If you stood in the central room, or rotunda, and looked down the long stretches which departed from you in every direction, you had a sense of narrowness and confinement not compatible with their length.
The iron doors, with their outer accompaniment of solid wooden ones, the latter used at times to shut the prisoner from all sight and sound, were grim and unpleasing to behold.
The halls were light enough, being whitewashed frequently and set with the narrow skylights, which were closed with frosted glass in winter; but they were, as are all such matter-of-fact arrangements for incarceration, bare—wearisome to look upon.
Life enough there was in all conscience, seeing that there were four hundred prisoners here at that time, and that nearly every cell was occupied; but it was a life of which no one individual was essentially aware as a spectacle. He was of it; but he was not.
Some of the prisoners, after long service, were used as "trusties" or "runners," as they were locally called; but not many.
There was a bakery, a machine-shop, a carpenter-shop, a store-room, a flour-mill, and a series of gardens, or truck patches; but the manipulation of these did not require the services of a large number.
The prison proper dated from 1822, and it had grown, wing by wing, until its present considerable size had been reached.
Its population consisted of individuals of all degrees of intelligence and crime, from murderers to minor practitioners of larceny.
It had what was known as the "Pennsylvania System" of regulation for its inmates, which was nothing more nor less than solitary confinement for all concerned—a life of absolute silence and separate labor in separate cells.
Barring his comparatively recent experience in the county jail, which after all was far from typical, Cowperwood had never been in a prison in his life.
Once, when a boy, in one of his perambulations through several of the surrounding towns, he had passed a village "lock-up," as the town prisons were then called—a small, square, gray building with long iron-barred windows, and he had seen, at one of these rather depressing apertures on the second floor, a none too prepossessing drunkard or town ne'er-do-well who looked down on him with bleary eyes, unkempt hair, and a sodden, waxy, pallid face, and called—for it was summer and the jail window was open:
"Hey, sonny, get me a plug of tobacco, will you?"
Cowperwood, who had looked up, shocked and disturbed by the man's disheveled appearance, had called back, quite without stopping to think:
"Naw, I can't."
"Look out you don't get locked up yourself sometime, you little runt," the man had replied, savagely, only half recovered from his debauch of the day before.
He had not thought of this particular scene in years, but now suddenly it came back to him.
Here he was on his way to be locked up in this dull, somber prison, and it was snowing, and he was being cut out of human affairs as much as it was possible for him to be cut out.
No friends were permitted to accompany him beyond the outer gate—not even Steger for the time being, though he might visit him later in the day.
This was an inviolable rule.
Zanders being known to the gate-keeper, and bearing his commitment paper, was admitted at once.
The others turned solemnly away. They bade a gloomy if affectionate farewell to Cowperwood, who, on his part, attempted to give it all an air of inconsequence—as, in part and even here, it had for him.
"Well, good-by for the present," he said, shaking hands.
"I'll be all right and I'll get out soon.
Wait and see.
Tell Lillian not to worry."
He stepped inside, and the gate clanked solemnly behind him.
Zanders led the way through a dark, somber hall, wide and high-ceiled, to a farther gate, where a second gateman, trifling with a large key, unlocked a barred door at his bidding.
Once inside the prison yard, Zanders turned to the left into a small office, presenting his prisoner before a small, chest-high desk, where stood a prison officer in uniform of blue. The latter, the receiving overseer of the prison—a thin, practical, executive-looking person with narrow gray eyes and light hair, took the paper which the sheriff's deputy handed him and read it.
This was his authority for receiving Cowperwood.
In his turn he handed Zanders a slip, showing that he had so received the prisoner; and then Zanders left, receiving gratefully the tip which Cowperwood pressed in his hand.
"Well, good-by, Mr. Cowperwood," he said, with a peculiar twist of his detective-like head.
"I'm sorry. I hope you won't find it so bad here."
He wanted to impress the receiving overseer with his familiarity with this distinguished prisoner, and Cowperwood, true to his policy of make-believe, shook hands with him cordially.
"I'm much obliged to you for your courtesy, Mr. Zanders," he said, then turned to his new master with the air of a man who is determined to make a good impression.
He was now in the hands of petty officials, he knew, who could modify or increase his comfort at will.
He wanted to impress this man with his utter willingness to comply and obey—his sense of respect for his authority—without in any way demeaning himself.
He was depressed but efficient, even here in the clutch of that eventual machine of the law, the State penitentiary, which he had been struggling so hard to evade.
The receiving overseer, Roger Kendall, though thin and clerical, was a rather capable man, as prison officials go—shrewd, not particularly well educated, not over-intelligent naturally, not over-industrious, but sufficiently energetic to hold his position. He knew something about convicts—considerable—for he had been dealing with them for nearly twenty-six years.
His attitude toward them was cold, cynical, critical.
He did not permit any of them to come into personal contact with him, but he saw to it that underlings in his presence carried out the requirements of the law.
When Cowperwood entered, dressed in his very good clothing—a dark gray-blue twill suit of pure wool, a light, well-made gray overcoat, a black derby hat of the latest shape, his shoes new and of good leather, his tie of the best silk, heavy and conservatively colored, his hair and mustache showing the attention of an intelligent barber, and his hands well manicured—the receiving overseer saw at once that he was in the presence of some one of superior intelligence and force, such a man as the fortune of his trade rarely brought into his net.
Cowperwood stood in the middle of the room without apparently looking at any one or anything, though he saw all.
"Convict number 3633," Kendall called to a clerk, handing him at the same time a yellow slip of paper on which was written Cowperwood's full name and his record number, counting from the beginning of the penitentiary itself.
The underling, a convict, took it and entered it in a book, reserving the slip at the same time for the penitentiary "runner" or "trusty," who would eventually take Cowperwood to the "manners" gallery.
"You will have to take off your clothes and take a bath," said Kendall to Cowperwood, eyeing him curiously.
"I don't suppose you need one, but it's the rule."
"Thank you," replied Cowperwood, pleased that his personality was counting for something even here.
"Whatever the rules are, I want to obey."
When he started to take off his coat, however, Kendall put up his hand delayingly and tapped a bell.
There now issued from an adjoining room an assistant, a prison servitor, a weird-looking specimen of the genus "trusty."