So he cogitated while the hours slipped by.
It was nearly five o'clock before Steger was able to return, and then only for a little while.
He had been arranging for Cowperwood's appearance on the following Thursday, Friday, and Monday in his several court proceedings.
When he was gone, however, and the night fell and Cowperwood had to trim his little, shabby oil-lamp and to drink the strong tea and eat the rough, poor bread made of bran and white flour, which was shoved to him through the small aperture in the door by the trencher trusty, who was accompanied by the overseer to see that it was done properly, he really felt very badly.
And after that the center wooden door of his cell was presently closed and locked by a trusty who slammed it rudely and said no word.
Nine o'clock would be sounded somewhere by a great bell, he understood, when his smoky oil-lamp would have to be put out promptly and he would have to undress and go to bed.
There were punishments, no doubt, for infractions of these rules—reduced rations, the strait-jacket, perhaps stripes—he scarcely knew what. He felt disconsolate, grim, weary.
He had put up such a long, unsatisfactory fight.
After washing his heavy stone cup and tin plate at the hydrant, he took off the sickening uniform and shoes and even the drawers of the scratching underwear, and stretched himself wearily on the bed.
The place was not any too warm, and he tried to make himself comfortable between the blankets—but it was of little use.
His soul was cold.
"This will never do," he said to himself.
"This will never do.
I'm not sure whether I can stand much of this or not."
Still he turned his face to the wall, and after several hours sleep eventually came.
Chapter LIV
Those who by any pleasing courtesy of fortune, accident of birth, inheritance, or the wisdom of parents or friends, have succeeded in avoiding making that anathema of the prosperous and comfortable, "a mess of their lives," will scarcely understand the mood of Cowperwood, sitting rather gloomily in his cell these first days, wondering what, in spite of his great ingenuity, was to become of him.
The strongest have their hours of depression.
There are times when life to those endowed with the greatest intelligence—perhaps mostly to those—takes on a somber hue.
They see so many phases of its dreary subtleties.
It is only when the soul of man has been built up into some strange self-confidence, some curious faith in its own powers, based, no doubt, on the actual presence of these same powers subtly involved in the body, that it fronts life unflinchingly.
It would be too much to say that Cowperwood's mind was of the first order.
It was subtle enough in all conscience—and involved, as is common with the executively great, with a strong sense of personal advancement.
It was a powerful mind, turning, like a vast searchlight, a glittering ray into many a dark corner; but it was not sufficiently disinterested to search the ultimate dark.
He realized, in a way, what the great astronomers, sociologists, philosophers, chemists, physicists, and physiologists were meditating; but he could not be sure in his own mind that, whatever it was, it was important for him.
No doubt life held many strange secrets.
Perhaps it was essential that somebody should investigate them.
However that might be, the call of his own soul was in another direction.
His business was to make money—to organize something which would make him much money, or, better yet, save the organization he had begun.
But this, as he now looked upon it, was almost impossible.
It had been too disarranged and complicated by unfortunate circumstances.
He might, as Steger pointed out to him, string out these bankruptcy proceedings for years, tiring out one creditor and another, but in the meantime the properties involved were being seriously damaged. Interest charges on his unsatisfied loans were making heavy inroads; court costs were mounting up; and, to cap it all, he had discovered with Steger that there were a number of creditors—those who had sold out to Butler, and incidentally to Mollenhauer—who would never accept anything except the full value of their claims.
His one hope now was to save what he could by compromise a little later, and to build up some sort of profitable business through Stephen Wingate.
The latter was coming in a day or two, as soon as Steger had made some working arrangement for him with Warden Michael Desmas who came the second day to have a look at the new prisoner.
Desmas was a large man physically—Irish by birth, a politician by training—who had been one thing and another in Philadelphia from a policeman in his early days and a corporal in the Civil War to a ward captain under Mollenhauer.
He was a canny man, tall, raw-boned, singularly muscular-looking, who for all his fifty-seven years looked as though he could give a splendid account of himself in a physical contest.
His hands were large and bony, his face more square than either round or long, and his forehead high.
He had a vigorous growth of short-clipped, iron-gray hair, and a bristly iron-gray mustache, very short, keen, intelligent blue-gray eyes; a florid complexion; and even-edged, savage-looking teeth, which showed the least bit in a slightly wolfish way when he smiled.
However, he was not as cruel a person as he looked to be; temperamental, to a certain extent hard, and on occasions savage, but with kindly hours also.
His greatest weakness was that he was not quite mentally able to recognize that there were mental and social differences between prisoners, and that now and then one was apt to appear here who, with or without political influences, was eminently worthy of special consideration.
What he could recognize was the differences pointed out to him by the politicians in special cases, such as that of Stener—not Cowperwood.
However, seeing that the prison was a public institution apt to be visited at any time by lawyers, detectives, doctors, preachers, propagandists, and the public generally, and that certain rules and regulations had to be enforced (if for no other reason than to keep a moral and administrative control over his own help), it was necessary to maintain—and that even in the face of the politician—a certain amount of discipline, system, and order, and it was not possible to be too liberal with any one.
There were, however, exceptional cases—men of wealth and refinement, victims of those occasional uprisings which so shocked the political leaders generally—who had to be looked after in a friendly way.
Desmas was quite aware, of course, of the history of Cowperwood and Stener.
The politicians had already given him warning that Stener, because of his past services to the community, was to be treated with special consideration.
Not so much was said about Cowperwood, although they did admit that his lot was rather hard.
Perhaps he might do a little something for him but at his own risk.
"Butler is down on him," Strobik said to Desmas, on one occasion.
"It's that girl of his that's at the bottom of it all.
If you listened to Butler you'd feed him on bread and water, but he isn't a bad fellow.