“Nothing very much, Frank,” replied Stager, gleefully, “only you’re a free man.  You can gather up your traps and come right along, if you wish.”

Cowperwood surveyed his friends with a level gaze.  He had not expected this so soon after what had been told him.  He was not one to be very much interested in the practical joke or the surprise, but this pleased him—­the sudden realization that he was free.  Still, he had anticipated it so long that the charm of it had been discounted to a certain extent.  He had been unhappy here, and he had not.  The shame and humiliation of it, to begin with, had been much.  Latterly, as he had become inured to it all, the sense of narrowness and humiliation had worn off.  Only the consciousness of incarceration and delay irked him.  Barring his intense desire for certain things—­success and vindication, principally—­he found that he could live in his narrow cell and be fairly comfortable.  He had long since become used to the limy smell (used to defeat a more sickening one), and to the numerous rats which he quite regularly trapped.  He had learned to take an interest in chair-caning, having become so proficient that he could seat twenty in a day if he chose, and in working in the little garden in spring, summer, and fall.  Every evening he had studied the sky from his narrow yard, which resulted curiously in the gift in later years of a great reflecting telescope to a famous university.  He had not looked upon himself as an ordinary prisoner, by any means—­had not felt himself to be sufficiently punished if a real crime had been involved.  From Bonhag he had learned the history of many criminals here incarcerated, from murderers up and down, and many had been pointed out to him from time to time.  He had been escorted into the general yard by Bonhag, had seen the general food of the place being prepared, had heard of Stener’s modified life here, and so forth.  It had finally struck him that it was not so bad, only that the delay to an individual like himself was wasteful.  He could do so much now if he were out and did not have to fight court proceedings.  Courts and jails!  He shook his head when he thought of the waste involved in them.

“That’s all right,” he said, looking around him in an uncertain way.  “I’m ready.”

He stepped out into the hall, with scarcely a farewell glance, and to Bonhag, who was grieving greatly over the loss of so profitable a customer, he said:  “I wish you would see that some of these things are sent over to my house, Walter.  You’re welcome to the chair, that clock, this mirror, those pictures—­all of these things in fact, except my linen, razors, and so forth.”

The last little act of beneficence soothed Bonhag’s lacerated soul a little.  They went out into the receiving overseer’s office, where Cowperwood laid aside his prison suit and the soft shirt with a considerable sense of relief.  The clog shoes had long since been replaced by a better pair of his own.  He put on the derby hat and gray overcoat he had worn the year before, on entering, and expressed himself as ready.  At the entrance of the prison he turned and looked back—­one last glance—­at the iron door leading into the garden.