THE AWAITED HOUR.

Press, Volume LXIV, Issue 13151, 25 June 1908, Page 10

THE AWAITED HOUR.

Bt Ecoiar- Manv>v_ Khodm. | Tho Reverend Frank Long, newlyappointed chaplain of the penitentiary, - turned his eyes to the warden. "What can you tell mc of No. 1237?" . iio said. "So you've noticed Colby?" replied the warden. "As. it happens, I can . teH you all about him; he was sent , up from this very town." "Ono-i would think that people in a penitentiary town would be especially circumspect." said Long. "'What was his offence?" ''He was convicted of forging the name of his employer—Farwell, the / banker—to the endorsement of a large cheque that was sent to a New York broker with an order calling for a thousand shams of Tidewater TerTidewater jumped thirty '- points in as many days. Colby might have cleared.a fortune, but ho was dcv tected. The broker had done business ■with. Farwell; the signature aroused his suspicions. He- made inquiries; Farwell denied the. signature." The waaden. halted. "Er—Farwell acted very decent ahout it. He tried to keep the broker from prosecuting— so the latter stated, on the stand — and gave his . evidence with reluctance. Colby's defence was curious, too. Ho pointed

out how clumsy the forgery was, made imitations of Farwett's signature that couldn't bo picked from, the real thing; assured the jury that the forgery wouid have been still undetected had it been his work. Ho denied anyi knowledge of the ietter, order, or cheque, and swore the whole affair was a carefully laid conspiracy to ruinf him." "Is—is there doubt about his guilt?" asked the Reverend Frank. The warden evaded. "The evidence was direct and absolute. The trial judge—since exposed as an unholy scoundrel—gave him fourteen yeara. He has been here six." "Fourteen , years!" cried the Roverend Frank. "For a firsi offence! Awful!-' The,warden spoke fast. "Colby was a brilliant young follow,, just getting hie stride.. He had a happy home " He hesitated. "Conviction of felony gives a divorce here you know?" The chaplain nodded. "Well—Colby's wife is married to Farwell now. It has an ugly look. . . The doctor reports him perfectly sound in mind and body. Your predeeeesor's effort to got in touch with him was met with perfect indifference. Colby hasn't beliefs nor doubts; wants neither consolation nor sympathy. When ho first came, he asked for hard work—his only reqxiest. We put him to firing the engines. Ho has done his work, violated no rules, made no complaints, expressed no , desires, repelled all advances." The Reverend Frank shuddered. What were this prisoner's thoughts as ho held aloof, self-contained, brooding, through the long, silent years? On nis way to his rooms, he stopped «nd let tho cool wind blow over his bared head. "Fourteen years! Merciful God. r ' said the Reverend Frank. "And the man may be innocent!" Within the massive- prison were oonvicte of all kinds: brazen, unblushing rogues, already planning fresh crimes; men sullen, stubborn, and dangerous; men broken in mind and body; canting hypocrites, sanctimonious of phrase and face; savage and blasphemous wretches. Some who, with humble and oontrite hearts; endured the penalty of their wrong-doing—for even in a penitentiary there are penitents: some few who. with high courage, planned to begin life anew, to retrieve the false step. Convicts loudly protesting entire innocence; convicts wistfully silent, seeing the uselessness of pro- ! test; pitiful winners, blaming others for their own faults. Chronic grumblers, with petty grievances; fawners, | toadies, spies; cool, defiant, hardened ! scoundrels. Reformers, too — yes, heroes—fighting hopelessly, desperate- ! ly. against unjust rules, losing every battle, yet often winning in the long run. Model prisoners, cheerfully making .tiho best of a bad business, setting a good-natured example; model prisonons, again, with a selfish ey© to tho rewards of good conduct. Weaklings—effortless, uncaring, motiveless; strong men, with the pricelese gift of making their strength a refuge for tho weak; others as strong, born to the jfreedom of storm and sea, whoso wild hearts beat at the iron walls, and broke- with their own fierce struggles. A strange, sad world locked within tho four grey walls—much like the world they locked out. _ Among them, resembling none, 1237 moved like a shadow in a dream, untouched by ehanie, dishonour, or degradation; his manhood unshaken, his courage unbroken; wasting no strength of body or mind in grief, in rage, in rebellion. Petty tyrannies or well-meant favours he accepted with neither resentment nor gratitude. There was no outcry, no complaint, no .comment, eyeju. _He wrotei no letters.. fc.- I .:- .' • ..•"""'. .._•.;>■:'.■ •-■•■■■ .... \ .

received none, made no inquiries. During his third year the warden sent ior him and told him of his wife's marriage to Farwell; 1237 evinced no surprise, sorrow, or anger. Indeed, [or all interest he slwr.ved in the ordinary affairs of life., for aU the evidence- of feeling—regret, memory, leve, hatred, fear, or hope—l 237 had turned to rock. Ho went about his work un-seeing. unheeding, absorbed. Vot at tim«» 7 when saro that he was alone, something hotter than the fires ho tended burned in his eyes, as the furnace floors, when swung open, let the dazzling light leap out across the dark. Then the doors dose with a chin", and the doom fails heavy again. iluch like 12S7's own eouV was the engine-room. Save at these flashes it was always dim twilight in the vast, dusty place. The great doors were ioekod and barred, opening only for thfe lock-stopped march of the firemen to tlioir work, or back to tiieir celte. Guards and convicts were at home in •ahis &enu-darkno;ss; but a visitor's <-ye& could discern only denser shadows moving in obscurity, till the door was thrown open and he caught a momentary glimpse of the Inferno and the toilin" Demons of the Pit; or of the mighty fly-wheel, tireless, silent, threatening. Just under the eaves, forty feet above the floor, there was a window in one of the otherwise blank walls. Before it the spinning belt passed on its endless journey xo the wheels above. On clear days, the sunlight buret in at this window and &mote down through the shadows like a beautiful thought, making gloom. 1237 watched the great belt sway and swing, sweeping resistlessly onward, flashing from darkness to mystery across this narrow shaft of trembling light, on to outer mystery—like Jife. Watched, too the dancing motes in the sunlight — unnumbered mazy myriads, drifting, floating, caught up by unseen currents whirled hither and thither; as helpless, thought 1237, as even men might be. . Well-led philosophers, prosperous and complacent, might have pointed oat t'ho unchanging purpose of the wlnrliii" , belt; might hare shown that each slightest atom, in its wildest vagaries, was as true to immutable Law as all the systems of leagued and obedient suns, and have drawn comfortable philosophies therefrom. No. 1237 was no philosopher: he was a man wronged, betrayed, robbed of youth and love and hqpe. and happiness by those he trusted most. To him, these daraiing atoms were typos of lives, worlds, systems, blown by the merest breath of chance, wandering— forsaken —into nothingness and night; hurled aimlessly into the abyss of eterrcity by some reckless Force, powerful, pitiless, and blind. And he waited; waited, with every energy of heart and body and brain turned to one unwavering, resolute, patient purpose—Revenge. One evening, when the whistle blew and the convict firemen lined up to be marched to their cells, tiho idea came to him as he watched the gradual slowing down of the enormous flywheeV, For many nights thereafter lie watched it, calculated how many revolutions it made after steam was shut off; how many times the belt lacing flashed by before it stopped. Slowly, patiently, he wrought out his plans—; searching foir flaws, weak places; rejecting, altering, adjusting, elaborating, perfecting; foreseeing everything, leaving no detail to chance, no emergency uncovered. •> No. 1237 was the only fixture in ibo engine-room. Tho others were changed from time to time. Carefully, after long waiting, he selected a fit instrument from them to serve ihis need. His choice fell at last upon Jimmy Adams—No. 942—a confirmed criminaJ, whose term expired,-wibhin the year. He began talking to 942—a thing easily done here, despite prohibitions, under cover of the endless noises. When work brought them close, without turning his head toward 942, ho told him—a sentence or a phrase at a time—his history and his plans; explained where ho would need 942 when set at liberty, and what his reward would be. Colby had several thousand dollars in safe hands. This, Adams was to receive by way of earnest money; more, with small risk to himself, if all wont well. If Adams refused or betrayed him —-well, Colby would be out come day. Adams had no notion of treachery. Hardy and daring though he was,' 1237 had gained complete ascendancy over him. The Plan*chilled his blood, vet ho shrank from incurring the enmity of this man./whoso unflinching, and desperate resolution appalled and fascinated him by turns. After weeks of drilling, 1237 gave him final instructions. "When all arrangements are complete—when Farwcll will certainly bo at home a«d alone, you will have a letter sent to the chaplain announcing tho death of my brother at Pittsburg. If I am to escape on the Tuesday following, my brother died on Tuesday; if on some other day, his death must take place accordingly." Months of patient waiting followed the release of 942. before all the conditions Colby had specified wore in conjunction. But at last fclie chaplain songht him out and told him that his brother had died in Pittsburg, on the previous Thursday. This was Monday. Thursday night, as the whistle blew, 1237 stepped back from his furnace door. Tho tumult dwindled from a roar to a lessening clatter. The blur of spokes in the enormous wheel tunned to definite shape as it slowed down; the great belt flopped un and down loosely. 1237, coming slowly, could see the laced work of the joined ende flying down —closer —closer—now! Hβ jumped, grasping, the edges of the belt. He was jerked from his feet and whirled upward. Death above him,-* below, behind, before him, shouted end waited. Death in the mangling wheels if ho went too far, death if he fell, death if tho guards should guess. Be swung his body from tho swaying belt, under it, backward and forward —hurled himself through the air. . . His hands clutched the window-sill. Ho drew himself up; the window framed him a* second. Vaulting swiftly over the sill, he dropped to the sloping shed roof outside, slipped, slid down, shot through the air and lit on the earth at last, jarred but un- ' "Not till ho landed did the guards realise that an escape had been carried out before their eyes. They unlocked the great doors, fumbling the key in their haste. They were just in time to see a black horse round the corner at top speed. On his back crouched a figure in the familiar convict garb. Shouts, rifle-shots, clanging of bells! North, south, east. west, the telegraph flashed its warning. Men rode forth in furious pursuit, only to find that the fugitive had gained the hill-crest, far out of gunshot. "On his job, that fellow." said one, as they raced along. '*He'S heading for the swamp, where the dogs cant follow. No chance to head him off by wire neither. He's pretty apt to make a get-away. Plenty of nerve! "I'd take a lifer before Id ride that belt." said another. The pur&ult streamed out across the country. Just before-dark, the foremost dashed through & covered bridge. In a lonely stretch beyond they came upon the panting black horse, a bu.sgv, a set of harness strewn on the ground, and a much-excited man, who said his horse had just been, taken from him by a convict. They rode on. But dark fell before they reached the swamp. So they rounded it in opposite directions, giyinc tho-alarm to farmers; one rode] slowly back to report. The black horse and the buggy were gone. So were Adams, erstwhile 942, who, dad m an imitation convict suit, fcad ridden tJie horse to the bridge, and Adams* coa- • v" ■

federate, who, under <x>ver of thr bridge, had taken Adams'e place and ridden on. leaving Adams to hide till the pursuit had streamed by. By successive degrees the fugitive vanished into thin nir. The guards knew he was in the swamp. Meanwhile, within Ton feet of the rniU wall, 1237 lay under a pile of lumber. When it was quit* dark Ke crawled out, dragging a suit-case after him. In tho deep shadow he stripped off the convict, suit, exchajigin-2 it for a shabby, worn onn irom the suit-case. He next, pnt on a wig, a board, amd a moustache, and walked atvay. In the poorer part of town he entered a ohoap lodgiiw-house. Here he took a bath, earekrijy removing all traces of tho oca.l grime, and substituted decent clothes for tho shabby ones. Next he checked off the. further contents of the t=uit-caeo. Handcuffs, a length of stout rope, a Kwded sixshooter, money, a railroad ticket, two shining keys. '"All complete!" he said grimly. "Adams has earned his pay." At a modest hotel he ordered supper brought to his room, and studied railroad time-tables in fhe daily. "I will lea.vo about midnight," he said, as he paid his bill and took tho key. Roger Farwell eat in his private room at home, planning certain shrewd operations thivt were to double- his capital. That his sain was not in the course of production, but the exact measure- of others' lossee, troubled him not a whit. . Yes, he was particularly well pleased with his cleverness to-night. A smile flitted over his smooth, handsome face as he reviewed his successes past and prospective. He had a luxurious home, a beautiful wife-, and was in a fair way to become a millionaire. Also he was a power in local politics. Young, healthy, popular—in his fa.ncy, honour after honour came within his- reach. How h« had outstripped all the other boys he had known! He thought of them with smiling contempt —plodding along, most of them, with no outlook but year after year of grinding toil, no reward but the barest necessities of life. Weaklings—slaves of copy-book morality, predestined to serve such as himself* The men who had opposed Wka, or merely stood in his way—liow lie had crushed thorn! Strong men 'had fallen before hie patience, skill, and resource; gifted men served his cunning. From these comforta.hle thoughts no was roused by a sha<low on the det>k before him—the shadow of a. man. Fa.rwell swung round and sprang to his feet. A grim, masked figure held a pun in a motionless hand. "Very quietly!" said an even voice, in the mosj; matter-of-fact tones. ...nnoyrog, thought Farwell, as Mβ hands weiiit up. It was not worth while to take chainces for tho paltry sum ho had with him. "Turn and cross your hands behind your back," said the conventional voice. l<'arwoll obeyed—a pair of handcuffs snapped on his wrists. "You'll bo sent up for this—you scoundrel!" he gritted out. "Perhaps, perhaps—one can never tell. You never have had them on before? —I have." Something hard and cold pressed against the banker's ear'e; a gag w-as forced'into his mouth. "My business here will take sometime. I can't have you giving an alarm," explained the burglar. lie stepped back, returning with a ropu. He adjusted tho hangman's loop to Farwell's neck,'threw tho loose end over the chandelier, drew up a chair, and pulled on tho rope. The banker stepped up in the chair, and the other fastened the rope tightly. Farwell was fuTious. .Not tfeat he feared for his life; but it was obvious that he would have to stand in this humuliatin-g position till the eervansts found him in the morning. This was the burglar's device to prevent him from giving tho alarm. The burglar stripped the desk of its consents, threw them into the* fireplace, and touched a match to them, while the horrified banker squirmed in protest. Then, with nonchalant certainty, ho opened a secret drawer and took otit a bundlo of the banker's most sacred and private papers, tho inside records of certain transactions of the past. . Sweat stood on Farwell's face. Visions of blackmail floated before him. Ho was completely in this man's power, if the man but knew it. And the stranger was glancing over the documents, nodding his head understandingly. ' . "Changed your combination, I see!" said tho robber, putting the papers in his pocket. Farwell felt a trembling in his knees. To-morrow was pay day at the mines, and he had an unusually largo sum at the bank for cashing tho pay cheques, as well as funds for a certain deal shortly to bo put into execution. To lose this would undo the work of years. It would require all his skill and his credit, to prevent a crash. And he would be bled in the future. Who was this man who know his most intimate secrets? But one other had ever known that hidden drawer, and he— His scalp prickled in fear of he knew not what . . . something unguessed . . . '. horrible . . . fatal. If the man woidd only speak! Why did he sit there, silent, inscrutable, -detached? Farwell began to bo aware of the insistent, tireless, ticking of tho clock above the desk. • The burglar rose, took the portrait of Farwell's wife from the desk, tore it carelessly into strips, tossed them on the floor. The banker's heart slowed down to half-minute thuds. Tick-tock; tick, tock! When that clock had struck last, how he had congratulated himself on his rosy prospects! A memory drifted through his numbing brain . . "Thou fool, this night thy soul shall be required of tliee. , ' '* With a gesture of courtesy, beard and wig were swept aside. Colby, his victim, half-forgotten—past bolt and bar and guard and wall—stood there to claim his hour. In Farwell's dimmed brain pictures flashed and faded: Colby's pleasant home; Colby's fair wife—Farwoll's now; the first stolen hour; Colby in the prisoner's dock; Colby receiving his sentence. And the woman would come to-morrow to find— To-morrow? Tomorrow ? If only he could _ stop that clock, throbbing, throbbing incessantly . A clear river, where tho May blew over them; he and John—John Colhy, his playmate—slender, happy, exultant, young—planning out their lives together . . . Then the plunge to reality. This was the eivd. John Colby stood before him—unwavering, relentless Hate. No speech, no reproaches, no curses would break tho silence nor drown the ticking horror of the clock. Colby had bidden farewell to trivialities. Was there nothing to do? He struggled—no, he struggled to struggle, but he had met ability at last. Never had ho bound a poor devil more hard and fast than he himself was now bound. /To die! Not now, when fame and fortune waited. To die-! Think of it! To die , . If he could speak!—offer half his fortune, all of it—confess, clear Colby's name, take his place in prison—to live —only to live! Swaying, writhing, helpless, his imploring eyes met no i change in the calm face of 1237. who never so much as watched* his hopeless struggles. A face as expressionless as the clock itself, whose maddening iteration echoed in his brain. Tick, tock: tick, tock; tick tock! It would be beating so to-morrow, when he To-morrow? What if old tales were true? If. after all, there was a God? Colby 6poke at last; passionless, deliberate, implacable. He told how he had escaped, lnw the officers were even then guarding the swamp for him. '"And now," he' concluded, "I have some hours before mc. After your— suicide. I will remove the handcuffs and all evidence of my presence here. I will then go to the bank. I have your keys and your combination. I do not want your inojjey—it goes to the accomplice who inado my revenge possible. I will take it only that your memory may be dragged m the dust. Your books will be mutilated, confused, oi- <i-eJstroyed. These burned paj?erß,t»-;

gether with the telltales that yon were foolish enough to keep" (he fondled the papers taken from the secret dr.nver) "and that I shall leave at the bank—will sufficiently explain your suicide. "I have my convict suit still, and a ticket for the city. I take the train at four in the morning. It stops for a moment at the crossing of the Northern. There I step off, unobserved in the dark. It is only a mile to the swamp. I put on my prison clothes again, rub on a little coal dust, and sink my disguise in the quicksand. No one will connect mo with your embezzlement and death. At daylight I shall be caught, and go back to serve my time." He paused—the clock ticked on. Farwell's face was frightful. "And yon—cheat, coward, perjurer— seducer, traitor, and fool! Go now to serve yoirrs!" He stooped, and, as politely as "a waiter, tooK away tho chair. An excited crowd was on the platform at Flanders Station as the Capital Accommodation stopped there. Mrs Farwell 'raised the window and looked out with dainty curiosity. A number of officers elbowed through the crowd. To one of them a convict was handcuffed, wrist to wrist. As he passed her window, he raised his head —and she looked into the eyes of the man she had sworn to love and cherish. Her head had lain on his breast. . . Innocent, and rotting away in a living grave—innocent! His lips curved in a slow smile. She has not yet forgotten that smile. No. It took two lives to build her a soul, but what gentleman would refuse a gift to a lady?