The clubman, yielding to the force of ancient habit, allowed Wilkins to let it run for him, and having washed his face and combed his hair, felt somewhat refreshed.
"That feels good," he remarked, rubbing his hands together.
It was obvious that so long as he remained in prison he would be either "Fatty Welch" or someone else equally depraved; and since he could not make anyone understand, it seemed his best plan to accept for the time, with equanimity, the personality that fate had thrust upon him.
"Well, Wilkins, we're in a tight place. But we'll do what we can to assist each other. If I get out first I'll help you, and vice versa. Now, what's the first thing to be done? You see, I've never been here before."
"That's the talk, sir," answered Wilkins. "Now, first, who's your lawyer?"
"Haven't any, yet."
"All depends on the lawyer," returned the valet judicially. "Now, there's Carter, and Herlihy, and Kemp, all sharp fellows, but they're always after you for money, and then they're so clever that the jury is apt to distrust 'em. The best thing, I find, is to get the most respectable old solicitor you can—kind of genteel, 'family' variety, with the goodness just stickin' hout all hover 'im. 'E creates a hatmosphere of hinnocence, and that's wot you need. One as 'as white 'air and can talk about 'this boy 'ere' and can lay 'is 'and on yer shoulder and weep. That's the go, sir."
"I understand," said McAllister.
Under the guidance of his valet our hero secured writing materials and indicted a pitiful appeal to his family lawyer.
A gong rang; the squad of prisoners who had been exercising went back to their cells, and the keeper came and unlocked the door.
McAllister stepped out and fell into line. His tight clothes proved very uncomfortable as he strode round the tiers, and the absence of a collar—yes, that was really the most unpleasant feature. His neck was not much to boast of, therefore he always wore his shirts low and his collars high. Now, as he stumbled along, he was the object of considerable attention from his fellows.
At the end of an hour another gong sounded. In a moment the tiers were empty; fifty doors clanged to.
"Well, Wilkins?"
"Being as this is Sunday, sir, we 'ave a few hours' service. Church of England first, then City Mission. We're not hallowed to talk, but if you don't mind the 'owlin' you can snatch a wink o' sleep. Christmas dinner at twelve. Old Burridge, the trusty, was a-tellin' me as 'ow it's hexcellent, sir!"
McAllister looked at his watch in despair. It was only a quarter past ten. He had not been to church for fifteen years, but evidently he was in for it now. Following his former valet's example, he took off his shoes and stretched himself upon the cot.
On and on in never-varying tones dragged the service. The preacher held the key to the situation. His congregation could not escape; he had a full house, and he was bent on making the most of it.
The hands of McAllister's watch crept slowly round to five minutes before eleven.
When at last the preacher stopped, carefully folded his manuscript, and pronounced the benediction, a prolonged sigh of relief eddied through the Tombs. Men were waking on all sides; cots creaked; there was a general and contagious yawn.
Again the gong rang, and with it the smell of food floated up along the tiers. McAllister realized that he was hungry—not mildly, as he was at the club, but ravenous, as he had never been before. Presently the longed-for food came, borne by a "trusty" in new white uniform. Wilkins, who had been making a meagre toilet at the faucet, took in the dinner through the door—two tin plates piled high with turkey and chicken, flanked by heaps of potato and carrots, and one whole apple pie!
"Ha!" thought McAllister, "I was not so far wrong about this part of it!" The chicken was perhaps not of the variety known as "spring"; but neither master nor man noticed it as they feasted, sitting side by side upon the cot.
"Carrots!" philosophized McAllister, looking regretfully at his empty tin plate. "Now, I thought only horses ate carrots; and really, they're not bad at all. I should like some more. Er—Wilkins! Can we get some more carrots?"
Wilkins shook his head mournfully.
"Message for 34! Message for 34!"
A letter was thrust through the bars.
McAllister tore it open with feverish haste, and recognized the crabbed hand of old Mr. Potter.
2 East Seventy-First Street.
F. Welch, Esq.
Sir: The remarkable letter just delivered to me, signed by a name which you request me not to use in my reply, has received careful consideration. I telephoned to Mr. Mc——'s rooms, and was informed by his valet that that gentleman had gone to the country to visit friends over Christmas. I have therefore directed the messenger to collect from yourself his fee for delivering this answer.
Yours, etc.,
Ebenezer Potter.
"That fool Frazier!" groaned McAllister. "How the devil could he have thought I had gone away?" Then he remembered that he had directed the valet to pack his bags and send them to the station, in anticipation of the Winthrops' invitation.
He was at his wits' end.
"How do you get bail, Wilkins?"
"You 'ave to find someone as owns real estate in the city, sir, to go on your bond. 'Ow much is it?"
"Five thousand dollars," replied McAllister.
"'Oly Moses!" ejaculated the valet. He regarded his former master with renewed interest.
But the dinner had wrought a change in that hitherto subdued individual. With a valet and running water he was beginning to feel his oats a little. He checked off mentally the names of his acquaintances. There was not one left in town.
He repressed a yawn, and looked at his watch. One o'clock. Just then the gong rang again.
"What in thunder is this, now?"
"Afternoon service, sir. City Mission from one to two-thirty."
"Ye gods!" ejaculated McAllister.
A band of young girls came and stood with their hymn-books along the opposite tier, while a Presbyterian clergyman took the place on the bridge recently vacated by his Episcopal brother. Prayers alternated with hymns until the sermon, which lasted sixty-five minutes.
McAllister, almost desperate, fretted and fumed until half past two, when the choir and missionary finally departed.
"Only a 'arf 'our, sir, an' we can get some more hexercise," said Wilkins encouragingly.
But McAllister did not want exercise. He swung to his feet, and peering disconsolately through the bars was suddenly confronted by an anæmic young woman holding an armful of flowers. Before he could efface himself she smiled sweetly at him.
"My poor man," she began confidently, "how sorry I am for you this beautiful Christmas Day! Please take some of these; they will brighten up your cell wonderfully; and they are so fragrant." She pushed a dozen carnations and asters through the bars.
McAllister, utterly dumfounded, took them.
"What is your name?" continued the maiden.
"Welch!" blurted out our bewildered friend.
There was a stifled snort from the bunk behind.
"Good-by, Welch. I know you are not really bad. Won't you shake hands with me?"
She thrust her hand through the bars, and McAllister gave it a perfunctory shake.
"Good-by,"