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I
was
spread-eagled
,
and
thumbed-up
,
and
privily
beaten
by
the
stupid
guards
whose
totality
of
intelligence
was
only
just
sufficient
to
show
them
that
I
was
different
from
them
and
not
so
stupid
.
Two
years
of
this
witless
persecution
I
endured
.
It
is
terrible
for
a
man
to
be
tied
down
and
gnawed
by
rats
.
The
stupid
brutes
of
guards
were
rats
,
and
they
gnawed
the
intelligence
of
me
,
gnawed
all
the
fine
nerves
of
the
quick
of
me
and
of
the
consciousness
of
me
.
And
I
,
who
in
my
past
have
been
a
most
valiant
fighter
,
in
this
present
life
was
no
fighter
at
all
.
I
was
a
farmer
,
an
agriculturist
,
a
desk-tied
professor
,
a
laboratory
slave
,
interested
only
in
the
soil
and
the
increase
of
the
productiveness
of
the
soil
.
I
fought
in
the
Philippines
because
it
was
the
tradition
of
the
Standings
to
fight
.
I
had
no
aptitude
for
fighting
.
It
was
all
too
ridiculous
,
the
introducing
of
disruptive
foreign
substances
into
the
bodies
of
little
black
men-folk
.
It
was
laughable
to
behold
Science
prostituting
all
the
might
of
its
achievement
and
the
wit
of
its
inventors
to
the
violent
introducing
of
foreign
substances
into
the
bodies
of
black
folk
.
As
I
say
,
in
obedience
to
the
tradition
of
the
Standings
I
went
to
war
and
found
that
I
had
no
aptitude
for
war
.
So
did
my
officers
find
me
out
,
because
they
made
me
a
quartermaster
's
clerk
,
and
as
a
clerk
,
at
a
desk
,
I
fought
through
the
Spanish-American
War
.
So
it
was
not
because
I
was
a
fighter
,
but
because
I
was
a
thinker
,
that
I
was
enraged
by
the
motion-wastage
of
the
loom-rooms
and
was
persecuted
by
the
guards
into
becoming
an
"
incorrigible
.
"
One
's
brain
worked
and
I
was
punished
for
its
working
.
As
I
told
Warden
Atherton
,
when
my
incorrigibility
had
become
so
notorious
that
he
had
me
in
on
the
carpet
in
his
private
office
to
plead
with
me
;
as
I
told
him
then
:
"
It
is
so
absurd
,
my
dear
Warden
,
to
think
that
your
rat-throttlers
of
guards
can
shake
out
of
my
brain
the
things
that
are
clear
and
definite
in
my
brain
.
The
whole
organization
of
this
prison
is
stupid
.
You
are
a
politician
.
You
can
weave
the
political
pull
of
San
Francisco
saloon-men
and
ward
heelers
into
a
position
of
graft
such
as
this
one
you
occupy
;
but
you
ca
n't
weave
jute
.
Your
loom-rooms
are
fifty
years
behind
the
times
...
.
"
But
why
continue
the
tirade
?
--
for
tirade
it
was
.
I
showed
him
what
a
fool
he
was
,
and
as
a
result
he
decided
that
I
was
a
hopeless
incorrigible
.
Give
a
dog
a
bad
name
--
you
know
the
saw
.
Very
well
.
Warden
Atherton
gave
the
final
sanction
to
the
badness
of
my
name
.
I
was
fair
game
.
More
than
one
convict
's
dereliction
was
shunted
off
on
me
,
and
was
paid
for
by
me
in
the
dungeon
on
bread
and
water
,
or
in
being
triced
up
by
the
thumbs
on
my
tip-toes
for
long
hours
,
each
hour
of
which
was
longer
than
any
life
I
have
ever
lived
.
Intelligent
men
are
cruel
.
Stupid
men
are
monstrously
cruel
.
The
guards
and
the
men
over
me
,
from
the
Warden
down
,
were
stupid
monsters
.
Listen
,
and
you
shall
learn
what
they
did
to
me
.
There
was
a
poet
in
the
prison
,
a
convict
,
a
weak-chinned
,
broad-browed
,
degenerate
poet
.
He
was
a
forger
.
He
was
a
coward
.
He
was
a
snitcher
.
He
was
a
stool
--
strange
words
for
a
professor
of
agronomics
to
use
in
writing
,
but
a
professor
of
agronomics
may
well
learn
strange
words
when
pent
in
prison
for
the
term
of
his
natural
life
.
This
poet-forger
's
name
was
Cecil
Winwood
.
He
had
had
prior
convictions
,
and
yet
,
because
he
was
a
snivelling
cur
of
a
yellow
dog
,
his
last
sentence
had
been
only
for
seven
years
.
Good
credits
would
materially
reduce
this
time
.
My
time
was
life
.
Yet
this
miserable
degenerate
,
in
order
to
gain
several
short
years
of
liberty
for
himself
,
succeeded
in
adding
a
fair
portion
of
eternity
to
my
own
lifetime
term
.
