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.