It was Shorty’s time to get superior now. “Where did I get that two hundred dollars that’s out in the office? Didn’t him and Smiler bring it up here to me for my end of that chippy gambling house’s bankroll. The judge will take this case for a hundred; it’s only an hour’s work for him.” George smiled. “Shorty, I knew damned well you’d do that,” and to me, “Kid, that’s what comes of bein’ on the square. If you’d burnt Shorty for his end of that coin, you’d have been here just the same, and you’d have got a beatin’ instead of a lawyer and a lot of good advice from real people.” My case was disposed of right there. I had an attorney. But the bums had already tried me and I was found not guilty. All I had to do was wait for the day to come and I would be free. I was very grateful to them all, and tried to tell them. “Aw, forget it,” they said. “You can pay me the money when you get out and are lucky,” said Shorty. “I’ll send for Judge Powers in the morning.” At supper time I fell in line with my new friends and ate at the same table, after which we marched to our cells and were locked in. These scheming yeggs had managed to get possession of the most desirable cell in the prison, probably by bribing the trusty prisoner whose duty it was to look after the cell house. On each side of the cell was a framework ingeniously made of angle iron that contained two bunks, one above the other. The mattresses were filled with clean straw, the blankets were new and clean. George gave me a small feather pillow. In the center of our cell at the upper end was a table on which stood a fine Rochester oil lamp that gave plenty of light. Newspapers were produced, and the “best people” settled themselves for the evening. George, who by reason of his age and experience was “captain of the outfit,” explained to me that, being the last man in the cell, it was my duty to empty the slop bucket in the morning and sweep out. I must stop to describe briefly my three cellmates, all persistent and professional criminals, because of their influence on my after life. A name on a prison register doesn’t usually mean anything. Although I knew George well later, I never learned from him his family name or birthplace. To ask about those things in the underworld is to invite suspicion. All criminals conceal them carefully and resent questions. George was known on the road and to the police as “Foot-and-a-half George” because of an injury to one of his feet that cost him a couple of toes and caused a slight limp. It happened in this way, as he told me one night when we were waiting to open up the powder house at a rock quarry and get a supply of fresh dynamite, caps and fuse.