The Jacket

(The Star-Rover)

by Jack London

Contents

 CHAPTER I.
 CHAPTER II.
 CHAPTER III.
 CHAPTER IV.
 CHAPTER V.
 CHAPTER VI.
 CHAPTER VII.
 CHAPTER VIII.
 CHAPTER IX.
 CHAPTER X.
 CHAPTER XI.
 CHAPTER XII.
 CHAPTER XIII.
 CHAPTER XIV.
 CHAPTER XV.
 CHAPTER XVI.
 CHAPTER XVII.
 CHAPTER XVIII.
 CHAPTER XIX.
 CHAPTER XX.
 CHAPTER XXI.
 CHAPTER XXII.

CHAPTER I.

All my life I have had an awareness of other times and places. I have
been aware of other persons in me.—Oh, and trust me, so have you, my
reader that is to be. Read back into your childhood, and this sense of
awareness I speak of will be remembered as an experience of your
childhood. You were then not fixed, not crystallized. You were plastic,
a soul in flux, a consciousness and an identity in the process of
forming—ay, of forming and forgetting.

You have forgotten much, my reader, and yet, as you read these lines,
you remember dimly the hazy vistas of other times and places into which
your child eyes peered. They seem dreams to you to-day. Yet, if they
were dreams, dreamed then, whence the substance of them? Our dreams are
grotesquely compounded of the things we know. The stuff of our sheerest
dreams is the stuff of our experience. As a child, a wee child, you
dreamed you fell great heights; you dreamed you flew through the air as
things of the air fly; you were vexed by crawling spiders and
many-legged creatures of the slime; you heard other voices, saw other
faces nightmarishly familiar, and gazed upon sunrises and sunsets other
than you know now, looking back, you ever looked upon.

Very well. These child glimpses are of other-worldness, of
other-lifeness, of things that you had never seen in this particular
world of your particular life. Then whence? Other lives? Other worlds?
Perhaps, when you have read all that I shall write, you will have
received answers to the perplexities I have propounded to you, and that
you yourself, ere you came to read me, propounded to yourself.

Wordsworth knew. He was neither seer nor prophet, but just ordinary man
like you or any man. What he knew, you know, any man knows. But he most
aptly stated it in his passage that begins “Not in utter nakedness, not
in entire forgetfulness. . .”

Ah, truly, shades of the prison-house close about us, the new-born
things, and all too soon do we forget. And yet, when we were new-born
we did remember other times and places. We, helpless infants in arms or
creeping quadruped-like on the floor, dreamed our dreams of air-flight.
Yes; and we endured the torment and torture of nightmare fears of dim
and monstrous things. We new-born infants, without experience, were
born with fear, with memory of fear; and _memory is experience_.

As for myself, at the beginnings of my vocabulary, at so tender a
period that I still made hunger noises and sleep noises, yet even then
did I know that I had been a star-rover. Yes, I, whose lips had never
lisped the word “king,” remembered that I had once been the son of a
king. More—I remembered that once I had been a slave and a son of a
slave, and worn an iron collar round my neck.

Still more. When I was three, and four, and five years of age, I was
not yet I. I was a mere becoming, a flux of spirit not yet cooled solid
in the mould of my particular flesh and time and place. In that period
all that I had ever been in ten thousand lives before strove in me, and
troubled the flux of me, in the effort to incorporate itself in me and
become me.

Silly, isn’t it? But remember, my reader, whom I hope to have travel
far with me through time and space—remember, please, my reader, that I
have thought much on these matters, that through bloody nights and
sweats of dark that lasted years-long, I have been alone with my many
selves to consult and contemplate my many selves. I have gone through
the hells of all existences to bring you news which you will share with
me in a casual comfortable hour over my printed page.

So, to return, I say, during the ages of three and four and five, I was
not yet I. I was merely becoming as I took form in the mould of my
body, and all the mighty, indestructible past wrought in the mixture of
me to determine what the form of that becoming would be. It was not my
voice that cried out in the night in fear of things known, which I,
forsooth, did not and could not know. The same with my childish angers,
my loves, and my laughters. Other voices screamed through my voice, the
voices of men and women aforetime, of all shadowy hosts of progenitors.
And the snarl of my anger was blended with the snarls of beasts more
ancient than the mountains, and the vocal madness of my child hysteria,
with all the red of its wrath, was chorded with the insensate, stupid
cries of beasts pre-Adamic and progeologic in time.

And there the secret is out. The red wrath! It has undone me in this,
my present life. Because of it, a few short weeks hence, I shall be led
from this cell to a high place with unstable flooring, graced above by
a well-stretched rope; and there they will hang me by the neck until I
am dead. The red wrath always has undone me in all my lives; for the
red wrath is my disastrous catastrophic heritage from the time of the
slimy things ere the world was prime.

It is time that I introduce myself. I am neither fool nor lunatic. I
want you to know that, in order that you will believe the things I
shall tell you. I am Darrell Standing. Some few of you who read this
will know me immediately. But to the majority, who are bound to be
strangers, let me exposit myself. Eight years ago I was Professor of
Agronomics in the College of Agriculture of the University of
California. Eight years ago the sleepy little university town of
Berkeley was shocked by the murder of Professor Haskell in one of the
laboratories of the Mining Building. Darrell Standing was the murderer.

I am Darrell Standing. I was caught red-handed. Now the right and the
wrong of this affair with Professor Haskell I shall not discuss. It was
purely a private matter. The point is, that in a surge of anger,
obsessed by that catastrophic red wrath that has cursed me down the
ages, I killed my fellow professor. The court records show that I did;
and, for once, I agree with the court records.

No; I am not to be hanged for his murder. I received a life-sentence
for my punishment. I was thirty-six years of age at the time. I am now
forty-four years old. I have spent the eight intervening years in the
California State Prison of San Quentin. Five of these years I spent in
the dark. Solitary confinement, they call it. Men who endure it, call
it living death. But through these five years of death-in-life I
managed to attain freedom such as few men have ever known.
Closest-confined of prisoners, not only did I range the world, but I
ranged time. They who immured me for petty years gave to me, all
unwittingly, the largess of centuries. Truly, thanks to Ed Morrell, I
have had five years of star-roving. But Ed Morrell is another story. I
shall tell you about him a little later. I have so much to tell I
scarce know how to begin.

Well, a beginning. I was born on a quarter-section in Minnesota. My
mother was the daughter of an immigrant Swede. Her name was Hilda
Tonnesson. My father was Chauncey Standing, of old American stock. He
traced back to Alfred Standing, an indentured servant, or slave if you
please, who was transported from England to the Virginia plantations in
the days that were even old when the youthful Washington went
a-surveying in the Pennsylvania wilderness.

A son of Alfred Standing fought in the War of the Revolution; a
grandson, in the War of 1812. There have been no wars since in which
the Standings have not been represented. I, the last of the Standings,
dying soon without issue, fought as a common soldier in the
Philippines, in our latest war, and to do so I resigned, in the full
early ripeness of career, my professorship in the University of
Nebraska. Good heavens, when I so resigned I was headed for the
Deanship of the College of Agriculture in that university—I, the
star-rover, the red-blooded adventurer, the vagabondish Cain of the
centuries, the militant priest of remotest times, the moon-dreaming
poet of ages forgotten and to-day unrecorded in man’s history of man!

And here I am, my hands dyed red in Murderers’ Row, in the State Prison
of Folsom, awaiting the day decreed by the machinery of state when the
servants of the state will lead me away into what they fondly believe
is the dark—the dark they fear; the dark that gives them fearsome and
superstitious fancies; the dark that drives them, drivelling and
yammering, to the altars of their fear-created, anthropomorphic gods.

No; I shall never be Dean of any college of agriculture. And yet I knew
agriculture. It was my profession. I was born to it, reared to it,
trained to it; and I was a master of it. It was my genius. I can pick
the high-percentage butter-fat cow with my eye and let the Babcock
Tester prove the wisdom of my eye. I can look, not at land, but at
landscape, and pronounce the virtues and the shortcomings of the soil.
Litmus paper is not necessary when I determine a soil to be acid or
alkali. I repeat, farm-husbandry, in its highest scientific terms, was
my genius, and is my genius. And yet the state, which includes all the
citizens of the state, believes that it can blot out this wisdom of
mine in the final dark by means of a rope about my neck and the
abruptive jerk of gravitation—this wisdom of mine that was incubated
through the millenniums, and that was well-hatched ere the farmed
fields of Troy were ever pastured by the flocks of nomad shepherds!

Corn? Who else knows corn? There is my demonstration at Wistar, whereby
I increased the annual corn-yield of every county in Iowa by half a
million dollars. This is history. Many a farmer, riding in his
motor-car to-day, knows who made possible that motor-car. Many a
sweet-bosomed girl and bright-browed boy, poring over high-school
text-books, little dreams that I made that higher education possible by
my corn demonstration at Wistar.

And farm management! I know the waste of superfluous motion without
studying a moving picture record of it, whether it be farm or
farm-hand, the layout of buildings or the layout of the farm-hands’
labour. There is my handbook and tables on the subject. Beyond the
shadow of any doubt, at this present moment, a hundred thousand farmers
are knotting their brows over its spread pages ere they tap out their
final pipe and go to bed. And yet, so far was I beyond my tables, that
all I needed was a mere look at a man to know his predispositions, his
co-ordinations, and the index fraction of his motion-wastage.

And here I must close this first chapter of my narrative. It is nine
o’clock, and in Murderers’ Row that means lights out. Even now, I hear
the soft tread of the gum-shoed guard as he comes to censure me for my
coal-oil lamp still burning. As if the mere living could censure the
doomed to die!

CHAPTER II.

I am Darrell Standing. They are going to take me out and hang me pretty
soon. In the meantime I say my say, and write in these pages of the
other times and places.

After my sentence, I came to spend the rest of my “natural life” in the
prison of San Quentin. I proved incorrigible. An incorrigible is a
terrible human being—at least such is the connotation of “incorrigible”
in prison psychology. I became an incorrigible because I abhorred waste
motion. The prison, like all prisons, was a scandal and an affront of
waste motion. They put me in the jute-mill. The criminality of
wastefulness irritated me. Why should it not? Elimination of waste
motion was my speciality. Before the invention of steam or steam-driven
looms three thousand years before, I had rotted in prison in old
Babylon; and, trust me, I speak the truth when I say that in that
ancient day we prisoners wove more efficiently on hand-looms than did
the prisoners in the steam-powered loom-rooms of San Quentin.

The crime of waste was abhorrent. I rebelled. I tried to show the
guards a score or so of more efficient ways. I was reported. I was
given the dungeon and the starvation of light and food. I emerged and
tried to work in the chaos of inefficiency of the loom-rooms. I
rebelled. I was given the dungeon, plus the strait-jacket. I was
spread-eagled, and thumbed-up, and privily beaten by the stupid guards
whose totality of intelligence was only just sufficient to show them
that I was different from them and not so stupid.

Two years of this witless persecution I endured. It is terrible for a
man to be tied down and gnawed by rats. The stupid brutes of guards
were rats, and they gnawed the intelligence of me, gnawed all the fine
nerves of the quick of me and of the consciousness of me. And I, who in
my past have been a most valiant fighter, in this present life was no
fighter at all. I was a farmer, an agriculturist, a desk-tied
professor, a laboratory slave, interested only in the soil and the
increase of the productiveness of the soil.

I fought in the Philippines because it was the tradition of the
Standings to fight. I had no aptitude for fighting. It was all too
ridiculous, the introducing of disruptive foreign substances into the
bodies of little black men-folk. It was laughable to behold Science
prostituting all the might of its achievement and the wit of its
inventors to the violent introducing of foreign substances into the
bodies of black folk.

As I say, in obedience to the tradition of the Standings I went to war
and found that I had no aptitude for war. So did my officers find me
out, because they made me a quartermaster’s clerk, and as a clerk, at a
desk, I fought through the Spanish-American War.

So it was not because I was a fighter, but because I was a thinker,
that I was enraged by the motion-wastage of the loom-rooms and was
persecuted by the guards into becoming an “incorrigible.” One’s brain
worked and I was punished for its working. As I told Warden Atherton,
when my incorrigibility had become so notorious that he had me in on
the carpet in his private office to plead with me; as I told him then:

“It is so absurd, my dear Warden, to think that your rat-throttlers of
guards can shake out of my brain the things that are clear and definite
in my brain. The whole organization of this prison is stupid. You are a
politician. You can weave the political pull of San Francisco
saloon-men and ward heelers into a position of graft such as this one
you occupy; but you can’t weave jute. Your loom-rooms are fifty years
behind the times. . . .”

But why continue the tirade?—for tirade it was. I showed him what a
fool he was, and as a result he decided that I was a hopeless
incorrigible.

Give a dog a bad name—you know the saw. Very well. Warden Atherton gave
the final sanction to the badness of my name. I was fair game. More
than one convict’s dereliction was shunted off on me, and was paid for
by me in the dungeon on bread and water, or in being triced up by the
thumbs on my tip-toes for long hours, each hour of which was longer
than any life I have ever lived.

Intelligent men are cruel. Stupid men are monstrously cruel. The guards
and the men over me, from the Warden down, were stupid monsters.
Listen, and you shall learn what they did to me. There was a poet in
the prison, a convict, a weak-chinned, broad-browed, degenerate poet.
He was a forger. He was a coward. He was a snitcher. He was a
stool—strange words for a professor of agronomics to use in writing,
but a professor of agronomics may well learn strange words when pent in
prison for the term of his natural life.

This poet-forger’s name was Cecil Winwood. He had had prior
convictions, and yet, because he was a snivelling cur of a yellow dog,
his last sentence had been only for seven years. Good credits would
materially reduce this time. My time was life. Yet this miserable
degenerate, in order to gain several short years of liberty for
himself, succeeded in adding a fair portion of eternity to my own
lifetime term.

I shall tell what happened the other way around, for it was only after
a weary period that I learned. This Cecil Winwood, in order to curry
favour with the Captain of the Yard, and thence the Warden, the Prison
Directors, the Board of Pardons, and the Governor of California, framed
up a prison-break. Now note three things: (a) Cecil Winwood was so
detested by his fellow-convicts that they would not have permitted him
to bet an ounce of Bull Durham on a bed-bug race—and bed-bug racing was
a great sport with the convicts; (b) I was the dog that had been given
a bad name: (c) for his frame-up, Cecil Winwood needed the dogs with
bad names, the lifetimers, the desperate ones, the incorrigibles.

But the lifers detested Cecil Winwood, and, when he approached them
with his plan of a wholesale prison-break, they laughed at him and
turned away with curses for the stool that he was. But he fooled them
in the end, forty of the bitterest-wise ones in the pen. He approached
them again and again. He told of his power in the prison by virtue of
his being trusty in the Warden’s office, and because of the fact that
he had the run of the dispensary.

“Show me,” said Long Bill Hodge, a mountaineer doing life for train
robbery, and whose whole soul for years had been bent on escaping in
order to kill the companion in robbery who had turned state’s evidence
on him.

Cecil Winwood accepted the test. He claimed that he could dope the
guards the night of the break.

“Talk is cheap,” said Long Bill Hodge. “What we want is the goods. Dope
one of the guards to-night. There’s Barnum. He’s no good. He beat up
that crazy Chink yesterday in Bughouse Alley—when he was off duty, too.
He’s on the night watch. Dope him to-night an’ make him lose his job.
Show me, and we’ll talk business with you.”

All this Long Bill told me in the dungeons afterward. Cecil Winwood
demurred against the immediacy of the demonstration. He claimed that he
must have time in which to steal the dope from the dispensary. They
gave him the time, and a week later he announced that he was ready.
Forty hard-bitten lifers waited for the guard Barnum to go to sleep on
his shift. And Barnum did. He was found asleep, and he was discharged
for sleeping on duty.

Of course, that convinced the lifers. But there was the Captain of the
Yard to convince. To him, daily, Cecil Winwood was reporting the
progress of the break—all fancied and fabricated in his own
imagination. The Captain of the Yard demanded to be shown. Winwood
showed him, and the full details of the showing I did not learn until a
year afterward, so slowly do the secrets of prison intrigue leak out.

Winwood said that the forty men in the break, in whose confidence he
was, had already such power in the Prison that they were about to begin
smuggling in automatic pistols by means of the guards they had bought
up.

“Show me,” the Captain of the Yard must have demanded.

And the forger-poet showed him. In the Bakery, night work was a regular
thing. One of the convicts, a baker, was on the first night-shift. He
was a stool of the Captain of the Yard, and Winwood knew it.

“To-night,” he told the Captain, “Summerface will bring in a dozen ’44
automatics. On his next time off he’ll bring in the ammunition. But
to-night he’ll turn the automatics over to me in the bakery. You’ve got
a good stool there. He’ll make you his report to-morrow.”

Now Summerface was a strapping figure of a bucolic guard who hailed
from Humboldt County. He was a simple-minded, good-natured dolt and not
above earning an honest dollar by smuggling in tobacco for the
convicts. On that night, returning from a trip to San Francisco, he
brought in with him fifteen pounds of prime cigarette tobacco. He had
done this before, and delivered the stuff to Cecil Winwood. So, on that
particular night, he, all unwitting, turned the stuff over to Winwood
in the bakery. It was a big, solid, paper-wrapped bundle of innocent
tobacco. The stool baker, from concealment, saw the package delivered
to Winwood and so reported to the Captain of the Yard next morning.

But in the meantime the poet-forger’s too-lively imagination ran away
with him. He was guilty of a slip that gave me five years of solitary
confinement and that placed me in this condemned cell in which I now
write. And all the time I knew nothing about it. I did not even know of
the break he had inveigled the forty lifers into planning. I knew
nothing, absolutely nothing. And the rest knew little. The lifers did
not know he was giving them the cross. The Captain of the Yard did not
know that the cross was being worked on him. Summerface was the most
innocent of all. At the worst, his conscience could have accused him
only of smuggling in some harmless tobacco.

And now to the stupid, silly, melodramatic slip of Cecil Winwood. Next
morning, when he encountered the Captain of the Yard, he was
triumphant. His imagination took the bit in its teeth.

“Well, the stuff came in all right as you said,” the captain of the
Yard remarked.

“And enough of it to blow half the prison sky-high,” Winwood
corroborated.

“Enough of what?” the Captain demanded.

“Dynamite and detonators,” the fool rattled on. “Thirty-five pounds of
it. Your stool saw Summerface pass it over to me.”

And right there the Captain of the Yard must have nearly died. I can
actually sympathize with him—thirty-five pounds of dynamite loose in
the prison.

They say that Captain Jamie—that was his nickname—sat down and held his
head in his hands.

“Where is it now?” he cried. “I want it. Take me to it at once.”

And right there Cecil Winwood saw his mistake.

“I planted it,” he lied—for he was compelled to lie because, being
merely tobacco in small packages, it was long since distributed among
the convicts along the customary channels.

“Very well,” said Captain Jamie, getting himself in hand. “Lead me to
it at once.”

But there was no plant of high explosives to lead him to. The thing did
not exist, had never existed save in the imagination of the wretched
Winwood.

In a large prison like San Quentin there are always hiding-places for
things. And as Cecil Winwood led Captain Jamie he must have done some
rapid thinking.

As Captain Jamie testified before the Board of Directors, and as
Winwood also so testified, on the way to the hiding-place Winwood said
that he and I had planted the powder together.

And I, just released from five days in the dungeons and eighty hours in
the jacket; I, whom even the stupid guards could see was too weak to
work in the loom-room; I, who had been given the day off to
recuperate—from too terrible punishment—I was named as the one who had
helped hide the non-existent thirty-five pounds of high explosive!

Winwood led Captain Jamie to the alleged hiding-place. Of course they
found no dynamite in it.

“My God!” Winwood lied. “Standing has given me the cross. He’s lifted
the plant and stowed it somewhere else.”

The Captain of the Yard said more emphatic things than “My God!” Also,
on the spur of the moment but cold-bloodedly, he took Winwood into his
own private office, looked the doors, and beat him up frightfully—all
of which came out before the Board of Directors. But that was
afterward. In the meantime, even while he took his beating, Winwood
swore by the truth of what he had told.

What was Captain Jamie to do? He was convinced that thirty-five pounds
of dynamite were loose in the prison and that forty desperate lifers
were ready for a break. Oh, he had Summerface in on the carpet, and,
although Summerface insisted the package contained tobacco, Winwood
swore it was dynamite and was believed.

At this stage I enter or, rather, I depart, for they took me away out
of the sunshine and the light of day to the dungeons, and in the
dungeons and in the solitary cells, out of the sunshine and the light
of day, I rotted for five years.

I was puzzled. I had only just been released from the dungeons, and was
lying pain-racked in my customary cell, when they took me back to the
dungeon.

“Now,” said Winwood to Captain Jamie, “though we don’t know where it
is, the dynamite is safe. Standing is the only man who does know, and
he can’t pass the word out from the dungeon. The men are ready to make
the break. We can catch them red-handed. It is up to me to set the
time. I’ll tell them two o’clock to-night and tell them that, with the
guards doped, I’ll unlock their cells and give them their automatics.
If, at two o’clock to-night, you don’t catch the forty I shall name
with their clothes on and wide awake, then, Captain, you can give me
solitary for the rest of my sentence. And with Standing and the forty
tight in the dungeons, we’ll have all the time in the world to locate
the dynamite.”

“If we have to tear the prison down stone by stone,” Captain Jamie
added valiantly.

That was six years ago. In all the intervening time they have never
found that non-existent explosive, and they have turned the prison
upside-down a thousand times in searching for it. Nevertheless, to his
last day in office Warden Atherton believed in the existence of that
dynamite. Captain Jamie, who is still Captain of the Yard, believes to
this day that the dynamite is somewhere in the prison. Only yesterday,
he came all the way up from San Quentin to Folsom to make one more
effort to get me to reveal the hiding-place. I know he will never
breathe easy until they swing me off.

CHAPTER III.

All that day I lay in the dungeon cudgelling my brains for the reason
of this new and inexplicable punishment. All I could conclude was that
some stool had lied an infraction of the rules on me in order to curry
favour with the guards.

Meanwhile Captain Jamie fretted his head off and prepared for the
night, while Winwood passed the word along to the forty lifers to be
ready for the break. And two hours after midnight every guard in the
prison was under orders. This included the day-shift which should have
been asleep. When two o’clock came, they rushed the cells occupied by
the forty. The rush was simultaneous. The cells were opened at the same
moment, and without exception the men named by Winwood were found out
of their bunks, fully dressed, and crouching just inside their doors.
Of course, this was verification absolute of all the fabric of lies
that the poet-forger had spun for Captain Jamie. The forty lifers were
caught in red-handed readiness for the break. What if they did unite,
afterward, in averring that the break had been planned by Winwood? The
Prison Board of Directors believed, to a man, that the forty lied in an
effort to save themselves. The Board of Pardons likewise believed, for,
ere three months were up, Cecil Winwood, forger and poet, most
despicable of men, was pardoned out.

Oh, well, the stir, or the pen, as they call it in convict argot, is a
training school for philosophy. No inmate can survive years of it
without having had burst for him his fondest illusions and fairest
metaphysical bubbles. Truth lives, we are taught; murder will out.
Well, this is a demonstration that murder does not always come out. The
Captain of the Yard, the late Warden Atherton, the Prison Board of
Directors to a man—all believe, right now, in the existence of that
dynamite that never existed save in the slippery-geared and all
too-accelerated brain of the degenerate forger and poet, Cecil Winwood.
And Cecil Winwood still lives, while I, of all men concerned, the
utterest, absolutist, innocentest, go to the scaffold in a few short
weeks.

And now I must tell how entered the forty lifers upon my dungeon
stillness. I was asleep when the outer door to the corridor of dungeons
clanged open and aroused me. “Some poor devil,” was my thought; and my
next thought was that he was surely getting his, as I listened to the
scuffling of feet, the dull impact of blows on flesh, the sudden cries
of pain, the filth of curses, and the sounds of dragging bodies. For,
you see, every man was man-handled all the length of the way.

Dungeon-door after dungeon-door clanged open, and body after body was
thrust in, flung in, or dragged in. And continually more groups of
guards arrived with more beaten convicts who still were being beaten,
and more dungeon-doors were opened to receive the bleeding frames of
men who were guilty of yearning after freedom.

Yes, as I look back upon it, a man must be greatly a philosopher to
survive the continual impact of such brutish experiences through the
years and years. I am such a philosopher. I have endured eight years of
their torment, and now, in the end, failing to get rid of me in all
other ways, they have invoked the machinery of state to put a rope
around my neck and shut off my breath by the weight of my body. Oh, I
know how the experts give expert judgment that the fall through the
trap breaks the victim’s neck. And the victims, like Shakespeare’s
traveller, never return to testify to the contrary. But we who have
lived in the stir know of the cases that are hushed in the prison
crypts, where the victim’s necks are not broken.

It is a funny thing, this hanging of a man. I have never seen a
hanging, but I have been told by eye-witnesses the details of a dozen
hangings so that I know what will happen to me. Standing on the trap,
leg-manacled and arm-manacled, the knot against the neck, the black cap
drawn, they will drop me down until the momentum of my descending
weight is fetched up abruptly short by the tautening of the rope. Then
the doctors will group around me, and one will relieve another in
successive turns in standing on a stool, his arms passed around me to
keep me from swinging like a pendulum, his ear pressed close to my
chest, while he counts my fading heart-beats. Sometimes twenty minutes
elapse after the trap is sprung ere the heart stops beating. Oh, trust
me, they make most scientifically sure that a man is dead once they get
him on a rope.

I still wander aside from my narrative to ask a question or two of
society. I have a right so to wander and so to question, for in a
little while they are going to take me out and do this thing to me. If
the neck of the victim be broken by the alleged shrewd arrangement of
knot and noose, and by the alleged shrewd calculation of the weight of
the victim and the length of slack, then why do they manacle the arms
of the victim? Society, as a whole, is unable to answer this question.
But I know why; so does any amateur who ever engaged in a lynching bee
and saw the victim throw up his hands, clutch the rope, and ease the
throttle of the noose about his neck so that he might breathe.

Another question I will ask of the smug, cotton-wooled member of
society, whose soul has never strayed to the red hells. Why do they put
the black cap over the head and the face of the victim ere they drop
him through the trap? Please remember that in a short while they will
put that black cap over my head. So I have a right to ask. Do they,
your hang-dogs, O smug citizen, do these your hang-dogs fear to gaze
upon the facial horror of the horror they perpetrate for you and ours
and at your behest?

Please remember that I am not asking this question in the
twelve-hundredth year after Christ, nor in the time of Christ, nor in
the twelve-hundredth year before Christ. I, who am to be hanged this
year, the nineteen-hundred-and-thirteenth after Christ, ask these
questions of you who are assumably Christ’s followers, of you whose
hang-dogs are going to take me out and hide my face under a black cloth
because they dare not look upon the horror they do to me while I yet
live.

And now back to the situation in the dungeons. When the last guard
departed and the outer door clanged shut, all the forty beaten,
disappointed men began to talk and ask questions. But, almost
immediately, roaring like a bull in order to be heard, Skysail Jack, a
giant sailor of a lifer, ordered silence while a census could be taken.
The dungeons were full, and dungeon by dungeon, in order of dungeons,
shouted out its quota to the roll-call. Thus, every dungeon was
accounted for as occupied by trusted convicts, so that there was no
opportunity for a stool to be hidden away and listening.

Of me, only, were the convicts dubious, for I was the one man who had
not been in the plot. They put me through a searching examination. I
could but tell them how I had just emerged from dungeon and jacket in
the morning, and without rhyme or reason, so far as I could discover,
had been put back in the dungeon after being out only several hours. My
record as an incorrigible was in my favour, and soon they began to
talk.

As I lay there and listened, for the first time I learned of the break
that had been a-hatching. “Who had squealed?” was their one quest, and
throughout the night the quest was pursued. The quest for Cecil Winwood
was vain, and the suspicion against him was general.

“There’s only one thing, lads,” Skysail Jack finally said. “It’ll soon
be morning, and then they’ll take us out and give us bloody hell. We
were caught dead to rights with our clothes on. Winwood crossed us and
squealed. They’re going to get us out one by one and mess us up.
There’s forty of us. Any lyin’s bound to be found out. So each lad,
when they sweat him, just tells the truth, the whole truth, so help him
God.”

And there, in that dark hole of man’s inhumanity, from dungeon cell to
dungeon cell, their mouths against the gratings, the two-score lifers
solemnly pledged themselves before God to tell the truth.

Little good did their truth-telling do them. At nine o’clock the
guards, paid bravoes of the smug citizens who constitute the state,
full of meat and sleep, were upon us. Not only had we had no breakfast,
but we had had no water. And beaten men are prone to feverishness. I
wonder, my reader, if you can glimpse or guess the faintest connotation
of a man beaten—“beat up,” we prisoners call it. But no, I shall not
tell you. Let it suffice to know that these beaten, feverish men lay
seven hours without water.

At nine the guards arrived. There were not many of them. There was no
need for many, because they unlocked only one dungeon at a time. They
were equipped with pick-handles—a handy tool for the “disciplining” of
a helpless man. One dungeon at a time, and dungeon by dungeon, they
messed and pulped the lifers. They were impartial. I received the same
pulping as the rest. And this was merely the beginning, the preliminary
to the examination each man was to undergo alone in the presence of the
paid brutes of the state. It was the forecast to each man of what each
man might expect in inquisition hall.

I have been through most of the red hells of prison life, but, worst of
all, far worse than what they intend to do with me in a short while,
was the particular hell of the dungeons in the days that followed.

Long Bill Hodge, the hard-bitten mountaineer, was the first man
interrogated. He came back two hours later—or, rather, they conveyed
him back, and threw him on the stone of his dungeon floor. They then
took away Luigi Polazzo, a San Francisco hoodlum, the first native
generation of Italian parentage, who jeered and sneered at them and
challenged them to wreak their worst upon him.

It was some time before Long Bill Hodge mastered his pain sufficiently
to be coherent.

“What about this dynamite?” he demanded. “Who knows anything about
dynamite?”

And of course nobody knew, although it had been the burden of the
interrogation put to him.

Luigi Polazzo came back in a little less than two hours, and he came
back a wreck that babbled in delirium and could give no answer to the
questions showered upon him along the echoing corridor of dungeons by
the men who were yet to get what he had got, and who desired greatly to
know what things had been done to him and what interrogations had been
put to him.

Twice again in the next forty-eight hours Luigi was taken out and
interrogated. After that, a gibbering imbecile, he went to live in
Bughouse Alley. He has a strong constitution. His shoulders are broad,
his nostrils wide, his chest is deep, his blood is pure; he will
continue to gibber in Bughouse Alley long after I have swung off and
escaped the torment of the penitentiaries of California.

Man after man was taken away, one at a time, and the wrecks of men were
brought back, one by one, to rave and howl in the darkness. And as I
lay there and listened to the moaning and the groaning, and all the
idle chattering of pain-addled wits, somehow, vaguely reminiscent, it
seemed to me that somewhere, some time, I had sat in a high place,
callous and proud, and listened to a similar chorus of moaning and
groaning. Afterwards, as you shall learn, I identified this
reminiscence and knew that the moaning and the groaning was of the
sweep-slaves manacled to their benches, which I heard from above, on
the poop, a soldier passenger on a galley of old Rome. That was when I
sailed for Alexandria, a captain of men, on my way to Jerusalem . . .
but that is a story I shall tell you later. In the meanwhile . . . .

CHAPTER IV.

In the meanwhile obtained the horror of the dungeons, after the
discovery of the plot to break prison. And never, during those eternal
hours of waiting, was it absent from my consciousness that I should
follow these other convicts out, endure the hells of inquisition they
endured, and be brought back a wreck and flung on the stone floor of my
stone-walled, iron-doored dungeon.

They came for me. Ungraciously and ungently, with blow and curse, they
haled me forth, and I faced Captain Jamie and Warden Atherton,
themselves arrayed with the strength of half a dozen state-bought,
tax-paid brutes of guards who lingered in the room to do any bidding.
But they were not needed.

“Sit down,” said Warden Atherton, indicating a stout arm-chair.

I, beaten and sore, without water for a night long and a day long,
faint with hunger, weak from a beating that had been added to five days
in the dungeon and eighty hours in the jacket, oppressed by the
calamity of human fate, apprehensive of what was to happen to me from
what I had seen happen to the others—I, a wavering waif of a human man
and an erstwhile professor of agronomy in a quiet college town, I
hesitated to accept the invitation to sit down.

Warden Atherton was a large man and a very powerful man. His hands
flashed out to a grip on my shoulders. I was a straw in his strength.
He lifted me clear of the floor and crashed me down in the chair.

“Now,” he said, while I gasped and swallowed my pain, “tell me all
about it, Standing. Spit it out—all of it, if you know what’s healthy
for you.”

“I don’t know anything about what has happened . . .”, I began.

That was as far as I got. With a growl and a leap he was upon me. Again
he lifted me in the air and crashed me down into the chair.

“No nonsense, Standing,” he warned. “Make a clean breast of it. Where
is the dynamite?”

“I don’t know anything of any dynamite,” I protested.

Once again I was lifted and smashed back into the chair.

I have endured tortures of various sorts, but when I reflect upon them
in the quietness of these my last days, I am confident that no other
torture was quite the equal of that chair torture. By my body that
stout chair was battered out of any semblance of a chair. Another chair
was brought, and in time that chair was demolished. But more chairs
were brought, and the eternal questioning about the dynamite went on.

When Warden Atherton grew tired, Captain Jamie relieved him; and then
the guard Monohan took Captain Jamie’s place in smashing me down into
the chair. And always it was dynamite, dynamite, “Where is the
dynamite?” and there was no dynamite. Why, toward the last I would have
given a large portion of my immortal soul for a few pounds of dynamite
to which I could confess.

I do not know how many chairs were broken by my body. I fainted times
without number, and toward the last the whole thing became nightmarish.
I was half-carried, half-shoved and dragged back to the dark. There,
when I became conscious, I found a stool in my dungeon. He was a
pallid-faced, little dope-fiend of a short-timer who would do anything
to obtain the drug. As soon as I recognized him I crawled to the
grating and shouted out along the corridor:

“There is a stool in with me, fellows! He’s Ignatius Irvine! Watch out
what you say!”

The outburst of imprecations that went up would have shaken the
fortitude of a braver man than Ignatius Irvine. He was pitiful in his
terror, while all about him, roaring like beasts, the pain-racked
lifers told him what awful things they would do to him in the years
that were to come.

Had there been secrets, the presence of a stool in the dungeons would
have kept the men quiet. As it was, having all sworn to tell the truth,
they talked openly before Ignatius Irvine. The one great puzzle was the
dynamite, of which they were as much in the dark as was I. They
appealed to me. If I knew anything about the dynamite they begged me to
confess it and save them all from further misery. And I could tell them
only the truth, that I knew of no dynamite.

One thing the stool told me, before the guards removed him, showed how
serious was this matter of the dynamite. Of course, I passed the word
along, which was that not a wheel had turned in the prison all day. The
thousands of convict-workers had remained locked in their cells, and
the outlook was that not one of the various prison-factories would be
operated again until after the discovery of some dynamite that somebody
had hidden somewhere in the prison.

And ever the examination went on. Ever, one at a time, convicts were
dragged away and dragged or carried back again. They reported that
Warden Atherton and Captain Jamie, exhausted by their efforts, relieved
each other every two hours. While one slept, the other examined. And
they slept in their clothes in the very room in which strong man after
strong man was being broken.

And hour by hour, in the dark dungeons, our madness of torment grew.
Oh, trust me as one who knows, hanging is an easy thing compared with
the way live men may be hurt in all the life of them and still live. I,
too, suffered equally with them from pain and thirst; but added to my
suffering was the fact that I remained conscious to the sufferings of
the others. I had been an incorrigible for two years, and my nerves and
brain were hardened to suffering. It is a frightful thing to see a
strong man broken. About me, at the one time, were forty strong men
being broken. Ever the cry for water went up, and the place became
lunatic with the crying, sobbing, babbling and raving of men in
delirium.

Don’t you see? Our truth, the very truth we told, was our damnation.
When forty men told the same things with such unanimity, Warden
Atherton and Captain Jamie could only conclude that the testimony was a
memorized lie which each of the forty rattled off parrot-like.

From the standpoint of the authorities, their situation was as
desperate as ours. As I learned afterward, the Board of Prison
Directors had been summoned by telegraph, and two companies of state
militia were being rushed to the prison.

It was winter weather, and the frost is sometimes shrewd even in a
California winter. We had no blankets in the dungeons. Please know that
it is very cold to stretch bruised human flesh on frosty stone. In the
end they did give us water. Jeering and cursing us, the guards ran in
the fire-hoses and played the fierce streams on us, dungeon by dungeon,
hour after hour, until our bruised flesh was battered all anew by the
violence with which the water smote us, until we stood knee-deep in the
water which we had raved for and for which now we raved to cease.

I shall skip the rest of what happened in the dungeons. In passing I
shall merely state that no one of those forty lifers was ever the same
again. Luigi Polazzo never recovered his reason. Long Bill Hodge slowly
lost his sanity, so that a year later, he, too, went to live in
Bughouse Alley. Oh, and others followed Hodge and Polazzo; and others,
whose physical stamina had been impaired, fell victims to
prison-tuberculosis. Fully 25 per cent. of the forty have died in the
succeeding six years.

After my five years in solitary, when they took me away from San
Quentin for my trial, I saw Skysail Jack. I could see little, for I was
blinking in the sunshine like a bat, after five years of darkness; yet
I saw enough of Skysail Jack to pain my heart. It was in crossing the
Prison Yard that I saw him. His hair had turned white. He was
prematurely old. His chest had caved in. His cheeks were sunken. His
hands shook as with palsy. He tottered as he walked. And his eyes
blurred with tears as he recognized me, for I, too, was a sad wreck of
what had once been a man. I weighed eighty-seven pounds. My hair,
streaked with gray, was a five-years’ growth, as were my beard and
moustache. And I, too, tottered as I walked, so that the guards helped
to lead me across that sun-blinding patch of yard. And Skysail Jack and
I peered and knew each other under the wreckage.

Men such as he are privileged, even in a prison, so that he dared an
infraction of the rules by speaking to me in a cracked and quavering
voice.

“You’re a good one, Standing,” he cackled. “You never squealed.”

“But I never knew, Jack,” I whispered back—I was compelled to whisper,
for five years of disuse had well-nigh lost me my voice. “I don’t think
there ever was any dynamite.”

“That’s right,” he cackled, nodding his head childishly. “Stick with
it. Don’t ever let’m know. You’re a good one. I take my hat off to you,
Standing. You never squealed.”

And the guards led me on, and that was the last I saw of Skysail Jack.
It was plain that even he had become a believer in the dynamite myth.

Twice they had me before the full Board of Directors. I was alternately
bullied and cajoled. Their attitude resolved itself into two
propositions. If I delivered up the dynamite, they would give me a
nominal punishment of thirty days in the dungeon and then make me a
trusty in the prison library. If I persisted in my stubbornness and did
not yield up the dynamite, then they would put me in solitary for the
rest of my sentence. In my case, being a life prisoner, this was
tantamount to condemning me to solitary confinement for life.

Oh, no; California is civilized. There is no such law on the statute
books. It is a cruel and unusual punishment, and no modern state would
be guilty of such a law. Nevertheless, in the history of California I
am the third man who has been condemned for life to solitary
confinement. The other two were Jake Oppenheimer and Ed Morrell. I
shall tell you about them soon, for I rotted with them for years in the
cells of silence.

Oh, another thing. They are going to take me out and hang me in a
little while—no, not for killing Professor Haskell. I got
life-imprisonment for that. They are going to take me out and hang me
because I was found guilty of assault and battery. And this is not
prison discipline. It is law, and as law it will be found in the
criminal statutes.

I believe I made a man’s nose bleed. I never saw it bleed, but that was
the evidence. Thurston, his name was. He was a guard at San Quentin. He
weighed one hundred and seventy pounds and was in good health. I
weighed under ninety pounds, was blind as a bat from the long darkness,
and had been so long pent in narrow walls that I was made dizzy by
large open spaces. Really, mime was a well-defined case of incipient
agoraphobia, as I quickly learned that day I escaped from solitary and
punched the guard Thurston on the nose.

I struck him on the nose and made it bleed when he got in my way and
tried to catch hold of me. And so they are going to hang me. It is the
written law of the State of California that a lifetimer like me is
guilty of a capital crime when he strikes a prison guard like Thurston.
Surely, he could not have been inconvenienced more than half an hour by
that bleeding nose; and yet they are going to hang me for it.

And, see! This law, in my case, is _ex post facto_. It was not a law at
the time I killed Professor Haskell. It was not passed until after I
received my life-sentence. And this is the very point: my life-sentence
gave me my status under this law which had not yet been written on the
books. And it is because of my status of lifetimer that I am to be
hanged for battery committed on the guard Thurston. It is clearly _ex
post facto_, and, therefore, unconstitutional.

But what bearing has the Constitution on constitutional lawyers when
they want to put the notorious Professor Darrell Standing out of the
way? Nor do I even establish the precedent with my execution. A year
ago, as everybody who reads the newspapers knows, they hanged Jake
Oppenheimer, right here in Folsom, for a precisely similar offence . .
. only, in his case of battery, he was not guilty of making a guard’s
nose bleed. He cut a convict unintentionally with a bread-knife.

It is strange—life and men’s ways and laws and tangled paths. I am
writing these lines in the very cell in Murderers’ Row that Jake
Oppenheimer occupied ere they took him out and did to him what they are
going to do to me.

I warned you I had many things to write about. I shall now return to my
narrative. The Board of Prison Directors gave me my choice: a prison
trustyship and surcease from the jute-looms if I gave up the
non-existent dynamite; life imprisonment in solitary if I refused to
give up the non-existent dynamite.

They gave me twenty-four hours in the jacket to think it over. Then I
was brought before the Board a second time. What could I do? I could
not lead them to the dynamite that was not. I told them so, and they
told me I was a liar. They told me I was a hard case, a dangerous man,
a moral degenerate, the criminal of the century. They told me many
other things, and then they carried me away to the solitary cells. I
was put into Number One cell. In Number Five lay Ed Morrell. In Number
Twelve lay Jake Oppenheimer. And he had been there for ten years. Ed
Morrell had been in his cell only one year. He was serving a
fifty-years’ sentence. Jake Oppenheimer was a lifer. And so was I a
lifer. Wherefore the outlook was that the three of us would remain
there for a long time. And yet, six years only are past, and not one of
us is in solitary. Jake Oppenheimer was swung off. Ed Morrell was made
head trusty of San Quentin and then pardoned out only the other day.
And here I am in Folsom waiting the day duly set by Judge Morgan, which
will be my last day.

The fools! As if they could throttle my immortality with their clumsy
device of rope and scaffold! I shall walk, and walk again, oh,
countless times, this fair earth. And I shall walk in the flesh, be
prince and peasant, savant and fool, sit in the high place and groan
under the wheel.

CHAPTER V.

It was very lonely, at first, in solitary, and the hours were long.
Time was marked by the regular changing of the guards, and by the
alternation of day and night. Day was only a little light, but it was
better than the all-dark of the night. In solitary the day was an ooze,
a slimy seepage of light from the bright outer world.

Never was the light strong enough to read by. Besides, there was
nothing to read. One could only lie and think and think. And I was a
lifer, and it seemed certain, if I did not do a miracle, make
thirty-five pounds of dynamite out of nothing, that all the years of my
life would be spent in the silent dark.

My bed was a thin and rotten tick of straw spread on the cell floor.
One thin and filthy blanket constituted the covering. There was no
chair, no table—nothing but the tick of straw and the thin, aged
blanket. I was ever a short sleeper and ever a busy-brained man. In
solitary one grows sick of oneself in his thoughts, and the only way to
escape oneself is to sleep. For years I had averaged five hours’ sleep
a night. I now cultivated sleep. I made a science of it. I became able
to sleep ten hours, then twelve hours, and, at last, as high as
fourteen and fifteen hours out of the twenty-four. But beyond that I
could not go, and, perforce, was compelled to lie awake and think and
think. And that way, for an active-brained man, lay madness.

I sought devices to enable me mechanically to abide my waking hours. I
squared and cubed long series of numbers, and by concentration and will
carried on most astonishing geometric progressions. I even dallied with
the squaring of the circle . . . until I found myself beginning to
believe that that possibility could be accomplished. Whereupon,
realizing that there, too, lay madness, I forwent the squaring of the
circle, although I assure you it required a considerable sacrifice on
my part, for the mental exercise involved was a splendid time-killer.

By sheer visualization under my eyelids I constructed chess-boards and
played both sides of long games through to checkmate. But when I had
become expert at this visualized game of memory the exercise palled on
me. Exercise it was, for there could be no real contest when the same
player played both sides. I tried, and tried vainly, to split my
personality into two personalities and to pit one against the other.
But ever I remained the one player, with no planned ruse or strategy on
one side that the other side did not immediately apprehend.

And time was very heavy and very long. I played games with flies, with
ordinary house-flies that oozed into solitary as did the dim gray
light; and learned that they possessed a sense of play. For instance,
lying on the cell floor, I established an arbitrary and imaginary line
along the wall some three feet above the floor. When they rested on the
wall above this line they were left in peace. The instant they lighted
on the wall below the line I tried to catch them. I was careful never
to hurt them, and, in time, they knew as precisely as did I where ran
the imaginary line. When they desired to play, they lighted below the
line, and often for an hour at a time a single fly would engage in the
sport. When it grew tired, it would come to rest on the safe territory
above.

Of the dozen or more flies that lived with me, there was only one who
did not care for the game. He refused steadfastly to play, and, having
learned the penalty of alighting below the line, very carefully avoided
the unsafe territory. That fly was a sullen, disgruntled creature. As
the convicts would say, it had a “grouch” against the world. He never
played with the other flies either. He was strong and healthy, too; for
I studied him long to find out. His indisposition for play was
temperamental, not physical.

Believe me, I knew all my flies. It was surprising to me the multitude
of differences I distinguished between them. Oh, each was distinctly an
individual—not merely in size and markings, strength, and speed of
flight, and in the manner and fancy of flight and play, of dodge and
dart, of wheel and swiftly repeat or wheel and reverse, of touch and go
on the danger wall, or of feint the touch and alight elsewhere within
the zone. They were likewise sharply differentiated in the minutest
shades of mentality and temperament.

I knew the nervous ones, the phlegmatic ones. There was a little
undersized one that would fly into real rages, sometimes with me,
sometimes with its fellows. Have you ever seen a colt or a calf throw
up its heels and dash madly about the pasture from sheer excess of
vitality and spirits? Well, there was one fly—the keenest player of
them all, by the way—who, when it had alighted three or four times in
rapid succession on my taboo wall and succeeded each time in eluding
the velvet-careful swoop of my hand, would grow so excited and jubilant
that it would dart around and around my head at top speed, wheeling,
veering, reversing, and always keeping within the limits of the narrow
circle in which it celebrated its triumph over me.

Why, I could tell well in advance when any particular fly was making up
its mind to begin to play. There are a thousand details in this one
matter alone that I shall not bore you with, although these details did
serve to keep me from being bored too utterly during that first period
in solitary. But one thing I must tell you. To me it is most
memorable—the time when the one with a grouch, who never played,
alighted in a moment of absent-mindedness within the taboo precinct and
was immediately captured in my hand. Do you know, he sulked for an hour
afterward.

And the hours were very long in solitary; nor could I sleep them all
away; nor could I while them away with house-flies, no matter how
intelligent. For house-flies are house-flies, and I was a man, with a
man’s brain; and my brain was trained and active, stuffed with culture
and science, and always geared to a high tension of eagerness to do.
And there was nothing to do, and my thoughts ran abominably on in vain
speculations. There was my pentose and methyl-pentose determination in
grapes and wines to which I had devoted my last summer vacation at the
Asti Vineyards. I had all but completed the series of experiments. Was
anybody else going on with it, I wondered; and if so, with what
success?

You see, the world was dead to me. No news of it filtered in. The
history of science was making fast, and I was interested in a thousand
subjects. Why, there was my theory of the hydrolysis of casein by
trypsin, which Professor Walters had been carrying out in his
laboratory. Also, Professor Schleimer had similarly been collaborating
with me in the detection of phytosterol in mixtures of animal and
vegetable fats. The work surely was going on, but with what results?
The very thought of all this activity just beyond the prison walls and
in which I could take no part, of which I was never even to hear, was
maddening. And in the meantime I lay there on my cell floor and played
games with house-flies.

And yet all was not silence in solitary. Early in my confinement I used
to hear, at irregular intervals, faint, low tappings. From farther away
I also heard fainter and lower tappings. Continually these tappings
were interrupted by the snarling of the guard. On occasion, when the
tapping went on too persistently, extra guards were summoned, and I
knew by the sounds that men were being strait-jacketed.

The matter was easy of explanation. I had known, as every prisoner in
San Quentin knew, that the two men in solitary were Ed Morrell and Jake
Oppenheimer. And I knew that these were the two men who tapped
knuckle-talk to each other and were punished for so doing.

That the code they used was simple I had not the slightest doubt, yet I
devoted many hours to a vain effort to work it out. Heaven knows—it had
to be simple, yet I could not make head nor tail of it. And simple it
proved to be, when I learned it; and simplest of all proved the trick
they employed which had so baffled me. Not only each day did they
change the point in the alphabet where the code initialled, but they
changed it every conversation, and, often, in the midst of a
conversation.

Thus, there came a day when I caught the code at the right initial,
listened to two clear sentences of conversation, and, the next time
they talked, failed to understand a word. But that first time!

“Say—Ed—what—would—you—give—right—now—for—brown—papers—and—a—sack—of—
Bull—Durham!” asked the one who tapped from farther away.

I nearly cried out in my joy. Here was communication! Here was
companionship! I listened eagerly, and the nearer tapping, which I
guessed must be Ed Morrell’s, replied:

“I—would—do—twenty—hours—strait—in—the—jacket—for—a—five—cent—sack—”

Then came the snarling interruption of the guard: “Cut that out,
Morrell!”

It may be thought by the layman that the worst has been done to men
sentenced to solitary for life, and therefore that a mere guard has no
way of compelling obedience to his order to cease tapping.

But the jacket remains. Starvation remains. Thirst remains.
Man-handling remains. Truly, a man pent in a narrow cell is very
helpless.

So the tapping ceased, and that night, when it was next resumed, I was
all at sea again. By pre-arrangement they had changed the initial
letter of the code. But I had caught the clue, and, in the matter of
several days, occurred again the same initialment I had understood. I
did not wait on courtesy.

“Hello,” I tapped

“Hello, stranger,” Morrell tapped back; and, from Oppenheimer, “Welcome
to our city.”

They were curious to know who I was, how long I was condemned to
solitary, and why I had been so condemned. But all this I put to the
side in order first to learn their system of changing the code initial.
After I had this clear, we talked. It was a great day, for the two
lifers had become three, although they accepted me only on probation.
As they told me long after, they feared I might be a stool placed there
to work a frame-up on them. It had been done before, to Oppenheimer,
and he had paid dearly for the confidence he reposed in Warden
Atherton’s tool.

To my surprise—yes, to my elation be it said—both my fellow-prisoners
knew me through my record as an incorrigible. Even into the living
grave Oppenheimer had occupied for ten years had my fame, or notoriety,
rather, penetrated.

I had much to tell them of prison happenings and of the outside world.
The conspiracy to escape of the forty lifers, the search for the
alleged dynamite, and all the treacherous frame-up of Cecil Winwood was
news to them. As they told me, news did occasionally dribble into
solitary by way of the guards, but they had had nothing for a couple of
months. The present guards on duty in solitary were a particularly bad
and vindictive set.

Again and again that day we were cursed for our knuckle talking by
whatever guard was on. But we could not refrain. The two of the living
dead had become three, and we had so much to say, while the manner of
saying it was exasperatingly slow and I was not so proficient as they
at the knuckle game.

“Wait till Pie-Face comes on to-night,” Morrell rapped to me. “He
sleeps most of his watch, and we can talk a streak.”

How we did talk that night! Sleep was farthest from our eyes. Pie-Face
Jones was a mean and bitter man, despite his fatness; but we blessed
that fatness because it persuaded to stolen snatches of slumber.
Nevertheless our incessant tapping bothered his sleep and irritated him
so that he reprimanded us repeatedly. And by the other night guards we
were roundly cursed. In the morning all reported much tapping during
the night, and we paid for our little holiday; for, at nine, came
Captain Jamie with several guards to lace us into the torment of the
jacket. Until nine the following morning, for twenty-four straight
hours, laced and helpless on the floor, without food or water, we paid
the price for speech.

Oh, our guards were brutes! And under their treatment we had to harden
to brutes in order to live. Hard work makes calloused hands. Hard
guards make hard prisoners. We continued to talk, and, on occasion, to
be jacketed for punishment. Night was the best time, and, when
substitute guards chanced to be on, we often talked through a whole
shift.

Night and day were one with us who lived in the dark. We could sleep
any time, we could knuckle-talk only on occasion. We told one another
much of the history of our lives, and for long hours Morrell and I have
lain silently, while steadily, with faint, far taps, Oppenheimer slowly
spelled out his life-story, from the early years in a San Francisco
slum, through his gang-training, through his initiation into all that
was vicious, when as a lad of fourteen he served as night messenger in
the red light district, through his first detected infraction of the
laws, and on and on through thefts and robberies to the treachery of a
comrade and to red slayings inside prison walls.

They called Jake Oppenheimer the “Human Tiger.” Some cub reporter
coined the phrase that will long outlive the man to whom it was
applied. And yet I ever found in Jake Oppenheimer all the cardinal
traits of right humanness. He was faithful and loyal. I know of the
times he has taken punishment in preference to informing on a comrade.
He was brave. He was patient. He was capable of self-sacrifice—I could
tell a story of this, but shall not take the time. And justice, with
him, was a passion. The prison-killings done by him were due entirely
to this extreme sense of justice. And he had a splendid mind. A
lifetime in prison, ten years of it in solitary, had not dimmed his
brain.

Morrell, ever a true comrade, too had a splendid brain. In fact, and I
who am about to die have the right to say it without incurring the
charge of immodesty, the three best minds in San Quentin from the
Warden down were the three that rotted there together in solitary. And
here at the end of my days, reviewing all that I have known of life, I
am compelled to the conclusion that strong minds are never docile. The
stupid men, the fearful men, the men ungifted with passionate rightness
and fearless championship—these are the men who make model prisoners. I
thank all gods that Jake Oppenheimer, Ed Morrell, and I were not model
prisoners.

CHAPTER VI.

There is more than the germ of truth in things erroneous in the child’s
definition of memory as the thing one forgets with. To be able to
forget means sanity. Incessantly to remember, means obsession, lunacy.
So the problem I faced in solitary, where incessant remembering strove
for possession of me, was the problem of forgetting. When I gamed with
flies, or played chess with myself, or talked with my knuckles, I
partially forgot. What I desired was entirely to forget.

There were the boyhood memories of other times and places—the “trailing
clouds of glory” of Wordsworth. If a boy had had these memories, were
they irretrievably lost when he had grown to manhood? Could this
particular content of his boy brain be utterly eliminated? Or were
these memories of other times and places still residual, asleep,
immured in solitary in brain cells similarly to the way I was immured
in a cell in San Quentin?

Solitary life-prisoners have been known to resurrect and look upon the
sun again. Then why could not these other-world memories of the boy
resurrect?

But how? In my judgment, by attainment of complete forgetfulness of
present and of manhood past.

And again, how? Hypnotism should do it. If by hypnotism the conscious
mind were put to sleep, and the subconscious mind awakened, then was
the thing accomplished, then would all the dungeon doors of the brain
be thrown wide, then would the prisoners emerge into the sunshine.

So I reasoned—with what result you shall learn. But first I must tell
how, as a boy, I had had these other-world memories. I had glowed in
the clouds of glory I trailed from lives aforetime. Like any boy, I had
been haunted by the other beings I had been at other times. This had
been during my process of becoming, ere the flux of all that I had ever
been had hardened in the mould of the one personality that was to be
known by men for a few years as Darrell Standing.

Let me narrate just one incident. It was up in Minnesota on the old
farm. I was nearly six years old. A missionary to China, returned to
the United States and sent out by the Board of Missions to raise funds
from the farmers, spent the night in our house. It was in the kitchen
just after supper, as my mother was helping me undress for bed, and the
missionary was showing photographs of the Holy Land.

And what I am about to tell you I should long since have forgotten had
I not heard my father recite it to wondering listeners so many times
during my childhood.

I cried out at sight of one of the photographs and looked at it, first
with eagerness, and then with disappointment. It had seemed of a sudden
most familiar, in much the same way that my father’s barn would have
been in a photograph. Then it had seemed altogether strange. But as I
continued to look the haunting sense of familiarity came back.

“The Tower of David,” the missionary said to my mother.

“No!” I cried with great positiveness.

“You mean that isn’t its name?” the missionary asked.

I nodded.

“Then what is its name, my boy?”

“It’s name is . . .” I began, then concluded lamely, “I, forget.”

“It don’t look the same now,” I went on after a pause. “They’ve ben
fixin’ it up awful.”

Here the missionary handed to my mother another photograph he had
sought out.

“I was there myself six months ago, Mrs. Standing.” He pointed with his
finger. “That is the Jaffa Gate where I walked in and right up to the
Tower of David in the back of the picture where my finger is now. The
authorities are pretty well agreed on such matters. El Kul’ah, as it
was known by—”

But here I broke in again, pointing to rubbish piles of ruined masonry
on the left edge of the photograph.

“Over there somewhere,” I said. “That name you just spoke was what the
Jews called it. But we called it something else. We called it . . . I
forget.”

“Listen to the youngster,” my father chuckled. “You’d think he’d ben
there.”

I nodded my head, for in that moment I knew I had been there, though
all seemed strangely different. My father laughed the harder, but the
missionary thought I was making game of him. He handed me another
photograph. It was just a bleak waste of a landscape, barren of trees
and vegetation, a shallow canyon with easy-sloping walls of rubble. In
the middle distance was a cluster of wretched, flat-roofed hovels.

“Now, my boy, where is that?” the missionary quizzed.

And the name came to me!

“Samaria,” I said instantly.

My father clapped his hands with glee, my mother was perplexed at my
antic conduct, while the missionary evinced irritation.

“The boy is right,” he said. “It is a village in Samaria. I passed
through it. That is why I bought it. And it goes to show that the boy
has seen similar photographs before.”

This my father and mother denied.

“But it’s different in the picture,” I volunteered, while all the time
my memory was busy reconstructing the photograph. The general trend of
the landscape and the line of the distant hills were the same. The
differences I noted aloud and pointed out with my finger.

“The houses was about right here, and there was more trees, lots of
trees, and lots of grass, and lots of goats. I can see ’em now, an’ two
boys drivin’ ’em. An’ right here is a lot of men walkin’ behind one
man. An’ over there”—I pointed to where I had placed my village—“is a
lot of tramps. They ain’t got nothin’ on exceptin’ rags. An’ they’re
sick. Their faces, an’ hands, an’ legs is all sores.”

“He’s heard the story in church or somewhere—you remember, the healing
of the lepers in Luke,” the missionary said with a smile of
satisfaction. “How many sick tramps are there, my boy?”

I had learned to count to a hundred when I was five years old, so I
went over the group carefully and announced:

“Ten of ’em. They’re all wavin’ their arms an’ yellin’ at the other
men.”

“But they don’t come near them?” was the query.

I shook my head. “They just stand right there an’ keep a-yellin’ like
they was in trouble.”

“Go on,” urged the missionary. “What next? What’s the man doing in the
front of the other crowd you said was walking along?”

“They’ve all stopped, an’ he’s sayin’ something to the sick men. An’
the boys with the goats ’s stopped to look. Everybody’s lookin’.”

“And then?”

“That’s all. The sick men are headin’ for the houses. They ain’t
yellin’ any more, an’ they don’t look sick any more. An’ I just keep
settin’ on my horse a-lookin’ on.”

At this all three of my listeners broke into laughter.

“An’ I’m a big man!” I cried out angrily. “An’ I got a big sword!”

“The ten lepers Christ healed before he passed through Jericho on his
way to Jerusalem,” the missionary explained to my parents. “The boy has
seen slides of famous paintings in some magic lantern exhibition.”

But neither father nor mother could remember that I had ever seen a
magic lantern.

“Try him with another picture,” father suggested.

“It’s all different,” I complained as I studied the photograph the
missionary handed me. “Ain’t nothin’ here except that hill and them
other hills. This ought to be a country road along here. An’ over there
ought to be gardens, an’ trees, an’ houses behind big stone walls. An’
over there, on the other side, in holes in the rocks ought to be where
they buried dead folks. You see this place?—they used to throw stones
at people there until they killed ’m. I never seen ’m do it. They just
told me about it.”

“And the hill?” the missionary asked, pointing to the central part of
the print, for which the photograph seemed to have been taken. “Can you
tell us the name of the hill?”

I shook my head.

“Never had no name. They killed folks there. I’ve seem ’m more ’n
once.”

“This time he agrees with the majority of the authorities,” announced
the missionary with huge satisfaction. “The hill is Golgotha, the Place
of Skulls, or, as you please, so named because it resembles a skull.
Notice the resemblance. That is where they crucified—” He broke off and
turned to me. “Whom did they crucify there, young scholar? Tell us what
else you see.”

Oh, I saw—my father reported that my eyes were bulging; but I shook my
head stubbornly and said:

“I ain’t a-goin’ to tell you because you’re laughin’ at me. I seen lots
an’ lots of men killed there. They nailed ’em up, an’ it took a long
time. I seen—but I ain’t a-goin’ to tell. I don’t tell lies. You ask
dad an’ ma if I tell lies. He’d whale the stuffin’ out of me if I did.
Ask ’m.”

And thereat not another word could the missionary get from me, even
though he baited me with more photographs that sent my head whirling
with a rush of memory-pictures and that urged and tickled my tongue
with spates of speech which I sullenly resisted and overcame.

“He will certainly make a good Bible scholar,” the missionary told
father and mother after I had kissed them good-night and departed for
bed. “Or else, with that imagination, he’ll become a successful
fiction-writer.”

Which shows how prophecy can go agley. I sit here in Murderers’ Row,
writing these lines in my last days, or, rather, in Darrell Standing’s
last days ere they take him out and try to thrust him into the dark at
the end of a rope, and I smile to myself. I became neither Bible
scholar nor novelist. On the contrary, until they buried me in the
cells of silence for half a decade, I was everything that the
missionary forecasted not—an agricultural expert, a professor of
agronomy, a specialist in the science of the elimination of waste
motion, a master of farm efficiency, a precise laboratory scientist
where precision and adherence to microscopic fact are absolute
requirements.

And I sit here in the warm afternoon, in Murderers’ Row, and cease from
the writing of my memoirs to listen to the soothing buzz of flies in
the drowsy air, and catch phrases of a low-voiced conversation between
Josephus Jackson, the negro murderer on my right, and Bambeccio, the
Italian murderer on my left, who are discussing, through grated door to
grated door, back and forth past my grated door, the antiseptic virtues
and excellences of chewing tobacco for flesh wounds.

And in my suspended hand I hold my fountain pen, and as I remember that
other hands of me, in long gone ages, wielded ink-brush, and quill, and
stylus, I also find thought-space in time to wonder if that missionary,
when he was a little lad, ever trailed clouds of glory and glimpsed the
brightness of old star-roving days.

Well, back to solitary, after I had learned the code of knuckle-talk
and still found the hours of consciousness too long to endure. By
self-hypnosis, which I began successfully to practise, I became able to
put my conscious mind to sleep and to awaken and loose my subconscious
mind. But the latter was an undisciplined and lawless thing. It
wandered through all nightmarish madness, without coherence, without
continuity of scene, event, or person.

My method of mechanical hypnosis was the soul of simplicity. Sitting
with folded legs on my straw-mattress, I gazed fixedly at a fragment of
bright straw which I had attached to the wall of my cell near the door
where the most light was. I gazed at the bright point, with my eyes
close to it, and tilted upward till they strained to see. At the same
time I relaxed all the will of me and gave myself to the swaying
dizziness that always eventually came to me. And when I felt myself
sway out of balance backward, I closed my eyes and permitted myself to
fall supine and unconscious on the mattress.

And then, for half-an-hour, ten minutes, or as long as an hour or so, I
would wander erratically and foolishly through the stored memories of
my eternal recurrence on earth. But times and places shifted too
swiftly. I knew afterward, when I awoke, that I, Darrell Standing, was
the linking personality that connected all bizarreness and
grotesqueness. But that was all. I could never live out completely one
full experience, one point of consciousness in time and space. My
dreams, if dreams they may be called, were rhymeless and reasonless.

Thus, as a sample of my rovings: in a single interval of fifteen
minutes of subconsciousness I have crawled and bellowed in the slime of
the primeval world and sat beside Haas—further and cleaved the
twentieth century air in a gas-driven monoplane. Awake, I remembered
that I, Darrell Standing, in the flesh, during the year preceding my
incarceration in San Quentin, had flown with Haas further over the
Pacific at Santa Monica. Awake, I did not remember the crawling and the
bellowing in the ancient slime. Nevertheless, awake, I reasoned that
somehow I had remembered that early adventure in the slime, and that it
was a verity of long-previous experience, when I was not yet Darrell
Standing but somebody else, or something else that crawled and
bellowed. One experience was merely more remote than the other. Both
experiences were equally real—or else how did I remember them?

Oh, what a fluttering of luminous images and actions! In a few short
minutes of loosed subconsciousness I have sat in the halls of kings,
above the salt and below the salt, been fool and jester, man-at-arms,
clerk and monk; and I have been ruler above all at the head of the
table—temporal power in my own sword arm, in the thickness of my castle
walls, and the numbers of my fighting men; spiritual power likewise
mine by token of the fact that cowled priests and fat abbots sat
beneath me and swigged my wine and swined my meat.

I have worn the iron collar of the serf about my neck in cold climes;
and I have loved princesses of royal houses in the tropic-warmed and
sun-scented night, where black slaves fanned the sultry air with fans
of peacock plumes, while from afar, across the palm and fountains,
drifted the roaring of lions and the cries of jackals. I have crouched
in chill desert places warming my hands at fires builded of camel’s
dung; and I have lain in the meagre shade of sun-parched sage-brush by
dry water-holes and yearned dry-tongued for water, while about me,
dismembered and scattered in the alkali, were the bones of men and
beasts who had yearned and died.

I have been sea-cuny and bravo, scholar and recluse. I have pored over
hand-written pages of huge and musty tomes in the scholastic quietude
and twilight of cliff-perched monasteries, while beneath on the lesser
slopes, peasants still toiled beyond the end of day among the vines and
olives and drove in from pastures the blatting goats and lowing kine;
yes, and I have led shouting rabbles down the wheel-worn,
chariot-rutted paves of ancient and forgotten cities; and,
solemn-voiced and grave as death, I have enunciated the law, stated the
gravity of the infraction, and imposed the due death on men, who, like
Darrell Standing in Folsom Prison, had broken the law.

Aloft, at giddy mastheads oscillating above the decks of ships, I have
gazed on sun-flashed water where coral-growths iridesced from profounds
of turquoise deeps, and conned the ships into the safety of mirrored
lagoons where the anchors rumbled down close to palm-fronded beaches of
sea-pounded coral rock; and I have striven on forgotten battlefields of
the elder days, when the sun went down on slaughter that did not cease
and that continued through the night-hours with the stars shining down
and with a cool night wind blowing from distant peaks of snow that
failed to chill the sweat of battle; and again, I have been little
Darrell Standing, bare-footed in the dew-lush grass of spring on the
Minnesota farm, chilblained when of frosty mornings I fed the cattle in
their breath-steaming stalls, sobered to fear and awe of the splendour
and terror of God when I sat on Sundays under the rant and preachment
of the New Jerusalem and the agonies of hell-fire.

Now, the foregoing were the glimpses and glimmerings that came to me,
when, in Cell One of Solitary in San Quentin, I stared myself
unconscious by means of a particle of bright, light-radiating straw.
How did these things come to me? Surely I could not have manufactured
them out of nothing inside my pent walls any more than could I have
manufactured out of nothing the thirty-five pounds of dynamite so
ruthlessly demanded of me by Captain Jamie, Warden Atherton, and the
Prison Board of Directors.

I am Darrell Standing, born and raised on a quarter section of land in
Minnesota, erstwhile professor of agronomy, a prisoner incorrigible in
San Quentin, and at present a death-sentenced man in Folsom. I do not
know, of Darrell Standing’s experience, these things of which I write
and which I have dug from out my store-houses of subconsciousness. I,
Darrell Standing, born in Minnesota and soon to die by the rope in
California, surely never loved daughters of kings in the courts of
kings; nor fought cutlass to cutlass on the swaying decks of ships; nor
drowned in the spirit-rooms of ships, guzzling raw liquor to the
wassail-shouting and death-singing of seamen, while the ship lifted and
crashed on the black-toothed rocks and the water bubbled overhead,
beneath, and all about.

Such things are not of Darrell Standing’s experience in the world. Yet
I, Darrell Standing, found these things within myself in solitary in
San Quentin by means of mechanical self-hypnosis. No more were these
experiences Darrell Standing’s than was the word “Samaria” Darrell
Standing’s when it leapt to his child lips at sight of a photograph.

One cannot make anything out of nothing. In solitary I could not so
make thirty-five pounds of dynamite. Nor in solitary, out of nothing in
Darrell Standing’s experience, could I make these wide, far visions of
time and space. These things were in the content of my mind, and in my
mind I was just beginning to learn my way about.

CHAPTER VII.

So here was my predicament: I knew that within myself was a Golconda of
memories of other lives, yet I was unable to do more than flit like a
madman through those memories. I had my Golconda but could not mine it.

I remembered the case of Stainton Moses, the clergyman who had been
possessed by the personalities of St. Hippolytus, Plotinus,
Athenodorus, and of that friend of Erasmus named Grocyn. And when I
considered the experiments of Colonel de Rochas, which I had read in
tyro fashion in other and busier days, I was convinced that Stainton
Moses had, in previous lives, been those personalities that on occasion
seemed to possess him. In truth, they were he, they were the links of
the chain of recurrence.

But more especially did I dwell upon the experiments of Colonel de
Rochas. By means of suitable hypnotic subjects he claimed that he had
penetrated backwards through time to the ancestors of his subjects.
Thus, the case of Josephine which he describes. She was eighteen years
old and she lived at Voiron, in the department of the Isère. Under
hypnotism Colonel de Rochas sent her adventuring back through her
adolescence, her girlhood, her childhood, breast-infancy, and the
silent dark of her mother’s womb, and, still back, through the silence
and the dark of the time when she, Josephine, was not yet born, to the
light and life of a previous living, when she had been a churlish,
suspicious, and embittered old man, by name Jean-Claude Bourdon, who
had served his time in the Seventh Artillery at Besançon, and who died
at the age of seventy, long bedridden. _Yes_, and did not Colonel de
Rochas in turn hypnotize this shade of Jean-Claude Bourdon, so that he
adventured farther back into time, through infancy and birth and the
dark of the unborn, until he found again light and life when, as a
wicked old woman, he had been Philomène Carteron?

But try as I would with my bright bit of straw in the oozement of light
into solitary, I failed to achieve any such definiteness of previous
personality. I became convinced, through the failure of my experiments,
that only through death could I clearly and coherently resurrect the
memories of my previous selves.

But the tides of life ran strong in me. I, Darrell Standing, was so
strongly disinclined to die that I refused to let Warden Atherton and
Captain Jamie kill me. I was always so innately urged to live that
sometimes I think that is why I am still here, eating and sleeping,
thinking and dreaming, writing this narrative of my various me’s, and
awaiting the incontestable rope that will put an ephemeral period in my
long-linked existence.

And then came death in life. I learned the trick, Ed Morrell taught it
me, as you shall see. It began through Warden Atherton and Captain
Jamie. They must have experienced a recrudescence of panic at thought
of the dynamite they believed hidden. They came to me in my dark cell,
and they told me plainly that they would jacket me to death if I did
not confess where the dynamite was hidden. And they assured me that
they would do it officially without any hurt to their own official
skins. My death would appear on the prison register as due to natural
causes.

Oh, dear, cotton-wool citizen, please believe me when I tell you that
men are killed in prisons to-day as they have always been killed since
the first prisons were built by men.

I well knew the terror, the agony, and the danger of the jacket. Oh,
the men spirit-broken by the jacket! I have seen them. And I have seen
men crippled for life by the jacket. I have seen men, strong men, men
so strong that their physical stamina resisted all attacks of prison
tuberculosis, after a prolonged bout with the jacket, their resistance
broken down, fade away, and die of tuberculosis within six months.
There was Slant-Eyed Wilson, with an unguessed weak heart of fear, who
died in the jacket within the first hour while the unconvinced
inefficient of a prison doctor looked on and smiled. And I have seen a
man confess, after half an hour in the jacket, truths and fictions that
cost him years of credits.

I had had my own experiences. At the present moment half a thousand
scars mark my body. They go to the scaffold with me. Did I live a
hundred years to come those same scars in the end would go to the grave
with me.

Perhaps, dear citizen who permits and pays his hang-dogs to lace the
jacket for you—perhaps you are unacquainted with the jacket. Let me
describe, it, so that you will understand the method by which I
achieved death in life, became a temporary master of time and space,
and vaulted the prison walls to rove among the stars.

Have you ever seen canvas tarpaulins or rubber blankets with brass
eyelets set in along the edges? Then imagine a piece of stout canvas,
some four and one-half feet in length, with large and heavy brass
eyelets running down both edges. The width of this canvas is never the
full girth of the human body it is to surround. The width is also
irregular—broadest at the shoulders, next broadest at the hips, and
narrowest at the waist.

The jacket is spread on the floor. The man who is to be punished, or
who is to be tortured for confession, is told to lie face-downward on
the flat canvas. If he refuses, he is man-handled. After that he lays
himself down with a will, which is the will of the hang-dogs, which is
your will, dear citizen, who feeds and fees the hang-dogs for doing
this thing for you.

The man lies face-downward. The edges of the jacket are brought as
nearly together as possible along the centre of the man’s back. Then a
rope, on the principle of a shoe-lace, is run through the eyelets, and
on the principle of a shoe-lacing the man is laced in the canvas. Only
he is laced more severely than any person ever laces his shoe. They
call it “cinching” in prison lingo. On occasion, when the guards are
cruel and vindictive, or when the command has come down from above, in
order to insure the severity of the lacing the guards press with their
feet into the man’s back as they draw the lacing tight.

Have you ever laced your shoe too tightly, and, after half an hour,
experienced that excruciating pain across the instep of the obstructed
circulation? And do you remember that after a few minutes of such pain
you simply could not walk another step and had to untie the shoe-lace
and ease the pressure? Very well. Then try to imagine your whole body
so laced, only much more tightly, and that the squeeze, instead of
being merely on the instep of one foot, is on your entire trunk,
compressing to the seeming of death your heart, your lungs, and all the
rest of your vital and essential organs.

I remember the first time they gave me the jacket down in the dungeons.
It was at the beginning of my incorrigibility, shortly after my
entrance to prison, when I was weaving my loom-task of a hundred yards
a day in the jute-mill and finishing two hours ahead of the average
day. Yes, and my jute-sacking was far above the average demanded. I was
sent to the jacket that first time, according to the prison books,
because of “skips” and “breaks” in the cloth, in short, because my work
was defective. Of course this was ridiculous. In truth, I was sent to
the jacket because I, a new convict, a master of efficiency, a trained
expert in the elimination of waste motion, had elected to tell the
stupid head weaver a few things he did not know about his business. And
the head weaver, with Captain Jamie present, had me called to the table
where atrocious weaving, such as could never have gone through my loom,
was exhibited against me. Three times was I thus called to the table.
The third calling meant punishment according to the loom-room rules. My
punishment was twenty-four hours in the jacket.

They took me down into the dungeons. I was ordered to lie face-downward
on the canvas spread flat upon the floor. I refused. One of the guards,
Morrison, gulletted me with his thumbs. Mobins, the dungeon trusty, a
convict himself, struck me repeatedly with his fists. In the end I lay
down as directed. And, because of the struggle I had vexed them with,
they laced me extra tight. Then they rolled me over like a log upon my
back.

It did not seem so bad at first. When they closed my door, with clang
and clash of levered boltage, and left me in the utter dark, it was
eleven o’clock in the morning. For a few minutes I was aware merely of
an uncomfortable constriction which I fondly believed would ease as I
grew accustomed to it. On the contrary, my heart began to thump and my
lungs seemed unable to draw sufficient air for my blood. This sense of
suffocation was terrorizing, and every thump of the heart threatened to
burst my already bursting lungs.

After what seemed hours, and after what, out of my countless succeeding
experiences in the jacket I can now fairly conclude to have been not
more than half-an-hour, I began to cry out, to yell, to scream, to
howl, in a very madness of dying. The trouble was the pain that had
arisen in my heart. It was a sharp, definite pain, similar to that of
pleurisy, except that it stabbed hotly through the heart itself.

To die is not a difficult thing, but to die in such slow and horrible
fashion was maddening. Like a trapped beast of the wild, I experienced
ecstasies of fear, and yelled and howled until I realized that such
vocal exercise merely stabbed my heart more hotly and at the same time
consumed much of the little air in my lungs.

I gave over and lay quiet for a long time—an eternity it seemed then,
though now I am confident that it could have been no longer than a
quarter of an hour. I grew dizzy with semi-asphyxiation, and my heart
thumped until it seemed surely it would burst the canvas that bound me.
Again I lost control of myself and set up a mad howling for help.

In the midst of this I heard a voice from the next dungeon.

“Shut up,” it shouted, though only faintly it percolated to me. “Shut
up. You make me tired.”

“I’m dying,” I cried out.

“Pound your ear and forget it,” was the reply.

“But I _am_ dying,” I insisted.

“Then why worry?” came the voice. “You’ll be dead pretty quick an’ out
of it. Go ahead and croak, but don’t make so much noise about it.
You’re interruptin’ my beauty sleep.”

So angered was I by this callous indifference that I recovered
self-control and was guilty of no more than smothered groans. This
endured an endless time—possibly ten minutes; and then a tingling
numbness set up in all my body. It was like pins and needles, and for
as long as it hurt like pins and needles I kept my head. But when the
prickling of the multitudinous darts ceased to hurt and only the
numbness remained and continued verging into greater numbness I once
more grew frightened.

“How am I goin’ to get a wink of sleep?” my neighbour complained. “I
ain’t any more happy than you. My jacket’s just as tight as yourn, an’
I want to sleep an’ forget it.”

“How long have you been in?” I asked, thinking him a new-comer compared
to the centuries I had already suffered.

“Since day before yesterday,” was his answer.

“I mean in the jacket,” I amended.

“Since day before yesterday, brother.”

“My God!” I screamed.

“Yes, brother, fifty straight hours, an’ you don’t hear me raisin’ a
roar about it. They cinched me with their feet in my back. I am some
tight, believe _me_. You ain’t the only one that’s got troubles. You
ain’t ben in an hour yet.”

“I’ve been in hours and hours,” I protested.

“Brother, you may think so, but it don’t make it so. I’m just tellin’
you you ain’t ben in an hour. I heard ’m lacin’ you.”

The thing was incredible. Already, in less than an hour, I had died a
thousand deaths. And yet this neighbour, balanced and equable,
calm-voiced and almost beneficent despite the harshness of his first
remarks, had been in the jacket fifty hours!

“How much longer are they going to keep you in?” I asked.

“The Lord only knows. Captain Jamie is real peeved with me, an’ he
won’t let me out until I’m about croakin’. Now, brother, I’m going to
give you the tip. The only way is shut your face an’ forget it. Yellin’
an’ hollerin’ don’t win you no money in this joint. An’ the way to
forget is to forget. Just get to rememberin’ every girl you ever knew.
That’ll eat up hours for you. Mebbe you’ll feel yourself gettin’ woozy.
Well, get woozy. You can’t beat that for killin’ time. An’ when the
girls won’t hold you, get to thinkin’ of the fellows you got it in for,
an’ what you’d do to ’em if you got a chance, an’ what you’re goin’ to
do to ’em when you get that same chance.”

That man was Philadelphia Red. Because of prior conviction he was
serving fifty years for highway robbery committed on the streets of
Alameda. He had already served a dozen of his years at the time he
talked to me in the jacket, and that was seven years ago. He was one of
the forty lifers who were double-crossed by Cecil Winwood. For that
offence Philadelphia Red lost his credits. He is middle-aged now, and
he is still in San Quentin. If he survives he will be an old man when
they let him out.

I lived through my twenty-four hours, and I have never been the same
man since. Oh, I don’t mean physically, although next morning, when
they unlaced me, I was semi-paralyzed and in such a state of collapse
that the guards had to kick me in the ribs to make me crawl to my feet.
But I was a changed man mentally, morally. The brute physical torture
of it was humiliation and affront to my spirit and to my sense of
justice. Such discipline does not sweeten a man. I emerged from that
first jacketing filled with a bitterness and a passionate hatred that
has only increased through the years. My God—when I think of the things
men have done to me! Twenty-four hours in the jacket! Little I thought
that morning when they kicked me to my feet that the time would come
when twenty-four hours in the jacket meant nothing; when a hundred
hours in the jacket found me smiling when they released me; when two
hundred and forty hours in the jacket found the same smile on my lips.

Yes, two hundred and forty hours. Dear cotton-woolly citizen, do you
know what that means? It means ten days and ten nights in the jacket.
Of course, such things are not done anywhere in the Christian world
nineteen hundred years after Christ. I don’t ask you to believe me. I
don’t believe it myself. I merely know that it was done to me in San
Quentin, and that I lived to laugh at them and to compel them to get
rid of me by swinging me off because I bloodied a guard’s nose.

I write these lines to-day in the Year of Our Lord 1913, and to-day, in
the Year of Our Lord 1913, men are lying in the jacket in the dungeons
of San Quentin.

I shall never forget, as long as further living and further lives be
vouchsafed me, my parting from Philadelphia Red that morning. He had
then been seventy-four hours in the jacket.

“Well, brother, you’re still alive an’ kickin’,” he called to me, as I
was totteringly dragged from my cell into the corridor of dungeons.

“Shut up, you, Red,” the sergeant snarled at him.

“Forget it,” was the retort.

“I’ll get you yet, Red,” the sergeant threatened.

“Think so?” Philadelphia Red queried sweetly, ere his tones turned to
savageness. “Why, you old stiff, you couldn’t get nothin’. You couldn’t
get a free lunch, much less the job you’ve got now, if it wasn’t for
your brother’s pull. An’ I guess we all ain’t mistaken on the stink of
the place where your brother’s pull comes from.”

It was admirable—the spirit of man rising above its extremity, fearless
of the hurt any brute of the system could inflict.

“Well, so long, brother,” Philadelphia Red next called to me. “So long.
Be good, an’ love the Warden. An’ if you see ’em, just tell ’em that
you saw me but that you didn’t see me saw.”

The sergeant was red with rage, and, by the receipt of various kicks
and blows, I paid for Red’s pleasantry.

CHAPTER VIII.

In solitary, in Cell One, Warden Atherton and Captain Jamie proceeded
to put me to the inquisition. As Warden Atherton said to me:

“Standing, you’re going to come across with that dynamite, or I’ll kill
you in the jacket. Harder cases than you have come across before I got
done with them. You’ve got your choice—dynamite or curtains.”

“Then I guess it is curtains,” I answered, “because I don’t know of any
dynamite.”

This irritated the Warden to immediate action. “Lie down,” he
commanded.

I obeyed, for I had learned the folly of fighting three or four strong
men. They laced me tightly, and gave me a hundred hours. Once each
twenty-four hours I was permitted a drink of water. I had no desire for
food, nor was food offered me. Toward the end of the hundred hours
Jackson, the prison doctor, examined my physical condition several
times.

But I had grown too used to the jacket during my incorrigible days to
let a single jacketing injure me. Naturally, it weakened me, took the
life out of me; but I had learned muscular tricks for stealing a little
space while they were lacing me. At the end of the first hundred hours’
bout I was worn and tired, but that was all. Another bout of this
duration they gave me, after a day and a night to recuperate. And then
they gave one hundred and fifty hours. Much of this time I was
physically numb and mentally delirious. Also, by an effort of will, I
managed to sleep away long hours.

Next, Warden Atherton tried a variation. I was given irregular
intervals of jacket and recuperation. I never knew when I was to go
into the jacket. Thus I would have ten hours’ recuperation, and do
twenty in the jacket; or I would receive only four hours’ rest. At the
most unexpected hours of the night my door would clang open and the
changing guards would lace me. Sometimes rhythms were instituted. Thus,
for three days and nights I alternated eight hours in the jacket and
eight hours out. And then, just as I was growing accustomed to this
rhythm, it was suddenly altered and I was given two days and nights
straight.

And ever the eternal question was propounded to me: Where was the
dynamite? Sometimes Warden Atherton was furious with me. On occasion,
when I had endured an extra severe jacketing, he almost pleaded with me
to confess. Once he even promised me three months in the hospital of
absolute rest and good food, and then the trusty job in the library.

Dr. Jackson, a weak stick of a creature with a smattering of medicine,
grew sceptical. He insisted that jacketing, no matter how prolonged,
could never kill me; and his insistence was a challenge to the Warden
to continue the attempt.

“These lean college guys ’d fool the devil,” he grumbled. “They’re
tougher ’n raw-hide. Just the same we’ll wear him down. Standing, you
hear me. What you’ve got ain’t a caution to what you’re going to get.
You might as well come across now and save trouble. I’m a man of my
word. You’ve heard me say dynamite or curtains. Well, that stands. Take
your choice.”

“Surely you don’t think I’m holding out because I enjoy it?” I managed
to gasp, for at the moment Pie-Face Jones was forcing his foot into my
back in order to cinch me tighter, while I was trying with my muscle to
steal slack. “There is nothing to confess. Why, I’d cut off my right
hand right now to be able to lead you to any dynamite.”

“Oh, I’ve seen your educated kind before,” he sneered. “You get wheels
in your head, some of you, that make you stick to any old idea. You get
baulky, like horses. Tighter, Jones; that ain’t half a cinch. Standing,
if you don’t come across it’s curtains. I stick by that.”

One compensation I learned. As one grows weaker one is less susceptible
to suffering. There is less hurt because there is less to hurt. And the
man already well weakened grows weaker more slowly. It is of common
knowledge that unusually strong men suffer more severely from ordinary
sicknesses than do women or invalids. As the reserves of strength are
consumed there is less strength to lose. After all superfluous flesh is
gone what is left is stringy and resistant. In fact, that was what I
became—a sort of string-like organism that persisted in living.

Morrell and Oppenheimer were sorry for me, and rapped me sympathy and
advice. Oppenheimer told me he had gone through it, and worse, and
still lived.

“Don’t let them beat you out,” he spelled with his knuckles. “Don’t let
them kill you, for that would suit them. And don’t squeal on the
plant.”

“But there isn’t any plant,” I rapped back with the edge of the sole of
my shoe against the grating—I was in the jacket at the time and so
could talk only with my feet. “I don’t know anything about the damned
dynamite.”

“That’s right,” Oppenheimer praised. “He’s the stuff, ain’t he, Ed?”

Which goes to show what chance I had of convincing Warden Atherton of
my ignorance of the dynamite. His very persistence in the quest
convinced a man like Jake Oppenheimer, who could only admire me for the
fortitude with which I kept a close mouth.

During this first period of the jacket-inquisition I managed to sleep a
great deal. My dreams were remarkable. Of course they were vivid and
real, as most dreams are. What made them remarkable was their coherence
and continuity. Often I addressed bodies of scientists on abstruse
subjects, reading aloud to them carefully prepared papers on my own
researches or on my own deductions from the researches and experiments
of others. When I awakened my voice would seem still ringing in my
ears, while my eyes still could see typed on the white paper whole
sentences and paragraphs that I could read again and marvel at ere the
vision faded. In passing, I call attention to the fact that at the time
I noted that the process of reasoning employed in these dream speeches
was invariably deductive.

Then there was a great farming section, extending north and south for
hundreds of miles in some part of the temperate regions, with a climate
and flora and fauna largely resembling those of California. Not once,
nor twice, but thousands of different times I journeyed through this
dream-region. The point I desire to call attention to was that it was
always the same region. No essential feature of it ever differed in the
different dreams. Thus it was always an eight-hour drive behind
mountain horses from the alfalfa meadows (where I kept many Jersey
cows) to the straggly village beside the big dry creek, where I caught
the little narrow-gauge train. Every land-mark in that eight-hour drive
in the mountain buckboard, every tree, every mountain, every ford and
bridge, every ridge and eroded hillside was ever the same.

In this coherent, rational farm-region of my strait-jacket dreams the
minor details, according to season and to the labour of men, did
change. Thus on the upland pastures behind my alfalfa meadows I
developed a new farm with the aid of Angora goats. Here I marked the
changes with every dream-visit, and the changes were in accordance with
the time that elapsed between visits.

Oh, those brush-covered slopes! How I can see them now just as when the
goats were first introduced. And how I remembered the consequent
changes—the paths beginning to form as the goats literally ate their
way through the dense thickets; the disappearance of the younger,
smaller bushes that were not too tall for total browsing; the vistas
that formed in all directions through the older, taller bushes, as the
goats browsed as high as they could stand and reach on their hind legs;
the driftage of the pasture grasses that followed in the wake of the
clearing by the goats. Yes, the continuity of such dreaming was its
charm. Came the day when the men with axes chopped down all the taller
brush so as to give the goats access to the leaves and buds and bark.
Came the day, in winter weather, when the dry denuded skeletons of all
these bushes were gathered into heaps and burned. Came the day when I
moved my goats on to other brush-impregnable hillsides, with following
in their wake my cattle, pasturing knee-deep in the succulent grasses
that grew where before had been only brush. And came the day when I
moved my cattle on, and my plough-men went back and forth across the
slopes’ contour—ploughing the rich sod under to rot to live and
crawling humous in which to bed my seeds of crops to be.

Yes, and in my dreams, often, I got off the little narrow-gauge train
where the straggly village stood beside the big dry creek, and got into
the buckboard behind my mountain horses, and drove hour by hour past
all the old familiar landmarks of my alfalfa meadows, and on to my
upland pastures where my rotated crops of corn and barley and clover
were ripe for harvesting and where I watched my men engaged in the
harvest, while beyond, ever climbing, my goats browsed the higher
slopes of brush into cleared, tilled fields.

But these were dreams, frank dreams, fancied adventures of my deductive
subconscious mind. Quite unlike them, as you shall see, were my other
adventures when I passed through the gates of the living death and
relived the reality of the other lives that had been mine in other
days.

In the long hours of waking in the jacket I found that I dwelt a great
deal on Cecil Winwood, the poet-forger who had wantonly put all this
torment on me, and who was even then at liberty out in the free world
again. No; I did not hate him. The word is too weak. There is no word
in the language strong enough to describe my feelings. I can say only
that I knew the gnawing of a desire for vengeance on him that was a
pain in itself and that exceeded all the bounds of language. I shall
not tell you of the hours I devoted to plans of torture on him, nor of
the diabolical means and devices of torture that I invented for him.
Just one example. I was enamoured of the ancient trick whereby an iron
basin, containing a rat, is fastened to a man’s body. The only way out
for the rat is through the man himself. As I say, I was enamoured of
this until I realized that such a death was too quick, whereupon I
dwelt long and favourably on the Moorish trick of—but no, I promised to
relate no further of this matter. Let it suffice that many of my
pain-maddening waking hours were devoted to dreams of vengeance on
Cecil Winwood.

CHAPTER IX.

One thing of great value I learned in the long, pain-weary hours of
waking—namely, the mastery of the body by the mind. I learned to suffer
passively, as, undoubtedly, all men have learned who have passed
through the post-graduate courses of strait-jacketing. Oh, it is no
easy trick to keep the brain in such serene repose that it is quite
oblivious to the throbbing, exquisite complaint of some tortured nerve.

And it was this very mastery of the flesh by the spirit which I so
acquired that enabled me easily to practise the secret Ed Morrell told
to me.

“Think it is curtains?” Ed Morrell rapped to me one night.

I had just been released from one hundred hours, and I was weaker than
I had ever been before. So weak was I that though my whole body was one
mass of bruise and misery, nevertheless I scarcely was aware that I had
a body.

“It looks like curtains,” I rapped back. “They will get me if they keep
it up much longer.”

“Don’t let them,” he advised. “There is a way. I learned it myself,
down in the dungeons, when Massie and I got ours good and plenty. I
pulled through. But Massie croaked. If I hadn’t learned the trick, I’d
have croaked along with him. You’ve got to be pretty weak first, before
you try it. If you try it when you are strong, you make a failure of
it, and then that queers you for ever after. I made the mistake of
telling Jake the trick when he was strong. Of course, he could not pull
it off, and in the times since when he did need it, it was too late,
for his first failure had queered it. He won’t even believe it now. He
thinks I am kidding him. Ain’t that right, Jake?”

And from cell thirteen Jake rapped back, “Don’t swallow it, Darrell.
It’s a sure fairy story.”

“Go on and tell me,” I rapped to Morrell.

“That is why I waited for you to get real weak,” he continued. “Now you
need it, and I am going to tell you. It’s up to you. If you have got
the will you can do it. I’ve done it three times, and I know.”

“Well, what is it?” I rapped eagerly.

“The trick is to die in the jacket, to will yourself to die. I know you
don’t get me yet, but wait. You know how you get numb in the jacket—how
your arm or your leg goes to sleep. Now you can’t help that, but you
can take it for the idea and improve on it. Don’t wait for your legs or
anything to go to sleep. You lie on your back as comfortable as you can
get, and you begin to use your will.

“And this is the idea you must think to yourself, and that you must
believe all the time you’re thinking it. If you don’t believe, then
there’s nothing to it. The thing you must think and believe is that
your body is one thing and your spirit is another thing. You are you,
and your body is something else that don’t amount to shucks. Your body
don’t count. You’re the boss. You don’t need any body. And thinking and
believing all this you proceed to prove it by using your will. You make
your body die.

“You begin with the toes, one at a time. You make your toes die. You
will them to die. And if you’ve got the belief and the will your toes
will die. That is the big job—to start the dying. Once you’ve got the
first toe dead, the rest is easy, for you don’t have to do any more
believing. You know. Then you put all your will into making the rest of
the body die. I tell you, Darrell, I know. I’ve done it three times.

“Once you get the dying started, it goes right along. And the funny
thing is that you are all there all the time. Because your toes are
dead don’t make you in the least bit dead. By-and-by your legs are dead
to the knees, and then to the thighs, and you are just the same as you
always were. It is your body that is dropping out of the game a chunk
at a time. And you are just you, the same you were before you began.”

“And then what happens?” I queried.

“Well, when your body is all dead, and you are all there yet, you just
skin out and leave your body. And when you leave your body you leave
the cell. Stone walls and iron doors are to hold bodies in. They can’t
hold the spirit in. You see, you have proved it. You are spirit outside
of your body. You can look at your body from outside of it. I tell you
I know because I have done it three times—looked at my body lying there
with me outside of it.”

“Ha! ha! ha!” Jake Oppenheimer rapped his laughter thirteen cells away.

“You see, that’s Jake’s trouble,” Morrell went on. “He can’t believe.
That one time he tried it he was too strong and failed. And now he
thinks I am kidding.”

“When you die you are dead, and dead men stay dead,” Oppenheimer
retorted.

“I tell you I’ve been dead three times,” Morrell argued.

“And lived to tell us about it,” Oppenheimer jeered.

“But don’t forget one thing, Darrell,” Morrell rapped to me. “The thing
is ticklish. You have a feeling all the time that you are taking
liberties. I can’t explain it, but I always had a feeling if I was away
when they came and let my body out of the jacket that I couldn’t get
back into my body again. I mean that my body would be dead for keeps.
And I didn’t want it to be dead. I didn’t want to give Captain Jamie
and the rest that satisfaction. But I tell you, Darrell, if you can
turn the trick you can laugh at the Warden. Once you make your body die
that way it don’t matter whether they keep you in the jacket a month on
end. You don’t suffer none, and your body don’t suffer. You know there
are cases of people who have slept a whole year at a time. That’s the
way it will be with your body. It just stays there in the jacket, not
hurting or anything, just waiting for you to come back.

“You try it. I am giving you the straight steer.”

“And if he don’t come back?” Oppenheimer, asked.

“Then the laugh will be on him, I guess, Jake,” Morrell answered.
“Unless, maybe, it will be on us for sticking round this old dump when
we could get away that easy.”

And here the conversation ended, for Pie-Face Jones, waking crustily
from stolen slumber, threatened Morrell and Oppenheimer with a report
next morning that would mean the jacket for them. Me he did not
threaten, for he knew I was doomed for the jacket anyway.

I lay long there in the silence, forgetting the misery of my body while
I considered this proposition Morrell had advanced. Already, as I have
explained, by mechanical self-hypnosis I had sought to penetrate back
through time to my previous selves. That I had partly succeeded I knew;
but all that I had experienced was a fluttering of apparitions that
merged erratically and were without continuity.

But Morrell’s method was so patently the reverse of my method of
self-hypnosis that I was fascinated. By my method, my consciousness
went first of all. By his method, consciousness persisted last of all,
and, when the body was quite gone, passed into stages so sublimated
that it left the body, left the prison of San Quentin, and journeyed
afar, and was still consciousness.

It was worth a trial, anyway, I concluded. And, despite the sceptical
attitude of the scientist that was mine, I believed. I had no doubt I
could do what Morrell said he had done three times. Perhaps this faith
that so easily possessed me was due to my extreme debility. Perhaps I
was not strong enough to be sceptical. This was the hypothesis already
suggested by Morrell. It was a conclusion of pure empiricism, and I,
too, as you shall see, demonstrated it empirically.

CHAPTER X.

And above all things, next morning Warden Atherton came into my cell on
murder intent. With him were Captain Jamie, Doctor Jackson, Pie-Face
Jones, and Al Hutchins. Al Hutchins was serving a forty-years’
sentence, and was in hopes of being pardoned out. For four years he had
been head trusty of San Quentin. That this was a position of great
power you will realize when I tell you that the graft alone of the head
trusty was estimated at three thousand dollars a year. Wherefore Al
Hutchins, in possession of ten or twelve thousand dollars and of the
promise of a pardon, could be depended upon to do the Warden’s bidding
blind.

I have just said that Warden Atherton came into my cell intent on
murder. His face showed it. His actions proved it.

“Examine him,” he ordered Doctor Jackson.

That wretched apology of a creature stripped from me my dirt-encrusted
shirt that I had worn since my entrance to solitary, and exposed my
poor wasted body, the skin ridged like brown parchment over the ribs
and sore-infested from the many bouts with the jacket. The examination
was shamelessly perfunctory.

“Will he stand it?” the Warden demanded.

“Yes,” Doctor Jackson answered.

“How’s the heart?”

“Splendid.”

“You think he’ll stand ten days of it, Doc.?”

“Sure.”

“I don’t believe it,” the Warden announced savagely. “But we’ll try it
just the same.—Lie down, Standing.”

I obeyed, stretching myself face-downward on the flat-spread jacket.
The Warden seemed to debate with himself for a moment.

“Roll over,” he commanded.

I made several efforts, but was too weak to succeed, and could only
sprawl and squirm in my helplessness.

“Putting it on,” was Jackson’s comment.

“Well, he won’t have to put it on when I’m done with him,” said the
Warden. “Lend him a hand. I can’t waste any more time on him.”

So they rolled me over on my back, where I stared up into Warden
Atherton’s face.

“Standing,” he said slowly, “I’ve given you all the rope I am going to.
I am sick and tired of your stubbornness. My patience is exhausted.
Doctor Jackson says you are in condition to stand ten days in the
jacket. You can figure your chances. But I am going to give you your
last chance now. Come across with the dynamite. The moment it is in my
hands I’ll take you out of here. You can bathe and shave and get clean
clothes. I’ll let you loaf for six months on hospital grub, and then
I’ll put you trusty in the library. You can’t ask me to be fairer with
you than that. Besides, you’re not squealing on anybody. You are the
only person in San Quentin who knows where the dynamite is. You won’t
hurt anybody’s feelings by giving in, and you’ll be all to the good
from the moment you do give in. And if you don’t—”

He paused and shrugged his shoulders significantly.

“Well, if you don’t, you start in the ten days right now.”

The prospect was terrifying. So weak was I that I was as certain as the
Warden was that it meant death in the jacket. And then I remembered
Morrell’s trick. Now, if ever, was the need of it; and now, if ever,
was the time to practise the faith of it. I smiled up in the face of
Warden Atherton. And I put faith in that smile, and faith in the
proposition I made to him.

“Warden,” I said, “do you see the way I am smiling? Well, if, at the
end of the ten days, when you unlace me, I smile up at you in the same
way, will you give a sack of Bull Durham and a package of brown papers
to Morrell and Oppenheimer?”

“Ain’t they the crazy ginks, these college guys,” Captain Jamie
snorted.

Warden Atherton was a choleric man, and he took my request for
insulting braggadocio.

“Just for that you get an extra cinching,” he informed me.

“I made you a sporting proposition, Warden,” I said quietly. “You can
cinch me as tight as you please, but if I smile ten days from now will
you give the Bull Durham to Morrell and Oppenheimer?”

“You are mighty sure of yourself,” he retorted.

“That’s why I made the proposition,” I replied.

“Getting religion, eh?” he sneered.

“No,” was my answer. “It merely happens that I possess more life than
you can ever reach the end of. Make it a hundred days if you want, and
I’ll smile at you when it’s over.”

“I guess ten days will more than do you, Standing.”

“That’s your opinion,” I said. “Have you got faith in it? If you have
you won’t even lose the price of the two five-cents sacks of tobacco.
Anyway, what have you got to be afraid of?”

“For two cents I’d kick the face off of you right now,” he snarled.

“Don’t let me stop you.” I was impudently suave. “Kick as hard as you
please, and I’ll still have enough face left with which to smile. In
the meantime, while you are hesitating, suppose you accept my original
proposition.”

A man must be terribly weak and profoundly desperate to be able, under
such circumstances, to beard the Warden in solitary. Or he may be both,
and, in addition, he may have faith. I know now that I had the faith
and so acted on it. I believed what Morrell had told me. I believed in
the lordship of the mind over the body. I believed that not even a
hundred days in the jacket could kill me.

Captain Jamie must have sensed this faith that informed me, for he
said:

“I remember a Swede that went crazy twenty years ago. That was before
your time, Warden. He’d killed a man in a quarrel over twenty-five
cents and got life for it. He was a cook. He got religion. He said that
a golden chariot was coming to take him to heaven, and he sat down on
top the red-hot range and sang hymns and hosannahs while he cooked.
They dragged him off, but he croaked two days afterward in hospital. He
was cooked to the bone. And to the end he swore he’d never felt the
heat. Couldn’t get a squeal out of him.”

“We’ll make Standing squeal,” said the Warden.

“Since you are so sure of it, why don’t you accept my proposition?” I
challenged.

The Warden was so angry that it would have been ludicrous to me had I
not been in so desperate plight. His face was convulsed. He clenched
his hands, and, for a moment, it seemed that he was about to fall upon
me and give me a beating. Then, with an effort, he controlled himself.

“All right, Standing,” he snarled. “I’ll go you. But you bet your sweet
life you’ll have to go some to smile ten days from now. Roll him over,
boys, and cinch him till you hear his ribs crack. Hutchins, show him
you know how to do it.”

And they rolled me over and laced me as I had never been laced before.
The head trusty certainly demonstrated his ability. I tried to steal
what little space I could. Little it was, for I had long since shed my
flesh, while my muscles were attenuated to mere strings. I had neither
the strength nor bulk to steal more than a little, and the little I
stole I swear I managed by sheer expansion at the joints of the bones
of my frame. And of this little I was robbed by Hutchins, who, in the
old days before he was made head trusty, had learned all the tricks of
the jacket from the inside of the jacket.

You see, Hutchins was a cur at heart, or a creature who had once been a
man, but who had been broken on the wheel. He possessed ten or twelve
thousand dollars, and his freedom was in sight if he obeyed orders.
Later, I learned that there was a girl who had remained true to him,
and who was even then waiting for him. The woman factor explains many
things of men.

If ever a man deliberately committed murder, Al Hutchins did that
morning in solitary at the Warden’s bidding. He robbed me of the little
space I stole. And, having robbed me of that, my body was defenceless,
and, with his foot in my back while he drew the lacing light, he
constricted me as no man had ever before succeeded in doing. So severe
was this constriction of my frail frame upon my vital organs that I
felt, there and then, immediately, that death was upon me. And still
the miracle of faith was mine. I did not believe that I was going to
die. I knew—I say I _knew_—that I was not going to die. My head was
swimming, and my heart was pounding from my toenails to the hair-roots
in my scalp.

“That’s pretty tight,” Captain Jamie urged reluctantly.

“The hell it is,” said Doctor Jackson. “I tell you nothing can hurt
him. He’s a wooz. He ought to have been dead long ago.”

Warden Atherton, after a hard struggle, managed to insert his
forefinger between the lacing and my back. He brought his foot to bear
upon me, with the weight of his body added to his foot, and pulled, but
failed to get any fraction of an inch of slack.

“I take my hat off to you, Hutchins,” he said. “You know your job. Now
roll him over and let’s look at him.”

They rolled me over on my back. I stared up at them with bulging eyes.
This I know: Had they laced me in such fashion the first time I went
into the jacket, I would surely have died in the first ten minutes. But
I was well trained. I had behind me the thousands of hours in the
jacket, and, plus that, I had faith in what Morrell had told me.

“Now, laugh, damn you, laugh,” said the Warden to me. “Start that smile
you’ve been bragging about.”

So, while my lungs panted for a little air, while my heart threatened
to burst, while my mind reeled, nevertheless I was able to smile up
into the Warden’s face.

CHAPTER XI.

The door clanged, shutting out all but a little light, and I was left
alone on my back. By the tricks I had long since learned in the jacket,
I managed to writhe myself across the floor an inch at a time until the
edge of the sole of my right shoe touched the door. There was an
immense cheer in this. I was not utterly alone. If the need arose, I
could at least rap knuckle talk to Morrell.

But Warden Atherton must have left strict injunctions on the guards,
for, though I managed to call Morrell and tell him I intended trying
the experiment, he was prevented by the guards from replying. Me they
could only curse, for, in so far as I was in the jacket for a ten days’
bout, I was beyond all threat of punishment.

I remember remarking at the time my serenity of mind. The customary
pain of the jacket was in my body, but my mind was so passive that I
was no more aware of the pain than was I aware of the floor beneath me
or the walls around me. Never was a man in better mental and spiritual
condition for such an experiment. Of course, this was largely due to my
extreme weakness. But there was more to it. I had long schooled myself
to be oblivious to pain. I had neither doubts nor fears. All the
content of my mind seemed to be an absolute faith in the over-lordship
of the mind. This passivity was almost dream-like, and yet, in its way,
it was positive almost to a pitch of exaltation.

I began my concentration of will. Even then my body was numbing and
prickling through the loss of circulation. I directed my will to the
little toe of my right foot, and I willed that toe to cease to be alive
in my consciousness. I willed that toe to die—to die so far as I, its
lord, and a different thing entirely from it, was concerned. There was
the hard struggle. Morrell had warned me that it would be so. But there
was no flicker of doubt to disturb my faith. I knew that that toe would
die, and I knew when it was dead. Joint by joint it had died under the
compulsion of my will.

The rest was easy, but slow, I will admit. Joint by joint, toe by toe,
all the toes of both my feet ceased to be. And joint by joint, the
process went on. Came the time when my flesh below the ankles had
ceased. Came the time when all below my knees had ceased.

Such was the pitch of my perfect exaltation, that I knew not the
slightest prod of rejoicing at my success. I knew nothing save that I