way that he, Cowperwood, did not know. He put
his hand to his chin, thinking—his business,
his house, his friends, his family, Aileen. He
felt for his watch, but remembered that they had taken
that. There was no way of telling the time.
Neither had he any notebook, pen, or pencil with which
to amuse or interest himself. Besides he had
had nothing to eat since morning. Still, that
mattered little. What did matter was that he was
shut up here away from the world, quite alone, quite
lonely, without knowing what time it was, and that
he could not attend to any of the things he ought to
be attending to—his business affairs, his
future. True, Steger would probably come to see
him after a while. That would help a little.
But even so—think of his position, his
prospects up to the day of the fire and his state
now. He sat looking at his shoes; his suit.
God! He got up and walked to and fro, to and
fro, but his own steps and movements sounded so loud.
He walked to the cell door and looked out through the
thick bars, but there was nothing to see—nothing
save a portion of two cell doors opposite, something
like his own. He came back and sat in his single
chair, meditating, but, getting weary of that finally,
stretched himself on the dirty prison bed to try it.
It was not uncomfortable entirely. He got up
after a while, however, and sat, then walked, then
sat. What a narrow place to walk, he thought.
This was horrible—something like a living
tomb. And to think he should be here now, day
after day and day after day, until—until
what? Until the Governor pardoned him or his
time was up, or his fortune eaten away—or—
So he cogitated while the hours slipped by. It
was nearly five o’clock before Steger was able
to return, and then only for a little while.
He had been arranging for Cowperwood’s appearance
on the following Thursday, Friday, and Monday in his
several court proceedings. When he was gone,
however, and the night fell and Cowperwood had to trim
his little, shabby oil-lamp and to drink the strong
tea and eat the rough, poor bread made of bran and
white flour, which was shoved to him through the small
aperture in the door by the trencher trusty, who was
accompanied by the overseer to see that it was done
properly, he really felt very badly. And after
that the center wooden door of his cell was presently
closed and locked by a trusty who slammed it rudely
and said no word. Nine o’clock would be
sounded somewhere by a great bell, he understood,
when his smoky oil-lamp would have to be put out promptly
and he would have to undress and go to bed. There
were punishments, no doubt, for infractions of these
rules—reduced rations, the strait-jacket,
perhaps stripes—he scarcely knew what.
He felt disconsolate, grim, weary. He had put
up such a long, unsatisfactory fight. After washing
his heavy stone cup and tin plate at the hydrant,
he took off the sickening uniform and shoes and even
the drawers of the scratching underwear, and stretched
himself wearily on the bed. The place was not
any too warm, and he tried to make himself comfortable
between the blankets—but it was of little
use. His soul was cold.