gray. When the jury came out of the box, after it was all over, a young clerk in the court-house rushed up to Menard and wrung his hand in enthusiastic, hysterical congratulation, as if Menard in the face of heavy opposition had done some brave and noble deed. And Archie wondered what he had ever done to this young clerk that he should so have it in for him. Then Marriott was at his side again, but he said nothing; he only took his hand.
“Well,” thought Archie, “there is one man left in the world who hasn’t got it in for me.” And yet there actually seemed to be Danner. For Danner bent over and whispered:
“Whenever you’re ready, Dutch, we’ll go back. Of course—no particular hurry, but when you’re ready.”
Archie wondered what Danner was up to now; usually he ordered them about like brutes, with curses.
“You’ll be wanting a bite of breakfast,” Danner was saying.
Breakfast! The word was strange. Were people still eating breakfast in this world, just as if nothing had happened, just as if things were as they used to be—before—before—what? Before he shot Kouka? No, there was nothing unusual about that; he didn’t care anything about Kouka. Before the penitentiary and the bull rings? Before the first time in the workhouse, when that break, that lapse, came into his life? But breakfast—they would be carrying the little pans about in the jail just now, and that brought the odor of coffee to his memory. Coffee would not be a bad thing.
“Any time,” he said to Danner.
Then they got up and walked away, through the gray morning.
In the jail, Danner instantly unlocked the handcuffs, and as he jostled Archie a little in opening the door, he said:
“Oh, excuse me, Dutch.”
What had got into Danner, anyway? Inside he wondered more. Danner said:
“You needn’t lock this morning; you can stay in the corridor, and I’ll have your breakfast sent in to you in a moment.”
Then Danner put up his big hand and whispered in Archie’s ear:
“I’ll see the cook and get her to sneak in a little cream and sugar for your coffee.”
Archie could not understand this, nor had he then time to wonder about it, for he was being turned into the prison, and there, he knew, his companions were waiting to know the news. Most of them were in their cells. Two of them, the English thief and Mosey—he could tell it was Mosey by the striped sweater—were standing in the far end of the corridor, but they did not even look. He caught a snatch of their conversation.
“What was the rap, the dip?”
“No, penny weightin’.”
They appeared to be talking indifferently and were no more curious—so one would say—than they would have been if some dinge had been vagged. And yet Archie knew that every motion, every word, every gesture of his was important. He tried to walk just as he had always walked. They waited till Archie was at his cell door, and then some one called in a tone of suspense that could be withheld no longer:
“What’s the word, Archie?”
“Touched off,” he called, loud enough for them all to hear. He spoke the words carelessly, almost casually, with great nonchalance. There was silence, sinister and profound. Then gradually the conversation was resumed between cell and cell; they were all calling out to him, all straining to be cheerful and encouraging.
“That mouthpiece of yours ’ll spring you yet,” some one said, “down below.”
Archie listened to their attempts to cheer him, all pathetic enough, until presently the English thief passed his door, and said in a low voice:
“Be gime, me boy.”
That was it! Be game! From this on, that must be his ideal of conduct. He knew how they would inquire, how some day Mason and old Dillon, how Gibbs and all the guns and yeggs would ask about this, how the old gang would ask about it—he must be game. He had made, he thought, a fair beginning.
Danner brought the breakfast himself, and good as his word he had got the cook to put some cream and sugar in his coffee. Not only this, but the cook had boiled him two eggs—and he hadn’t eaten eggs in months. The last time, he recalled, was when Curly had boiled some in a can—had Curly, over in another part of the prison, been told?
Archie thanked Danner and told him to thank the cook. And yet a wonder possessed him. He had never known kindness in a prison before, save among the prisoners themselves, and often they were cruel and mean to each other—like the rats and mission-stiffs who were always snitching and having them chalked and stood out. Here in this jail, he had never beheld any kindness, for notwithstanding the fact that nearly every one there was detained for a trial which was to establish his guilt or innocence, and the law had a theory that every one was to be presumed innocent until proved guilty, the sheriff and the jailers treated them all as if they were guilty, and as if it was their duty to assist in the punishment. But here was a man who had been declared guilty of a heinous crime, and was to receive the worst punishment man could bestow, and yet, suddenly, he was receiving every kindness, almost the first he had ever known, at least since he had grown up. Having done all they could to hurry him out of the world, men suddenly apologized by showering him with attention while he remained.
When he ate his breakfast Archie felt better,—Mr. Marriott would do something, he was sure; it was not possible that this thing could happen to him.
“Any of youse got the makin’s?” he called.
Instantly, all down the corridor on both sides, the cells’ voices rang:
“Here! Here! Archie! Here, have mine!”
“Mr. Marriott gave me a whole box yesterday, but I smoked ’em all up in the night!” he said.