“Step on the scale,” said the attendant, brusquely.

Cowperwood did so, The former adjusted the weights and scanned the record carefully.

“Weight, one hundred and seventy-five,” he called.  “Now step over here.”

He indicated a spot in the side wall where was fastened in a thin slat—­which ran from the floor to about seven and one half feet above, perpendicularly—­a small movable wooden indicator, which, when a man was standing under it, could be pressed down on his head.  At the side of the slat were the total inches of height, laid off in halves, quarters, eighths, and so on, and to the right a length measurement for the arm.  Cowperwood understood what was wanted and stepped under the indicator, standing quite straight.

“Feet level, back to the wall,” urged the attendant.  “So.  Height, five feet nine and ten-sixteenths,” he called.  The clerk in the corner noted it.  He now produced a tape-measure and began measuring Cowperwood’s arms, legs, chest, waist, hips, etc.  He called out the color of his eyes, his hair, his mustache, and, looking into his mouth, exclaimed, “Teeth, all sound.”

After Cowperwood had once more given his address, age, profession, whether he knew any trade, etc.—­which he did not—­he was allowed to return to the bathroom, and put on the clothing which the prison provided for him—­first the rough, prickly underwear, then the cheap soft roll-collar, white-cotton shirt, then the thick bluish-gray cotton socks of a quality such as he had never worn in his life, and over these a pair of indescribable rough-leather clogs, which felt to his feet as though they were made of wood or iron—­oily and heavy.  He then drew on the shapeless, baggy trousers with their telltale stripes, and over his arms and chest the loose-cut shapeless coat and waistcoat.  He felt and knew of course that he looked very strange, wretched.  And as he stepped out into the overseer’s room again he experienced a peculiar sense of depression, a gone feeling which before this had not assailed him and which now he did his best to conceal.  This, then, was what society did to the criminal, he thought to himself.  It took him and tore away from his body and his life the habiliments of his proper state and left him these.  He felt sad and grim, and, try as he would—­he could not help showing it for a moment.  It was always his business and his intention to conceal his real feelings, but now it was not quite possible.  He felt degraded, impossible, in these clothes, and he knew that he looked it.  Nevertheless, he did his best to pull himself together and look unconcerned, willing, obedient, considerate of those above him.  After all, he said to himself, it was all a play of sorts, a dream even, if one chose to view it so, a miasma even, from which, in the course of time and with a little luck one might emerge safely enough.  He hoped so.  It could not last.  He was only acting a strange, unfamiliar part on the stage, this stage of life that he knew so well.