The two dark-eyed sinister-looking Italians, one of whom had slain a girl because she would not marry him; the other who had robbed and then slain and attempted to burn the body of his father-in-law in order to get money for himself and his wife!
And big Larry Donahue — square-headed, square-shouldered — big of feet and hands, an overseas soldier, who, being ejected from a job as night watchman in a Brooklyn factory, had lain for the foreman who had discharged him — and then killed him on an open common somewhere at night, but without the skill to keep from losing a service medal which had eventually served to betray and identify him.
Clyde had learned all this from the strangely indifferent and non-committal, yet seemingly friendly guards, who were over these cells by night and by day — two and two, turn about — who relieved each other every eight hours.
And police officer Riordan of Rochester, who had killed his wife because she was determined to leave him — and now, himself, was to die.
And Thomas Mowrer, the young “farmer” or farm hand, as he really was, whom Clyde on his first night had heard moaning — a man who had killed his employer with a pitchfork — and was soon to die now — as Clyde heard, and who walked and walked, keeping close to the wall — his head down, his hands behind his back — a rude, strong, loutish man of about thirty, who looked more beaten and betrayed than as though he had been able to torture or destroy another.
Clyde wondered about him — his real guilt.
Again Miller Nicholson, a lawyer of Buffalo of perhaps forty years of age who was tall and slim and decidedly superior looking — a refined, intellectual type, one you would have said was no murderer — any more than Clyde — to look at, who, none-the-less was convicted of poisoning an old man of great wealth and afterwards attempting to convert his fortune to his own use.
Yet decidedly with nothing in his look or manner, as Clyde felt, at least, which marked him as one so evil — a polite and courteous man, who, noting Clyde on the very first morning of his arrival here, approached and said:
“Scared?” But in the most gentle and solicitous tone, as Clyde could hear and feel, even though he stood blank and icy — afraid almost to move — or think.
Yet in this mood — and because he felt so truly done for, replying:
“Yes, I guess I am.”
But once it was out, wondering why he had said it (so weak a confession) and afterwards something in the man heartening him, wishing that he had not.
“Your name’s Griffiths, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“Well, my name’s Nicholson.
Don’t be frightened.
You’ll get used to it.”
He achieved a cheerful, if wan smile.
But his eyes — they did not seem like that — no smile there.
“I don’t suppose I’m so scared either,” replied Clyde, trying to modify his first, quick and unintended confession.
“Well, that’s good.
Be game.
We all have to be here — or the whole place would go crazy.
Better breathe a little.
Or walk fast.
It’ll do you good.”
He moved away a few paces and began exercising his arms while Clyde stood there, saying — almost loudly — so shaken was he still:
“We all have to be or the whole place would go crazy.”
That was true, as he could see and feel after that first night.
Crazy, indeed.
Tortured to death, maybe, by being compelled to witness these terrible and completely destroying — and for each — impending tragedies.
But how long would he have to endure this?
How long would he?
In the course of a day or two, again he found this death house was not quite like that either — not all terror — on the surface at least.
It was in reality — and in spite of impending death in every instance, a place of taunt and jibe and jest — even games, athletics, the stage — all forms of human contest of skill — or the arguments on every conceivable topic from death and women to lack of it, as far at least as the general low intelligence of the group permitted.
For the most part, as soon as breakfast was over — among those who were not called upon to join the first group for exercise, there were checkers or cards, two games that were played — not with a single set of checkers or a deck of cards between groups released from their cells, but by one of the ever present keepers providing two challenging prisoners (if it were checkers) with one checker- board but no checkers.
They were not needed.
Thereafter the opening move was called by one. “I move from G 2 to E 1”— each square being numbered — each side lettered.
The moves checked with a pencil.
Thereafter the second party — having recorded this move on his own board and having studied the effect of it on his own general position, would call: “I move from E 7 to F 5.”
If more of those present decided to join in this — either on one side or the other, additional boards and pencils were passed to each signifying his desire.
Then Shorty Bristol, desiring to aid “Dutch” Swighort, three cells down, might call: “I wouldn’t do that, Dutch.
Wait a minute, there’s a better move than that.”
And so on with taunts, oaths, laughter, arguments, according to the varying fortunes and difficulties of the game.
And so, too, with cards.
These were played with each man locked in his cell, yet quite as successfully.
But Clyde did not care for cards — or for these jibing and coarse hours of conversation.
There was for him — and with the exception of the speech of one — Nicholson — alone, too much ribald and even brutal talk which he could not appreciate.
But he was drawn to Nicholson.
He was beginning to think after a time — a few days — that this lawyer — his presence and companionship during the exercise hour — whenever they chanced to be in the same set — could help him to endure this.