At any rate, being a lifer, and the penalty in California for battery by a lifer being death, I was so found guilty by a jury which could not ignore the asseverations of the guard Thurston and the rest of the prison hang-dogs that testified, and I was so sentenced by a judge who could not ignore the law as spread plainly on the statute book.

I was well pummelled by Thurston, and all the way back up that prodigious stairway I was roundly kicked, punched, and cuffed by the horde of trusties and guards who got in one another’s way in their zeal to assist him.  Heavens, if his nose did bleed, the probability is that some of his own kind were guilty of causing it in the confusion of the scuffle.  I shouldn’t care if I were responsible for it myself, save that it is so pitiful a thing for which to hang a man. . . .

* * * * *

I have just had a talk with the man on shift of my death-watch.  A little less than a year ago, Jake Oppenheimer occupied this same death-cell on the road to the gallows which I will tread to-morrow.  This man was one of the death-watch on Jake.  He is an old soldier.  He chews tobacco constantly, and untidily, for his gray beard and moustache are stained yellow.  He is a widower, with fourteen living children, all married, and is the grandfather of thirty-one living grandchildren, and the great-grandfather of four younglings, all girls.  It was like pulling teeth to extract such information.  He is a queer old codger, of a low order of intelligence.  That is why, I fancy, he has lived so long and fathered so numerous a progeny.  His mind must have crystallized thirty years ago.  His ideas are none of them later than that vintage.  He rarely says more than yes and no to me.  It is not because he is surly.  He has no ideas to utter.  I don’t know, when I live again, but what one incarnation such as his would be a nice vegetative existence in which to rest up ere I go star-roving again. . . .

But to go back.  I must take a line in which to tell, after I was hustled and bustled, kicked and punched, up that terrible stairway by Thurston and the rest of the prison-dogs, of the infinite relief of my narrow cell when I found myself back in solitary.  It was all so safe, so secure.  I felt like a lost child returned home again.  I loved those very walls that I had so hated for five years.  All that kept the vastness of space, like a monster, from pouncing upon me were those good stout walls of mine, close to hand on every side.  Agoraphobia is a terrible affliction.  I have had little opportunity to experience it, but from that little I can only conclude that hanging is a far easier matter. . . .

I have just had a hearty laugh.  The prison doctor, a likable chap, has just been in to have a yarn with me, incidentally to proffer me his good offices in the matter of dope.  Of course I declined his proposition to “shoot me” so full of morphine through the night that to-morrow I would not know, when I marched to the gallows, whether I was “coming or going.”