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Chapter LV
In the meanwhile Cowperwood had been transferred to a new overseer and a new cell in Block
3 on the ground door, which was like all the others in size, ten by sixteen, but to which was
attached the small yard previously mentioned. Warden Desmas came up two days before he
was transferred, and had another short conversation with him through his cell door.
"You'll be transferred on Monday," he said, in his reserved, slow way. "They'll give you a yard,
though it won't be much good to you--we only allow a half-hour a day in it. I've told the overseer
about your business arrangements. He'll treat you right in that matter. Just be careful not to take
up too much time that way, and things will work out. I've decided to let you learn caning chairs.
That'll be the best for you. It's easy, and it'll occupy your mind."
The warden and some allied politicians made a good thing out of this prison industry. It was
really not hard labor--the tasks set were simple and not oppressive, but all of the products were
promptly sold, and the profits pocketed. It was good, therefore, to see all the prisoners working,
and it did them good. Cowperwood was glad of the chance to do something, for he really did not
care so much for books, and his connection with Wingate and his old affairs were not sufficient
to employ his mind in a satisfactory way. At the same time, he could not help thinking, if he
seemed strange to himself, now, how much stranger he would seem then, behind these narrow
bars working at so commonplace a task as caning chairs. Nevertheless, he now thanked
Desmas for this, as well as for the sheets and the toilet articles which had just been brought in.
"That's all right," replied the latter, pleasantly and softly, by now much intrigued by
Cowperwood. "I know that there are men and men here, the same as anywhere. If a man knows
how to use these things and wants to be clean, I wouldn't be one to put anything in his way."
The new overseer with whom Cowperwood had to deal was a very different person from Elias
Chapin. His name was Walter Bonhag, and he was not more than thirty-seven years of age--a
big, flabby sort of person with a crafty mind, whose principal object in life was to see that this
prison situation as he found it should furnish him a better income than his normal salary
provided. A close study of Bonhag would have seemed to indicate that he was a stool-pigeon of
Desmas, but this was really not true except in a limited way. Because Bonhag was shrewd and
sycophantic, quick to see a point in his or anybody else's favor, Desmas instinctively realized
that he was the kind of man who could be trusted to be lenient on order or suggestion. That is, if
Desmas had the least interest in a prisoner he need scarcely say so much to Bonhag; he might
merely suggest that this man was used to a different kind of life, or that, because of some past
experience, it might go hard with him if be were handled roughly; and Bonhag would strain
himself to be pleasant. The trouble was that to a shrewd man of any refinement his attentions
were objectionable, being obviously offered for a purpose, and to a poor or ignorant man they
were brutal and contemptuous. He had built up an extra income for himself inside the prison by
selling the prisoners extra allowances of things which he secretly brought into the prison. It was
strictly against the rules, in theory at least, to bring in anything which was not sold in the store-
room--tobacco, writing paper, pens, ink, whisky, cigars, or delicacies of any kind. On the other
hand, and excellently well for him, it was true that tobacco of an inferior grade was provided, as
well as wretched pens, ink and paper, so that no self-respecting man, if he could help it, would
endure them. Whisky was not allowed at all, and delicacies were abhorred as indicating rank
favoritism; nevertheless, they were brought in. If a prisoner had the money and was willing to
see that Bonhag secured something for his trouble, almost anything would be forthcoming. Also
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