Prison Memoirs of an Anarchist Part 29

He ceases abruptly. His quick, short coughs warn me of danger.

Accompanied by the Deputy and the shop officer, the Warden is making the rounds of the machines, pausing here and there to examine the work, and listen to the request of a prisoner. The youthfully sparkling eyes present a striking contrast to the sedate manner and seamed features framed in grayish-white. Approaching the table, he greets us with a benign smile:

"Good morning, boys."

Casting a glance at my a.s.sistant, the Warden inquires: "Your time must be up soon, Red?"

"Been out and back again, Cap'n," the officer laughs.

"Yes, he is, hm, hm, back home." The thin feminine accents of the Deputy sound sarcastic.

"Didn't like it outside, Red?" the Warden sneers.

A flush darkens the face of the a.s.sistant. "There's more skunks out than in," he retorts.

The Captain frowns. The Deputy lifts a warning finger, but the Warden laughs lightly, and continues on his rounds.

We work in silence for a while. "Red" looks restive, his eyes stealthily following the departing officials. Presently he whispers:

"See me hand it to 'im, Aleck? He knows I'm on to 'im, all right. Didn't he look mad, though? Thought he'd burst. Sobered 'im up a bit. Pipe 'is lamps, kid?"

"Yes. Very bright eyes."

"Bright eyes your grandmother! Dope, that's what's th' matter. Think I'd get off as easy if he wasn't chuck full of th' stuff? I knowed it the minute I laid me eyes on 'im. I kin tell by them s.h.i.+nin' glimmers and that sick smile of his, when he's feelin' good; know th' signals, all right. Always feelin' fine when he's. .h.i.t th' pipe. That's th' time you kin get anythin' you wan' of 'im. Nex' time you see that smirk on 'im, hit 'im for some one t' give us a hand here; we's goin' t' be drowned in them socks, first thing you know."

"Yes, we need more help. Why didn't _you_ ask him?"

"Me? Me ask a favor o' the d.a.m.n swine? Not on your tintype! You don'

catch me to vouchsafe the high and mighty, sir, the opportunity--"

"All right, Red. I won't ask him, either."

"I don't give a d.a.m.n. For all I care, Aleck, and--well, confidentially speaking, sir, they may ensconce their precious hosiery in the infundibular dehiscence of his Nibs, which, if I may venture my humble opinion, young sir, is sufficiently generous in its expansiveness to disregard the rugosity of a stocking turned inside out, sir. Do you follow the argument, me bye?"

"With difficulty, Red," I reply, with a smile. "What are you really talking about? I do wish you'd speak plainer."

"You do, do you? An' mebbe you don't. Got to train you right; gradual, so to speak. It's me dooty to a prushun. But we'se got t' get help here.

I ain't goin' t' kill meself workin' like a n.i.g.g.e.r. I'll quit first. D'

you think--s-s-ss!"

The shop officer is returning. "d.a.m.n your impudence, Red," he shouts at the a.s.sistant. "Why don't you keep that tongue of yours in check?"

"Why, Mr. Cosson, what's th' trouble?"

"You know d.a.m.n well what's the trouble. You made the old man mad clean through. You ought t' know better'n that. He was nice as pie till you opened that big trap of yourn. Everythin' went wrong then. He gave me th' d.i.c.kens about that pile you got lyin' aroun' here. Why don't you take it over to th' loopers, Burk?"

"They have not been turned yet," I reply.

"What d' you say? Not turned!" he bristles. "What in h.e.l.l are you fellows doin', I'd like t' know."

"We're doin' more'n we should," "Red" retorts, defiantly.

"Shut up now, an' get a move on you."

"On that rotten grub they feed us?" the a.s.sistant persists.

"You better shut up, Red."

"Then give us some help."

"I will like h.e.l.l!"

The whistle sounds the dinner hour.

CHAPTER XIV

THE DIP

For a week "Boston Red" is absent from work. My best efforts seem ineffectual in the face of the increasing mountain of unturned hosiery, and the officer grows more irritable and insistent. But the fear of clogging the industrial wheel presently forces him to give me a.s.sistance, and a dapper young man, keen-eyed and nervous, takes the vacant place.

"He's a dip,"[40] Johnny Davis whispers to me. "A top-notcher," he adds, admiringly.

[40] Pickpocket.

I experience a tinge of resentment at the equality implied by the forced a.s.sociation. I have never before come in personal contact with a professional thief, and I entertain the vaguest ideas concerning his cla.s.s. But they are not producers; hence parasites who deliberately prey upon society, upon the poor, mostly. There can be nothing in common between me and this man.

The new helper's conscious superiority is provoking. His distant manner piques my curiosity. How unlike his scornful mien and proudly independent bearing is my youthful impression of a thief! Vividly I remember the red-headed Kolya, as he was taken from the cla.s.sroom by a fierce gendarme. The boys had been missing their lunches, and Kolya confessed the theft. We ran after the prisoner, and he hung his head and looked frightened, and so pale I could count each freckle on his face. He did not return to school, and I wondered what had become of him. The terror in his eyes haunted my dreams, the brown spots on his forehead shaping themselves into fiery letters, spelling the fearful word _vor_.[41]

[41] Thief.

"That's a snap," the helper's voice breaks in on my reverie. He speaks in well-modulated tones, the accents nasal and decided. "You needn't be afraid to talk," he adds, patronizingly.

"I am not afraid," I impatiently resent the insinuation. "Why should I be afraid of you?"

"Not of me; of the officer, I meant."

"I am not afraid of him, either."

"Well, then, let's talk about something. It will help while away the time, you know."

His cheerful friendliness smooths my ruffled temper. The correct English, in striking contrast with the peculiar language of my former a.s.sistant, surprises me.

"I am sorry," he continues, "they gave you such a long sentence, Mr.

Berkman, but--"