Capital punishment -- Fiction; Chicago (Ill.) -- Fiction; Criminals -- Fiction; Prisoners -- Fiction
“After a while some fellers come down to see me and took me up in the
office. One of ‘em was the marshal and another was a lawyer or
police-judge or somethin’ of that kind. They said they wanted to fill
out some sort of a paper about who I was and where I come from and what
my business was and who my father and mother was, and what my religion
was, and whether I ever drank, or smoked cigarettes, and the color of my
hair and eyes, and how much I weighed, and a lot of things like that. So
I told ‘em I was from St. Louis, and guessed at the rest of the answers
the best I could. Only I told ‘em I never knew who my father and mother
was. They wa’n’t satisfied with my answers and fired a lot more
questions at me. And then they told me they thought I lied, and they’d
put me in the lock-up until mornin’, so they put me back there and give
me a plate o’ scraps for supper, and a straw bed to sleep on, and then
went away.
“Somehow I slept better that night than I had since I’d run away. I
rather thought it was all up and only a question of time when I’d get
back here, but I knew where I stood and wa’n’t so scart. I’ve slep’ fine
ever since I was here, only the time when the jury was out and when I
was waitin’ for the Supreme Court, and some special times like that. As
near as I can find out most of ‘em does when they know it’s all off,
just like people with a cancer or consumption, or when they’re awful
old. They get used to it and sleep just the same unless they have a
pain, or somethin’. They don’t lay awake thinkin’ they’re goin’ to die.
And after all, I guess if people done that there wouldn’t any of ‘em
sleep much. For ‘tain’t very long with anybody, and bein’ sentenced to
death ain’t much differ’nt from dyin’ without a sentence. Of course, I
s’pose it’s a little shorter and still that ain’t always the case.
There’s two fellers that I knew died since I come here; one of ‘em had
pneumonia, and the other was a switchman that thought the engine was on
the other side-track. John Murphy was his name. Still—I guess my time’s
pretty near come now.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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