“This way,” said the latter, addressing Cowperwood, and preceding him into an adjoining room, where three closets held three old-fashioned, iron-bodied, wooden-top bath-tubs, with their attendant shelves for rough crash towels, yellow soap, and the like, and hooks for clothes.

“Get in there,” said the trusty, whose name was Thomas Kuby, pointing to one of the tubs.

Cowperwood realized that this was the beginning of petty official supervision; but he deemed it wise to appear friendly even here.

“I see,” he said.  “I will.”

“That’s right,” replied the attendant, somewhat placated.  “What did you bring?”

Cowperwood looked at him quizzically.  He did not understand.  The prison attendant realized that this man did not know the lingo of the place.  “What did you bring?” he repeated.  “How many years did you get?”

“Oh!” exclaimed Cowperwood, comprehendingly.  “I understand.  Four and three months.”

He decided to humor the man.  It would probably be better so.

“What for?” inquired Kuby, familiarly.

Cowperwood’s blood chilled slightly.  “Larceny,” he said.

“Yuh got off easy,” commented Kuby.  “I’m up for ten.  A rube judge did that to me.”

Kuby had never heard of Cowperwood’s crime.  He would not have understood its subtleties if he had.  Cowperwood did not want to talk to this man; he did not know how.  He wished he would go away; but that was not likely.  He wanted to be put in his cell and let alone.

“That’s too bad,” he answered; and the convict realized clearly that this man was really not one of them, or he would not have said anything like that.  Kuby went to the two hydrants opening into the bath-tub and turned them on.  Cowperwood had been undressing the while, and now stood naked, but not ashamed, in front of this eighth-rate intelligence.

“Don’t forget to wash your head, too,” said Kuby, and went away.

Cowperwood stood there while the water ran, meditating on his fate.  It was strange how life had dealt with him of late—­so severely.  Unlike most men in his position, he was not suffering from a consciousness of evil.  He did not think he was evil.  As he saw it, he was merely unfortunate.  To think that he should be actually in this great, silent penitentiary, a convict, waiting here beside this cheap iron bathtub, not very sweet or hygienic to contemplate, with this crackbrained criminal to watch over him!

He stepped into the tub and washed himself briskly with the biting yellow soap, drying himself on one of the rough, only partially bleached towels.  He looked for his underwear, but there was none.  At this point the attendant looked in again.  “Out here,” he said, inconsiderately.

Cowperwood followed, naked.  He was led through the receiving overseer’s office into a room, where were scales, implements of measurement, a record-book, etc.  The attendant who stood guard at the door now came over, and the clerk who sat in a corner automatically took down a record-blank.  Kendall surveyed Cowperwood’s decidedly graceful figure, already inclining to a slight thickening around the waist, and approved of it as superior to that of most who came here.  His skin, as he particularly noted, was especially white.