The Lighter Side of Prison Life

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XLI, Issue 19, 4 November 1908, Page 46

The Lighter Side of Prison Life

DOCTOR AND WARDER

By

LONG SENTENCE.

111. fl well-known landmark in the prison Was the late Doctor I’hilson. Constantly was it said of him, “Men may conie, and men may go, but he'll go on for ever.” For over forty years was he gaol surgeon: every morning of the week, at 8 o’eloek sharp, except Sundays, was his walking-stick heard tapping the ground as he walked across the yard to the dispensary, where he saw the men. The old gentleman was naturally kind; he used to stand behind a table, with a row' of bottles on a shelf behind him, containing various decoctions, some of which were highly palatable, and greatly appreciated. The men came in one at a time. He would look at them. ■'Well!” he would say. “Bitters, doctor, please,” or cough mixture, or chlorodyne and something, would be demanded. Usually they were promptly served and out they went. Sometimes there might be a little chaff on the doctor’s part as, “Mind, you are prescribing for yourself, and 1 don’t take any responsibility.” If only > a few turned up, it was usually remarked the old doctor looked down in the mouth as trade was decreasing. If anyone really needed attention, he' was' alert, and prompt, and would go there at any hour of the day or night. Once a prison official remonstrated with him about giving drugs to men who did not need them. He replied: “What I give them won’t hurt them; they are prisoners, and don't get any. butter with-their bread.” If . twenty, different mixtures . were giveh out, the same glass was used unwashed. If ehlorodyne and bitters were issued first, it was all right; but if there was the bad liiek of somebody asking for cod or castor oil. it spoilt the flafour of what followed, ami there would b< a general growl. The doctor was very fond of using iodine. There was a well-known stump of a brush, without a hair on it, that was dabbed here, there, and everywhere, and was a constant source of small differences. “No, no, doctor.” you would hear'a man say; “I won’t have it in my mouth.” “Quite safe,” the doctor would say, “tlie iodine kills all germs, and taste is a matter of imagination.” “That’s all right, doctor, but I know where you used it on Bill Jones, and it’s not going into my mouth after that.” “You have got me into a nice row,” lie said to a man one morning. “There was a man publicly preaching against me on the wharf yesterday for giving you alcohol.” There was a friendly pat on

tlie shoulder—“ That won't stop it if I think you need it.”

Up to the last the old gentleman retained some of the inclinations and habits of his student days. He perfectly revelled in post-mortems, and when a man died in the prison the doctor was worth seeing. Well do I remember his wandering about the prison—hatless, in his shirt sleeves, in an awful mess; he had a surgeon's knife of some kind in one hand, and an ordinary carving fork in the other, with a man’s heart stuck on it. He was anxious to prove to someone the cause of death. This episode was followed by someone declaring the doctor had .weighed the heart on the same scales used for weighing out the dinners

- —result, some dinners not eaten, and sundry complaints to the gaoler. Those who saw the doctor year after year had a great respect and sincere liking for him.

The last story brings up another. The remains of some men buried within the walls were being removed. Every care was taken; but, as most of the coffins had rotted away, some small pieces of bone were dropped. There are some prisoners who will believe anything, and someone reported that the cook had collected these pieces of bone, arid put them in'the soup. Again a number of dinners were untouched.

A member of the blue-coated division (warders), who was a source of neverending discussion, was an old gentleman, know n to everyone as “James.” Formerly a soldier, he had been many years in the prison service, and was quite a character. He was shrewd, kindly, with all those .characteristics which mark the Irish. A fellow’ countryman, whom he had know n for a. long time, had got into some trouble, and was much upset at being sent to prison. It was part of Warder dames’ duty to superintend his introduction to the prison uniform, and to see that his hair was cut and that he bathed.

“Ah, Nolan me poor man,” said old James. “It’s sorry I am to see ye here! Don’t take on so now; it’s a dacent man ye are.’’

To the prison barber, in a sharp authoritative voice: “Cut that man’s .hair shorter, Knox; ye are laving it too long.” Soothingly to Nolan: "Minny’s the time we’ve met in the marning going to ‘St. Pat’s.’ to early mass. It’s a good Catholic ve are, Nolan.”

More sharply to the barber: “Who told ye to lave that man his moustache? Take it arf at onet, Ye’ve been in here times

enough to know the rigilations widout me tellin’ ye. Whin a man gits « sintinee, ivry part av him belongs to the Government. What they will do wid No|an’s hair I don’t know; but it’s got to come arf. >So arf wid his moustache at onet, or I’ll run ye before the gaoler, I will.” To Nolan (confidentially, with a knowing wink): “Listen to me, Nolan, me boy. Jist ye go along quietly; ye’ll soon git used to it. An’ whin ye do, ye’ll find it beant half a bad place; and, betwane oursilves, I’ll give ye a tip now an’ agin that’ll kape ye shtrate.” He then sidled off to an invalid prisoner in a chair. “Brown,” said he, “what) do you think of that man? Listen to me now! Whin people brake the law, this is just where they ought to be. There’s Nolan there! I’ve no faliug for him; he’s in his right place, he is. Betwane oursilves, if he’d got his deserts, he’d ’av bin here long ago.” “You surprise me,” said Brown. “From what he said, I thought he was a friend of yours, Mr James.”

“Fririd av mine, indade! Did he say that now? I would not ’av him inside me house. I’ll tache him.”

Ilaireutting finished. Sharply: “Attinchion! Nolan, shtand up' at onet and salute yer suparior.” Eyes him all over. “It’s a fine suit of clothes ye have on, Nolan, an’ it becomes ye well. I wonder ye Jiivir had it before. It’s a long time since ye had such a elane face. It’s Mrs Nolan herself wouldn’t know ye now. From the looks of ye, ye'd be the better ov a. bath. Ye tell me—last Christmas ye had wan. An’ it’s Christmas agin nixt wake. It’s a clane man ye are, Nolan. Warm waiter? What-will the man be nixt wantin’? Ye’ll git no warin waiter here, me boy. There's the bath over-bye there. March!” ’ . .

To a junior warder: “Mr O’Flannery, kape yer eye on Nolan there, an’ see there’s no shenanigin wid him. I’ve known him a long time, an’ I know no good av him; he’s a dodger, he is.”.

In the ranks on one occasion he saw a prisoner drop something; and, as he thought, pick it up again. “Give me that now.” “I’ve got nothing,” was the reply. Whereupon the prisoner was taken to a room, stripped, searched, and nothing found. As a fact, he had dropped a gaol razor made out of a piece of steel rule. The prisoner next to him had quietly put his foot on it, and piejeed it up when unobserved, jin bringing the man back to the ranks? old said, before all hands: “Ye /spake thq.truth, Jones, an’ it’s proud 1 am to find nothing on ye.” To another Warder: “Kape a sharp eye on that man. Wateh him close; he’s got a saeret hiding place about his person somewhere. Whin he doesn’t ixpiet it, sarch him agin.”

A hospital orderly, who had to give evidence before a visiting justice,? he introduced as follows: “This is Twintyman, yer honor; : he’s the harspital orderly, and a dacent man at that, sor!” To the orderly: “Att'inchion, Twintyman. I’ve give ye a good character—God forgive me. Look his honor there shtrate in the face and spake the truth. D'ye hear! me now?”

The rule that civil servants retire at the age of 65 leads sometimes to eurlout attempts to put the eloek back. T<l our old friend it was a source of cob’s stant anxiety. It is reported that at th« last census he gave in his age ns 56. 'A day or two later the gaoler said to hini;l “I see you were 56 at the census teij years ago.” “Was’l, sor? Well, that’s strange now.’’ “Very strange,” said the gaoler; “but what age are you?” Whafi am I to put yo’i down?” “If I was 58 tin years ago,” said Janies, “I carn’t ba 56 now, can I, sor?” But it’s qua re. I’ll toll you what we’ll do, sor —w;e'll shpliti the difference; put me down sixty-wan.”