to Jerusalem . . . but that is a story I shall tell you later. In
the meanwhile . . . .

CHAPTER IV
In the meanwhileobtained the horror of the dungeons, after the

discovery of the plot to break prison. And never, during those
eternal hours of waiting, was it absent from my consciousness" target="_blank" title="n.意识；觉悟；知觉">consciousness that I

should follow these other convicts out, endure the hells of
inquisition they endured, and be brought back a wreck and flung on

the stone floor of my stone-walled, iron-doored dungeon.
They came for me. Ungraciously and ungently, with blow and curse,

they haled me forth, and I faced Captain Jamie and Warden Atherton,
themselves arrayed with the strength of half a dozen state-bought,

tax-paid brutes of guards who lingered in the room to do any
bidding. But they were not needed.

"Sit down," said Warden Atherton, indicating a stout arm-chair.
I, beaten and sore, without water for a night long and a day long,

faint with hunger, weak from a beating that had been added to five
days in the dungeon and eighty hours in the jacket, oppressed by the

calamity of human fate, apprehensive of what was to happen to me
from what I had seen happen to the others--I, a wavering waif of a

human man and an erstwhile professor of agronomy in a quiet college
town, I hesitated to accept the invitation to sit down.

Warden Atherton was a large man and a very powerful man. His hands
flashed out to a grip on my shoulders. I was a straw in his

strength. He lifted me clear of the floor and crashed me down in
the chair.

" Now," he said, while I gasped and swallowed my pain, "tell me all
about it, Standing. Spit it out--all of it, if you know what's

healthy for you."
"I don't know anything about what has happened . . .", I began.

That was as far as I got. With a growl and a leap he was upon me.
Again he lifted me in the air and crashed me down into the chair.

"No nonsense, Standing," he warned. "Make a clean breast of it.
Where is the dynamite?"

"I don't know anything of any dynamite," I protested.
Once again I was lifted and smashed back into the chair.

I have endured tortures of various sorts, but when I reflect upon
them in the quietness of these my last days, I am confident that no

other torture was quite the equal of that chair torture. By my body
that stout chair was battered out of any semblance of a chair.

Another chair was brought, and in time that chair was demolished.
But more chairs were brought, and the eternal questioning about the

dynamite went on.
When Warden Atherton grew tired, Captain Jamie relieved him; and

then the guard Monohan took Captain Jamie's place in smashing me
down into the chair. And always it was dynamite, dynamite, "Where

is the dynamite?" and there was no dynamite. Why, toward the last I
would have given a large portion of my immortal soul for a few

pounds of dynamite to which I could confess.
I do not know how many chairs were broken by my body. I fainted

times without number, and toward the last the whole thing became
nightmarish. I was half-carried, half-shoved and dragged back to

the dark. There, when I became conscious, I found a stool in my
dungeon. He was a pallid-faced, little dope-fiend of a short-timer

who would do anything to obtain the drug. As soon as I recognized
him I crawled to the grating and shouted out along the corridor:

"There is a stool in with me, fellows! He's Ignatius Irvine! Watch
out what you say!"

The outburst of imprecations that went up would have shaken the
fortitude of a braver man than Ignatius Irvine. He was pitiful in

his terror, while all about him, roaring like beasts, the pain-
racked lifers told him what awful things they would do to him in the

years that were to come.
Had there been secrets, the presence of a stool in the dungeons

would have kept the men quiet, As it was, having all sworn to tell
the truth, they talked openly before Ignatius Irvine. The one great

puzzle was the dynamite, of which they were as much in the dark as
was I. They appealed to me. If I knew anything about the dynamite

they begged me to confess it and save them all from further misery.
And I could tell them only the truth, that I knew of no dynamite.

One thing the stool told me, before the guards removed him, showed
how serious was this matter of the dynamite. Of course, I passed

the word along, which was that not a wheel had turned in the prison
all day. The thousands of convict-workers had remained locked in

their cells, and the outlook was that not one of the various prison-
factories would be operated again until after the discovery of some

dynamite that somebody had hidden somewhere in the prison.
And ever the examination went on. Ever, one at a time, convicts

were dragged away and dragged or carried back again. They reported
that Warden Atherton and Captain Jamie, exhausted by their efforts,

relieved each other every two hours. While one slept, the other
examined. And they slept in their clothes in the very room in which

strong man after strong man was being broken.
And hour by hour, in the dark dungeons, our madness of torment grew.

Oh, trust me as one who knows, hanging is an easy thing compared
with the way live men may be hurt in all the life of them and still

live. I, too, suffered equally with them from pain and thirst; but
added to my suffering was the fact that I remained conscious to the

sufferings of the others. I had been an incorrigible for two years,
and my nerves and brain were hardened to suffering. It is a

frightful thing to see a strong man broken. About me, at the one
time, were forty strong men being broken. Ever the cry for water

went up, and the place became lunatic with the crying, sobbing,
babbling and raving of men in delirium.

Don't you see? Our truth, the very truth we told, was our
damnation. When forty men told the same things with such unanimity,

Warden Atherton and Captain Jamie could only conclude that the
testimony was a memorized lie which each of the forty rattled off

parrot-like.
From the standpoint of the authorities, their situation was as

desperate as ours. As I learned afterward, the Board of Prison
Directors had been summoned by telegraph, and two companies of state

militia were being rushed to the prison.
It was winter weather, and the frost is sometimes shrewd even in a

California winter. We had no blankets in the dungeons. Please know
that it is very cold to stretch bruised human flesh on frosty stone.

In the end they did give us water. Jeering and cursing us, the
guards ran in the fire-hoses and played the fierce streams on us,

dungeon by dungeon, hour after hour, until our bruised flesh was
battered all anew by the violence with which the water smote us,

until we stood knee-deep in the water which we had raved for and for
which now we raved to cease.

I shall skip the rest of what happened in the dungeons. In passing
I shall merely state that no one of those forty lifers was ever the

same again. Luigi Polazzo never recovered his reason. Long Bill
Hodge slowly lost his sanity, so that a year later, he, too, went to

live in Bughouse Alley. Oh, and others followed Hodge and Polazzo;
and others, whose physical stamina had been impaired, fell victims

to prison-tuberculosis. Fully 25 per cent. of the forty have died
in the succeeding six years.

After my five years in solitary, when they took me away from San
Quentin for my trial, I saw Skysail Jack. I could see little, for I

was blinking in the sunshine like a bat, after five years of
darkness; yet I saw enough of Skysail Jack to pain my heart. It was

in crossing the Prison Yard that I saw him. His hair had turned
white. He was prematurely old. His chest had caved in. His cheeks

were sunken. His hands shook as with palsy. He tottered as he
walked. And his eyes blurred with tears as he recognized me, for I,

too, was a sad wreck of what had once been a man. I weighed eighty-