Jurgis was staring from the judge to the lawyer in perplexity.  “Have you any one to go on your bond?” demanded the judge, and then a clerk who stood at Jurgis’ elbow explained to him what this meant.  The latter shook his head, and before he realized what had happened the policemen were leading him away again.  They took him to a room where other prisoners were waiting and here he stayed until court adjourned, when he had another long and bitterly cold ride in a patrol wagon to the county jail, which is on the north side of the city, and nine or ten miles from the stockyards.

Here they searched Jurgis, leaving him only his money, which consisted of fifteen cents.  Then they led him to a room and told him to strip for a bath; after which he had to walk down a long gallery, past the grated cell doors of the inmates of the jail.  This was a great event to the latter—­the daily review of the new arrivals, all stark naked, and many and diverting were the comments.  Jurgis was required to stay in the bath longer than any one, in the vain hope of getting out of him a few of his phosphates and acids.  The prisoners roomed two in a cell, but that day there was one left over, and he was the one.

The cells were in tiers, opening upon galleries.  His cell was about five feet by seven in size, with a stone floor and a heavy wooden bench built into it.  There was no window—­the only light came from windows near the roof at one end of the court outside.  There were two bunks, one above the other, each with a straw mattress and a pair of gray blankets—­the latter stiff as boards with filth, and alive with fleas, bedbugs, and lice.  When Jurgis lifted up the mattress he discovered beneath it a layer of scurrying roaches, almost as badly frightened as himself.

Here they brought him more “duffers and dope,” with the addition of a bowl of soup.  Many of the prisoners had their meals brought in from a restaurant, but Jurgis had no money for that.  Some had books to read and cards to play, with candles to burn by night, but Jurgis was all alone in darkness and silence.  He could not sleep again; there was the same maddening procession of thoughts that lashed him like whips upon his naked back.  When night fell he was pacing up and down his cell like a wild beast that breaks its teeth upon the bars of its cage.  Now and then in his frenzy he would fling himself against the walls of the place, beating his hands upon them.  They cut him and bruised him—­they were cold and merciless as the men who had built them.

In the distance there was a church-tower bell that tolled the hours one by one.  When it came to midnight Jurgis was lying upon the floor with his head in his arms, listening.  Instead of falling silent at the end, the bell broke into a sudden clangor.  Jurgis raised his head; what could that mean—­a fire?  God!  Suppose there were to be a fire in this jail!  But then he made out a melody in the ringing; there were chimes.  And they seemed to waken the city—­all around, far and near, there were bells, ringing wild music; for fully a minute Jurgis lay lost in wonder, before, all at once, the meaning of it broke over him—­that this was Christmas Eve!