I was taken downstairs and locked in a cell; I saw no more of the “bull pen” where I spent the night. My cellmate was a handsome, smiling young fellow about twenty-two or twenty-three. He looked like a country boy, rugged, red-cheeked, blue-eyed, sandy-haired. He seemed to be well acquainted in the jail.
Someone sang out, “Who’s the fresh fish, Smiler?”
“Another vag,” he answered. “Fifteen days.”
I told him about my case at once. I felt outraged.
“Forget it, kid. Your fifteen days will be in before your name’s dry on the commitment. They won’t put you on the gang. You’ll get a trusty job. I’m just finishing ten days, haven’t been out of this cell, goin’ out this afternoon and out of this man’s town, too,” he smiled. “Let’s eat. You’ve got money in the office. I’ll send for a messenger.”
“All right,” I said, “do it.”