While waiting for the doctor I got word to a friend who was holding my hop to throw it in the canal at once. In this way I figured I was protecting my credits even from myself. The doctor OK-ed me and I was taken into the dungeon, where Cochrane, now recovered from his terrible wounds, was waiting with the jacket. I saw it was a piece of heavy canvas about four feet long and wide enough to go around a man’s body. There were long pockets sewed to the inner side of it into which my arms were thrust. I was then thrown on the floor face down and the jacket was laced up the back. The edges of the jacket were fitted with eyeholes and the thing was tightened up with a soft, stout rope just as a lady’s shoe is laced. It can be drawn tight enough to stop the circulation of blood, or the breath.

While Cochrane was tightening the jacket he said: “You fellows tried to kill me; now it’s my time.” When he had me squeezed tight enough he turned me over on my back and went to the cell door. “When you’re ready to snitch on yourself, Blacky, just sing out,” he said as he locked me in.