The Turn of the Balance
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"Yes, good news. The judge has refused the motion for a new trial."
"Den I vin for sure dis time, ain't it?"
"Yes, this time," said Marriott.
"I get my money now right avay?"
"Well, pretty soon."
The old man turned to Marriott with his blue eyes narrowed beneath the white brush of his eyebrows.
"Vot you mean by dot pretty soon?"
"Well, you see, Mr. Koerner, as I explained to you,"–Marriott set himself to the task of explaining the latest development in the case; he tried to present the proceedings in the Appellate Court in their most encouraging light, but he was conscious that Koerner understood nothing save that there were to be more delays.
"But we must be patient, Mr. Koerner," he said. "It will come out all right."
Koerner made no reply. To Marriott his figure was infinitely pathetic. He looked at the great face, lined and seamed; the eyes that saw nothing–not the little yard before them where the turf was growing green, not the blackened limbs of a little maple tree struggling to put forth its leaves, not the warm mud glistening in the sun, not the dirty street piled with ashes, not the broken fence and sidewalk, the ugly little houses across the street, nor the purple sky above them–they were gazing beyond all this. Marriott looked at the old man's lips; they trembled, then they puckered themselves about the stem of his pipe and puffed automatically. Marriott, hanging his head, lighted a cigarette.
"Mis'er Marriott," Koerner began presently, "I been an oldt man. I been an hones' man; py Gott! I vork hardt efery day. I haf blenty troubles. I t'ink ven I lose dot damned oldt leg, I t'ink, vell, maybe I get some rest now bretty soon. I say to dot oldt leg: 'You bin achin' mit der rheumatiz all dose year, now you haf to kvit, py Gott!' I t'ink I get some rest, I get some dose damages, den maybe I take der oldt voman undt dose childer undt I go out to der oldt gountry; I go back to Chairmany, undt I haf some peace dere. Vell–dot's been a long time, Mis'er Marriott; dot law, he's a damn humpug; he's bin fer der railroadt gompany; he's not been fer der boor man. Der boor man, he's got no show. Dot's been a long time. Maybe, by undt by I die–dot case, he's still go on, huh?"
The old man looked at Marriott quizzically.
"Vell, I gan't go out to der oldt gountry now any more. I haf more drouble–dot poy Archie–vell, he bin in drouble too, and now my girl, dot Gusta–"
The old man's lips trembled.
"Vell, she's gone, too."
A tear was rolling down Koerner's cheek. Marriott could not answer him just then; he did not dare to look; he could scarcely bear to think of this old man, with his dream of going home to the Fatherland–and all his disappointments. Suddenly, the spring had receded again; the air was chill, the sun lost its warmth, the sky took on the pale, cold glitter of the days he thought were gone. He could hear Koerner's lips puffing at his pipe. Suddenly, a suspicion came to him.
"Mr. Koerner," he asked, "why aren't you smoking?"
The old man seemed ashamed.
"Tell me," Marriott demanded.
"Vell–dot's all right. I hain't–chust got der tobacco."
The truth flashed on Marriott; this was deprivation–when a man could not get tobacco! He thought an instant; then he drew out his case of cigarettes, took them, broke their papers and seizing Koerner's hand said:
"Here, here's a pipeful, anyway; this'll do till I can send you some."
And he poured the tobacco into Koerner's bare palm. The old man took the tobacco, pressed it into the bowl of his pipe, Marriott struck a match, Koerner lighted his pipe, and sat a few moments in the comfort of smoking again.
"Dot's bretty goodt," he said presently. He smoked on. After a while he turned to Marriott with his old shrewd, humorous glance, his blue eyes twinkled, his white brows twitched.
"Vell, Mis'er Marriott, you nefer t'ought you see der oldt man shmokin' cigarettes, huh?"
Marriott laughed, glad of the relief, and glad of the new sense of comradeship the tobacco brought.
"Now tell me, Mr. Koerner," he said, "are you in want–do you need anything?"
Koerner did not reply at once.
"Come on now," Marriott urged, "tell me–have you anything to eat in the house?"
"Vell," Koerner admitted, "not much."
"Have you anything at all to eat?"
Koerner hung his head then, in the strange, unaccountable shame people feel in poverty.
"Vell, I–undt der oldt voman–ve hafn't had anyt'ing to eat to-day."
"And the children?"
"Ve gif dem der last dis morning alreadty."
Marriott closed his eyes in the pain of it. He reproached himself that he who argued so glibly that people in general lack the cultured imagination that would enable them to realize the plight of the submerged poor, should have had this condition so long under his very eyes and not have seen it. He was humbled, and then he was angry with himself–an anger he was instantly able to change into an anger with Koerner.
"Well, Mr. Koerner," he said. "I don't know that I ought to sympathize with you, after all. You might have told me; you might have known I should be glad to help you; you might have saved me–"
He was about to add "the pain," but he recognized the selfishness of this view, and paused.
"I'll help you, of course," he went on. "My God, man, you mustn't go hungry! Won't the grocer trust you?"
The old man was humbled now, and this humility, this final acquiescence and submission, this rare spirit beaten down and broken at last, this was hardest of all to bear, unless it were his own self-consciousness in this presence of humiliated age–these white hairs and he himself so young! He felt like turning from the indignity of this poverty, as if he had been intruding on another's unmerited shame.
"I'll go and attend to it," said Marriott, rising at once.
"No, you vait," said Koerner, "chust a minute. You know my boy, Mis'er Marriott, Archie? Vell, I write him aboudt der case, but I don't get a answer. He used to write eff'ry two veeks, undt now–he don't write no more. Vot you t'ink, huh?" The old man looked up at him in the hunger of soul that is even more dreadful than the hunger of body.
"I'll attend to that, too, Mr. Koerner; I'll write down and find out, and I'll let you know."
"Undt Gusta," the old man began as if, having opened his heart at last, he would unburden it of all its woes–but he paused and shook his head slowly. "Dot's no use, I guess. De veat'er's getting bedder now, undt maybe I get out some; maybe I look her up undt find her."
"You don't know where she is?"
The white head shook again.
"She's go avay–she's got in trouble, too."
In trouble! It was all the same to him–poverty, hunger, misfortune, guilt, frailty, false steps, crime, sin–to these wise poor, thought Marriott, it was all just "trouble."
"But it will be all right," he said, "and I'll advance you what money you need. I'll write to the warden about Archie, we'll find Gusta, and we'll win the case." He thought again–the old man might as well have his dream, too. "You'll go back to Germany yet, you'll see."
Koerner looked up, clutching at hope again.
"You t'ink dot? You t'ink I vin, huh?"
"Sure," said Marriott heartily, determined to drag joy back into the world.
"Py Gott, dot's goodt! I guess I beat dot gompany. I vork for it dose t'irty-sefen year; den dey turn me off. Vell, I beat him, yet. Chust let dot lawyer Ford talk; let him talk his damned headt off. I beat him–some day."
"I'll go now, Mr. Koerner. I'll speak to the grocer, and I'll send you something so you can have a little supper. No, don't get up."
Koerner stretched forth his hand.
"You bin a goodt friendt, Mis'er Marriott."
Marriott went to the grocery on the corner. The grocer, a little man, very fat, ran about filling his orders, sickening Marriott with his petty sycophancy.
"Some bacon? Yes, sir. Sugar, butter, bread? Yes, sir. Coffee? Here you are, sir. Potatoes–about a peck, sir?"
Marriott, with no notion of what he should buy, bought everything, and added some tobacco for Koerner and some candy for the children. And when he had arranged with the grocer for an extension of credit to Koerner on his own promise to pay–a promise the canny grocer had Marriott indorse on the card he gave him–Marriott went away with some of the satisfaction of his good deed; but the grace of spring had gone out of the day and would not now return.
XX
The reason why Archie had not answered his father's letter was a simple one. On that spring afternoon while Koerner and Marriott were sitting on the stoop, Archie, stripped to the waist, was hanging by his wrists from the ceiling of a dungeon, called a bull cell, in the cellar under the chapel, his bare feet just touching the floor. He had been hanging there for three days. At night he was let down and given a piece of bread and a cup of water, and allowed to lie on the floor, still handcuffed. At morning guards came, raised Archie, lifted him up, and chained his wrists to the bull rings. Later, Deputy Warden Ball sauntered by with his cane hooked over his arm, peered in through the bars, smiled, and said, in his peculiar soft voice:
"Well, Archie, my boy, had enough?"
McBride, the contractor, who had picked Archie out of the group of new convicts in the idle house the day after he arrived at the prison, had set him to work in a shop known as "Bolt B." His work was to make iron bolts, and all day long, from seven in the morning until five in the afternoon, he stood with one foot on the treadle, sticking little bits of iron into the maw of the machine and snatching them out again. At dinner-time the convicts marched out of the shop, stood in close-locked ranks until the whistle blew, and then marched across the yard to the dining-room for their sky-blue, their bread, their molasses and their boot-leg. Archie had watched the seasons change in this yard, he had seen its grass-plot fade and the leaves of its stunted trees turn yellow, he had seen it piled with snow and ice; now it was turning green with spring, just like the world outside. Sometimes, as they passed, he caught a glimpse of the death-squad–the men who were being kept until they could be killed in the electric chair–taking their daily exercise, curiously enough, for the benefit of their health. This squad varied in numbers. Sometimes there were a dozen, then there would come a night of horror when the floor of the cell-house was deadened with saw-dust. The next day one would be missing; only eleven would be exercising for their health. Then would come other nights of horror, and the squad would decrease until there were but six. But soon it would begin to increase again, and the number would run up to the normal. Sometimes, in summer, the Sunday-school excursionists had an opportunity to see the death-squad. Archie had seen the children, held by a sick, morbid interest, shrink when the men marched by, as if they were something other than mere people.
Each evening Archie and the other convicts marched again to the dining-room, and ate bread and molasses; then they sat in their cells for an hour while the cell-house echoed with the twanging of guitars and banjos, mouth-organs, jews'-harps, accordeons, and the raucous voices of the peddlers–a hideous bedlam. Those who had hall-permits talked with one another, or with friendly guards. Sometimes, if the guard were "right," he gave Archie a candle and permitted him to read after the lights were out.
All week-days were alike. On Sunday they went to chapel and listened to the chaplain talk about Christ, who, it was said, came to preach deliverance to the captives. The chaplain told the convicts they could save their souls in the world to which they would go when they died, if they believed on Christ. Archie did not understand what it was that he was expected to believe, any more than he had when the sky-pilot at the works had said very much the same thing. It could not be that they expected him to believe that Christ came to preach deliverance to captives such as he. So he paid no attention to the sky-pilot. He found it more interesting to watch the death-squad, who, as likely to go to that world before any of the others, were given seats in the front pews. Near the death-squad were several convicts in chains. They were considered to be extremely bad and greatly in need of religion. The authorities, it seemed, were determined to give them this religion, even if they had to hold them in chains while they did so. In the corners of the chapel, behind protecting iron bars, were guards armed with rifles, who vigilantly watched the convicts while the chaplain preached to them the religion of the gentle Nazarene. The chaplain said it was the religion of the gentle Nazarene, but in reality it was the religion of Moses, or sometimes that of Paul, and even of later men that he preached to the convicts rather than the religion of Jesus. The convicts did not know this, however. Neither did the chaplain.
Yes, the days were exactly alike, especially as to the work, for Archie was required to turn out hundreds of bolts a day; a minimum number was fixed, and this was called a "task." If he did not do this task, he was punished. It was difficult to perform this task; only by toiling incessantly every minute could he succeed. And even then it was hard, for in addition to keeping his eye on his machine, he had to keep his eye on the pile of bolts beside him, for the other convicts would rat; that is, steal from his pile in order to lessen their own tasks. For those bolts that were spoiled, Archie was given no credit; every hour an inspector came around, looked the bolts over and threw out those that were defective. For this toil, which was unpaid and in which he took no pride and found no joy because it was ugly and without any result to him, Archie felt nothing but loathing. This feeling was common among all the men in the shop; they resorted to all sorts of devices to escape it; some of them allowed the machines to snip off the ends of their fingers so they could work no more; others found a friend in Sweeny, the confidence man who was serving a five-year sentence and was detailed as a steward in the hospital. When they were in the hospital, Sweeny would burn the end of a finger with acid, rub dirt on it, and when it festered, amputate the finger.
Belden, who worked a machine next to Archie, did that; but only as a last resort.
"It's no use for me to learn this trade," he said to Archie one day when the guard was at the other end of the shop.
"Why not?"
"'Cause I'll be on the street in two months; my mouthpiece's going to take my case to the Supreme Court, and he's sure to have it reversed. All I got to do's to raise a hundred and fifty case; I've written my mother, and she's already saved up seventy-eight. There's nothing to it. Me learn to make these damned bolts for McBride? I guess not!"
Belden talked a great deal about his case in the Supreme Court. Many of the convicts did that. They did everything to raise money for their lawyers. After Belden's attorney had taken the case up, and failed, Belden made application for pardon; and this required more money. His mother was saving up again. But this failed also; then Belden feigned sickness, was sent to the hospital; and they all admired him for his success.
Archie was sick once, and after three sick calls–he was, in reality, utterly miserable and suffered greatly–the physician, who, like every one else in the penitentiary, was controlled by the contractors, gave in and sent him to the hospital. Though the hospital was a filthy place, Archie for two days enjoyed the rest he found there. Then Sweeny told him that the bed he occupied had not been changed since a consumptive had died in it the day before Archie arrived.
"You stick to that pad," said Sweeny, "and the croakers'll be peddling your stiff in a month."
Sweeny was accounted very wise, as indeed he was; for he held his position by reason of his discovery that the doctor was supplying his brother, who kept a drugstore outside, with medicines, silk bandages, plasters and surgical instruments.
Archie recovered then and went back to Bolt B.
After his return things went better for a while, because, to his surprise, the Kid, of whom he had heard in the jail at home, was there working at the machine next to his. The Kid had been transferred to that shop because he had utterly demoralized Bolt A, where he had been working. The little pickpocket, indeed, had been tried on all kinds of work–in the broom factory, in the cigar factory, in the foundry, everywhere, but he could not long be tolerated anywhere. His presence was too diverting. He was taken from the broom shop because he amused himself at the expense of a country boy sent up for grand larceny, whom, as the country boy thought, he was teaching to be a prowler. In the cigar shop he made another unsophisticated boy think that he could teach him the secret of making "cluck," or counterfeit money; and he went so far as to give him a can of soft gray earth, which the convict thought was crude silver, and some broken glass to give the metal the proper ring. The convict hid this rubbish in his cell and jealously guarded it; he was to be released in a month. For a while the warden employed the Kid about the office, but one day he said to one of the trusties, an old life man who had been in the prison twenty years, until his mind had weakened under the confinement:
"What do you want to stay around here for? Ain't there other countries besides this?"
The old man sniggered in his silly way, then he went to the warden, and hanging his head with a demented leer said:
"Warden, the Kid said there's other countries besides this."
He stood, swaying like a doltish school-boy from side to side, grinning, with his tongue lolling over his lips.
The warden summoned the Kid.
"What do you mean," he said, "putting notions in old Farlow's head?"
The Kid was surprised.
"Oh, come off," said the warden impatiently. "You know–telling him there were other countries besides this?"
"Oh!" said the Kid with sudden illumination. "Oh, now I know what you mean!" And he laughed. "He asked me where I was from and I told him Canada. Then he wanted to know if Canada was in this country, and I told him there were other countries besides this."
"You're too smart, Willie," said the warden. "You'd better go back to the shops."
They tried all the punishments, the paddle, the battery, the water-cure, the bull rings, but nothing availed to break the Kid's spirit. Then he was put on a bolt machine.
There was a convict named Dalton working near Archie and the Kid. Dalton had but one thought left in his mind, and this was that when he got out he would go to where he had concealed a kit of burglar tools. He had been the victim of some earlier practical jokers in the penitentiary, and had had a locksmith fashion for him tools such as no burglar ever needed or used in a business in which a jimmy, a piece of broom-stick and creepers are all the paraphernalia necessary. Dalton still had fourteen years to serve.
"Well, Jack, how's everything this morning?" the Kid would ask as soon as the guard went down to the other end of the shop.
"Oh, all right," Dalton would reply. Then he would grow serious, grit his teeth, clench his fist for emphasis and say: "Just wait till I get home! By God, if any one springs that kit of mine, I'll croak him!"
"Where's the plant?" the Kid would ask. "In the jungle?"
"Oh, you'll never find out!" Dalton would reply warily.
"Some of the hoosiers or the bulls are likely to spring it," the Kid would suggest.
The possibility tortured Dalton.
"By God," he could only say, "if they do–I'll croak 'em!"
"I wouldn't do that," said the Kid. "Get Dutch here to take you out with a tribe of peter men; he can teach you to pour the soup. Can't you get a little soup and some strings and begin with him now, Archie?"
"Sure," said Archie, grinning, proud to be thus recognized.
"That's the grift; we'll nick the screw; and when you go home you'll be ready to–"
"No," said Dalton determinedly, "I've got them tools planted–but–"
"Why don't you take him out with a swell mob of guns?" suggested Archie.
"Think he could stall for the dip?" asked the Kid. "What do you think, Jack?"
"I'll stick to prowlin'," said Dalton, shaking his head and muttering to himself.
"He's stir simple," remarked the Kid, not without pity.
But the Kid was tired of his new occupation.
"I don't believe I'm a very good bolt-maker," he said to Archie.
"You might cut off a finger, or get Sweeny–"
"Nix," said the Kid. "Not for Willie. I'll need my finger. I'd do a nice job of reefing a kick with a finger gone, wouldn't I?" He looked at his fingers, rapidly stiffening under the rough, hard work.
"Didn't I tell you to stop that spieling?" demanded a guard who had slipped up behind him.
The Kid gave the guard a look that expressed the contempt he felt for him better than any words.
"I'll report you for insolence," said the guard angrily.
"For what?" said the Kid.
"Insolence."
"How could you?" asked the Kid calmly. "You couldn't spell the word."
The guard made a mark on his card.
"You'll be stood out for that," said the guard. The Kid's face darkened, but he controlled himself. For he had another plan.
A few days later he said to Archie:
"Are you on to that inspector?"
"What for?" asked Archie.
"He's boostin' bolts."
Archie thought of this for a long time. It took several days for him to realize a new idea. The inspector, in pretending to throw out defective bolts, threw out quite as many perfect ones. These were boxed, shipped and sold by the contractor, who pocketed the entire proceeds without reporting them to the authorities. The Kid had discovered this system after a week of experience in having his labor stolen from him, and the inspector, more and more greedy, had grown bolder, until now he was stealing large quantities of bolts; and the tasks of Archie and the Kid were becoming more and more impossible of performance. The Kid was silent for days; his brows contracted as he jumped nimbly up and down before his clanking machine. Then one day when McBride was in the shop the Kid obtained permission to speak to him.
"Mr. McBride," he said, "I want a thousand dollars."
McBride took his cigar from his lips, flecked some dust from his new top-coat, and a laugh spread over his rough red face.
"What's the kid this time, Willie?"
"This is on the square," said the Kid. "I want a thousand case, that's all."
McBride saw that he was serious for once.
"I'll blow it off, if you don't," said the Kid.
"Blow what off?"
"The graft."
"What graft?"
"The defectives–oh, you know!"
McBride turned ashen, then his face blazed suddenly with rage.
"I'll report you for this insolence!"
"All right," said the Kid, "I'll report you for stealing. It ain't moral, the sky-pilot says."
Archie saw the Kid no more after that evening; he was "stood out" at roll-call; and in the way the news of the little insular world inclosed in the prison walls spreads among its inmates, he heard that the Kid had been given the paddle and had been hung up in the cellar. When his punishment was ended, he was transferred to the shoe shop and set to work making paper soles for shoes. But he did not work long. He soon conceived a plan which for two years was to baffle all the prison authorities, especially the physicians. He developed a disease of the nerves; he said it was the result of running a bolt machine and of his subsequent punishment. The theory he imparted to the doctors, in his innocent manner, was that the blows of the paddle with the hanging had bruised and stretched his spine.
The symptoms of the Kid's strange affliction were these: he could not stand still for an instant; his nerves seemed entirely demoralized, his muscles beyond control. He would stand before the doctors and twitch and spasmodically shuffle his feet for hours, while the doctors, those on the prison staff and those from outside, held consultations. Opinions differed widely. Some said that the Kid was malingering, others that his spine was really affected. Day after day the doctors examined him; they tested the accommodation of the pupils of the eyes, they had him walk blindfolded, they tested his extremities with heat and cold, with needles, and with electricity. Then they seated him, had him cross his legs and struck him below the knee-cap, testing his reflex action. Strangely enough, his reflexes were defective.