Fighting for fortune or, Making a place for himself
“Well, what is it?”
“I don’t understand it all, sir. I don’t know how I came here. I’m an
honest, respectable boy----”
“Lower tier, north gallery!”
That was all the warden said. To him the frantic, incoherent words of
Dean Mercer were but a repetition of those of every new, frightened
inmate of the place.
“Oh, sir, please listen to me!”
“Boy, if you want the dark cell again, keep on breaking the rules,”
interrupted the warden sternly.
Blinded with tears, staggering, anguished, Dean Mercer followed the
convict the warden had summoned.
They went out into a large yard. Crossing it to a sombre-looking cell
house, a man with a cane, who was watching a band of about twenty boys
picking oakum, halted the convict.
“New prisoner?” he asked shortly.
“Yes, sir.”
“Let him work here then. We’re two short from sickness.”
Just then the prison noon bell rang.
Dean Mercer looked up at the man with the cane.
“Can I speak to you, sir?”
“What do you want?”
“I wish to send word----”
“Impossible.”
“Or write a letter----”
“’Gainst rules. Letter day in three weeks. Form ranks. March to your
cells. Number 301, no dallying there, or we’ll put you in the solitary.”
A moan of anguish parted Dean Mercer’s lips, and then, like one doomed,
he followed the prisoners with leaden steps--a convict.
CHAPTER XVI.
HELPLESS AND HOPELESS.
The arm of the law is strong--it crushes hope out of a man’s life
sometimes, in the worst class of prisons. In a reform school it deals
even more strictly than in a penitentiary, for here boyish shrewdness
is feared fully as much as more matured plotting.
The institution in which Dean Mercer found himself to be a prisoner was
noted for its severe regime.
Once its doors closed on a convict the warden claimed that by the
legalized act he became dead to the outside world.
Until his term expired he was entombed alive, and the four solid
granite walls that encompassed the place shut him in to all the world
he was to know until released.
They were used to protestations, threats, misrepresentations at the
place, and even had Dean told his entire story no one would have
believed him.
“I am innocent,” a prisoner would say.
“Ah! indeed?”
“Unjustly sent here.”
“Sorry; but we are not a court of inquiry. We don’t try your case.”
“The judge was bribed to send me here.”
“Can’t help it. You’re here. Our duty is to see that you stay here
until your term expires.”
And that ended it.
Or----
“Can I write a letter to friends?”
“On letter day.”
“It is important.”
“On letter day.”
And that ended it, too.
The first night Dean Mercer slept in the narrow, confined cell to which
he was apportioned, he thought he would go mad with anxiety.
He had always led a free, roving life. Imprisonment was torture.
Worst of all, he was unjustly incarcerated, and he saw that he was
unable to send word to friends.
He now knew for a certainty that he was the victim of a plot, and the
possible object and results tormented him.
He chafed and wept, and the grim, silent walls seemed to mock his
misery.
Toward morning he slept a few brief moments, and, wearied and
depressed, he heard the bell ring to announce that a new day of work
had begun.
“Hold your cell door when locking, push it open at the signal,” sternly
ordered a guard to Dean.
The convicts, some six hundred of them, were marched to a room with
long tables.
As they passed them by, each boy would seize a large cup containing
coffee, and as much bread as he cared for.
Then, returning to their cells, they would dispatch this rude breakfast.
Half an hour later they formed in line, and were marched to the
different shops. Dean was taken with a gang of seventy to the oakum
sheds.
Here a guard with a heavy cane kept a cat-like watch over the boys
under his charge.
Dean did as he saw the others do, and worked as a welcome deviation
from monotony, to occupy his mind.
Finally some visitors passed by. Dean chanced to glance at them as they
passed on.
“Number 301,” spoke the guard, sternly.
“Yes, sir.”
“You looked up just now?”
Dean looked guilty.
“Next offence--the solitary.”
That was dreadful. All that day, when not working, the convicts were
required to fold their arms and sit with eyes cast down on the ground.
That night Dean was glad to get to his cell. He was tired, and slept
well, and he began to count the days intervening before letter day.
Then he would write to his friends and tell them of his strange
imprisonment.
Ah! they would soon come to the rescue. He would be free, and his
enemies discovered and punished, as soon as Judge Oglesby or Lawyer
Montague knew of his whereabouts.
The next day Dean was removed to a new field of usefulness. He welcomed
the change gladly, for the occupation was more varied and congenial.
There was a large garden fenced in near the warden’s house, and here he
and four other boys were set at work weeding, pruning and transplanting.
There was no guard here. Only the sentinel on the wall above kept an
occasional watch over them.
Dean thrilled, as about noon the first friendly voice he had heard
since entering those gloomy walls fell on his ears.
A boy near him, while pretending to be tying up a rose-bush, spoke in a
low tone to Dean.
“You’re the new one!” he whispered.
“Yes.”
“Thought so. 301?”
“That’s my number.”
“What are you in for?”
“I don’t know.”
“Oh! pshaw.”
“I don’t; they call it larceny or burglary, but I didn’t steal
anything, or break into anybody’s house.”
“Didn’t larce?” chuckled the boy.
“No, I didn’t!”
“Nor burgle?”
“I don’t know how.”
“Come off the perch! What are you giving me? You look a regular tough
one.”
This conversation, slangy and careless, disheartened Dean.
His next prison acquaintance struck him more favorably. He proved to
be a pale-faced, sad-looking boy, who whispered to Dean as the guard
walked down the wall, and they were unobserved.
“Ain’t you cell 44?”
“I think so,” responded Dean.
“I thought so. Are you onto the ventilator?”
“The ventilator?” asked Dean in surprise. “What about the ventilator?”
“It’s up in the corner. You can take it out and talk to the boy in the
next cell. I used to have that cell, and I tell you it was mighty fine
to be able to say a word or two without being sent to solitary.”
“Who’s in the next cell?” asked Dean.
“Don’t know. He’s a new one. Escaped from some institution, and was
caught and brought here.”
“How do you work the ventilator?”
“It lifts out. Hist! The guard is watching us.”
After supper that night Dean sat on his bunk until the guard had
passed. Then he carefully lifted out the ventilator and peered into the
tin aperture.
“Hist!” he whispered.
There was no response, and again he called, this time a trifle louder.
Then he heard a slight sound in the next cell, and a low voice asked:
“What is it? Who calls?”
“Take out your ventilator,” said Dean, “and then we can talk.”
The other boy fumbled at the ventilator in the next cell and presently
succeeded in removing it. Dean, who was peering through the dark hole,
managed to make out dimly a face at the other end of the opening.
“Hello,” said the unknown.
“Hello,” replied Dean, “thought you might like to talk a little. It’s
pretty lonely here.”
“Who are you?” asked the other boy.
“My name is Dean Mercer.”
“What! Dean Mercer? How came you here Dean?” cried the unknown, raising
his voice to a dangerous pitch in his evident excitement.
“And who are you?” asked Dean quickly realizing that he was talking
with some one who knew him.
“I’m Marcus Ellison!”
It was only by a great effort that Dean kept from crying out in
surprise.
“Marcus,” he whispered. “How came you here?”
“I was shanghaied and turned over to the police as a boy who had made
his escape from some reformatory, and I have not been able to make
anyone listen to me.”
“It’s the same way with me.”
“What happened?”
“I don’t know.”
“Don’t know?” said Marcus in surprise.
“No. I went to sleep on the _Spray_, and the next thing I knew I was
bound hand and foot in a wagon. Two men whom I didn’t know were in the
wagon, and one of them forced me to drink some stuff that put me to
sleep again. When I came to I was in this cell.”
“Strange. And you do not know who is responsible?”
“No; as I say, I did not know the men who had me captive.”
“I don’t care so much about myself, but it is a shame that I should
have lost those papers and money of father’s,” said Marcus.
“You lost them?”
“They were stolen from me by the men who captured me.”
“But they were officers, weren’t they?”
“No. They pretended to recognize me as the boy who had escaped, and
they turned me over to an officer and claimed the reward for my
capture. Hist! I think I hear the guard coming. We better quit talking
for to-night. It would be too bad to have them find out the ventilator
scheme. Want a paper?”
“A paper?”
“Yes, a newspaper.”
“I thought they only let you read the library books?”
“One of the boys who works in the warden’s house manages to swipe
a paper now and then, and we pass it around. This is the Millville
_Journal_, and it may interest you. I got it from the next cell to-day,
and have not had a chance to look at it yet. But I am in no hurry, and
it will interest you more than it will me.”
“Thank you.”
CHAPTER XVII.
STRANGE MYSTERIES.
Dean grasped the newspaper eagerly, replaced the ventilator and was
soon seated on his bunk and looking over the columns of the journal
that was welcome as a friend from home.
The gas jet in his cell was burning and he estimated that it would be
half an hour before the regulation time for its extinguishment would
arrive.
He looked over the paper with deep interest.
“Hello!” he gasped. “Marcus will see this. It is worse than ever. What
does all this muddle mean?”
It was veritably a muddle to Dean Mercer, the allusions in the paper he
read to his own case, some vague, some definite.
The first thing he saw was an item from Springfield. It read:
“The case of Robert Ellison, accused of the murder of James Conroyd,
is again postponed for trial. A claim is now made by the defence that
proofs of the entire innocence of Ellison were sent by a messenger by
Mr. Montague, of Millville, to Mr. Durand, the Springfield lawyer.
These proofs, they aver, have disappeared with the messenger, and time
is asked to find him and procure them.”
The next item startled Dean still more deeply. It appalled him. It
seemed as if a network was closing in upon him.
“The owner of the lake steamer, the _Spray_, burned mysteriously
night before last at the wharf at Springfield, will not build a new
craft this season. Judge Oglesby, however, is in the field of lake
traffic to stay, and it is hinted that a railroad around its shores is
contemplated.”
“The _Spray_--burned!” gasped Dean. “Is this another plot, all these
strange happenings? What is this?”
It was one of Lawyer Montague’s advertisements:
“D. M.--Keep the money, but for humanity’s sake, return the proofs of
R. E.’s innocence!
M.”
“My initials, and evidently signed by Montague!” breathed Dean wildly,
more and more mystified. “And he thinks I have disappeared with the
money and papers purposely. Oh, this must all be some dreadful plot
against me!”
This last discovery overwhelmed him. He knew the worst at last--knew
the full extent of what had happened since he last saw the _Spray_.
He was a thief, a fugitive--disgraced, condemned by all reputable
people!
“It’s awful!”
Yes, and mystifying, too. Dean Mercer felt like beating at his prison