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"
Wait
till
Pie-Face
comes
on
to-night
,
"
Morrell
rapped
to
me
.
"
He
sleeps
most
of
his
watch
,
and
we
can
talk
a
streak
.
"
How
we
did
talk
that
night
!
Sleep
was
farthest
from
our
eyes
.
Pie-Face
Jones
was
a
mean
and
bitter
man
,
despite
his
fatness
;
but
we
blessed
that
fatness
because
it
persuaded
to
stolen
snatches
of
slumber
.
Nevertheless
our
incessant
tapping
bothered
his
sleep
and
irritated
him
so
that
he
reprimanded
us
repeatedly
.
And
by
the
other
night
guards
we
were
roundly
cursed
.
In
the
morning
all
reported
much
tapping
during
the
night
,
and
we
paid
for
our
little
holiday
;
for
,
at
nine
,
came
Captain
Jamie
with
several
guards
to
lace
us
into
the
torment
of
the
jacket
.
Until
nine
the
following
morning
,
for
twenty-four
straight
hours
,
laced
and
helpless
on
the
floor
,
without
food
or
water
,
we
paid
the
price
for
speech
.
Oh
,
our
guards
were
brutes
!
And
under
their
treatment
we
had
to
harden
to
brutes
in
order
to
live
.
Hard
work
makes
calloused
hands
.
Hard
guards
make
hard
prisoners
.
We
continued
to
talk
,
and
,
on
occasion
,
to
be
jacketed
for
punishment
.
Night
was
the
best
time
,
and
,
when
substitute
guards
chanced
to
be
on
,
we
often
talked
through
a
whole
shift
.
Night
and
day
were
one
with
us
who
lived
in
the
dark
.
We
could
sleep
any
time
,
we
could
knuckle-talk
only
on
occasion
.
We
told
one
another
much
of
the
history
of
our
lives
,
and
for
long
hours
Morrell
and
I
have
lain
silently
,
while
steadily
,
with
faint
,
far
taps
,
Oppenheimer
slowly
spelled
out
his
life-story
,
from
the
early
years
in
a
San
Francisco
slum
,
through
his
gang-training
,
through
his
initiation
into
all
that
was
vicious
,
when
as
a
lad
of
fourteen
he
served
as
night
messenger
in
the
red
light
district
,
through
his
first
detected
infraction
of
the
laws
,
and
on
and
on
through
thefts
and
robberies
to
the
treachery
of
a
comrade
and
to
red
slayings
inside
prison
walls
.
They
called
Jake
Oppenheimer
the
"
Human
Tiger
.
"
Some
cub
reporter
coined
the
phrase
that
will
long
outlive
the
man
to
whom
it
was
applied
.
And
yet
I
ever
found
in
Jake
Oppenheimer
all
the
cardinal
traits
of
right
humanness
.
He
was
faithful
and
loyal
.
I
know
of
the
times
he
has
taken
punishment
in
preference
to
informing
on
a
comrade
.
He
was
brave
.
He
was
patient
.
He
was
capable
of
self-sacrifice
--
I
could
tell
a
story
of
this
,
but
shall
not
take
the
time
.
And
justice
,
with
him
,
was
a
passion
.
The
prison-killings
done
by
him
were
due
entirely
to
this
extreme
sense
of
justice
.
And
he
had
a
splendid
mind
.
A
lifetime
in
prison
,
ten
years
of
it
in
solitary
,
had
not
dimmed
his
brain
.
Morrell
,
ever
a
true
comrade
,
too
had
a
splendid
brain
.
In
fact
,
and
I
who
am
about
to
die
have
the
right
to
say
it
without
incurring
the
charge
of
immodesty
,
the
three
best
minds
in
San
Quentin
from
the
Warden
down
were
the
three
that
rotted
there
together
in
solitary
And
here
at
the
end
of
my
days
,
reviewing
all
that
I
have
known
of
life
,
I
am
compelled
to
the
conclusion
that
strong
minds
are
never
docile
.
The
stupid
men
,
the
fearful
men
,
the
men
ungifted
with
passionate
rightness
and
fearless
championship
--
these
are
the
men
who
make
model
prisoners
.
I
thank
all
gods
that
Jake
Oppenheimer
,
Ed
Morrell
,
and
I
were
not
model
prisoners
.
There
is
more
than
the
germ
of
truth
in
things
erroneous
in
the
child
's
definition
of
memory
as
the
thing
one
forgets
with
.
To
be
able
to
forget
means
sanity
.
Incessantly
to
remember
,
means
obsession
,
lunacy
.
So
the
problem
I
faced
in
solitary
,
where
incessant
remembering
strove
for
possession
of
me
,
was
the
problem
of
forgetting
.
When
I
gamed
with
flies
,
or
played
chess
with
myself
,
or
talked
with
my
knuckles
,
I
partially
forgot
.
What
I
desired
was
entirely
to
forget
.
There
were
the
boyhood
memories
of
other
times
and
places
--
the
"
trailing
clouds
of
glory
"
of
Wordsworth
.
If
a
boy
had
had
these
memories
,
were
they
irretrievably
lost
when
he
had
grown
to
manhood
?
Could
this
particular
content
of
his
boy
brain
be
utterly
eliminated
?
Or
were
these
memories
of
other
times
and
places
still
residual
,
asleep
,
immured
in
solitary
in
brain
cells
similarly
to
the
way
I
was
immured
in
a
cell
in
San
Quentin
?
