Coburg Leader (Vic.), Wednesday 29 April 1893
Behind Prison Bars
BY THE OUTCAST.
PART X.
Before leaving the "A" Division, pensioner B--- led us into the Rajah's little den where we were shown the beautiful collection of specimens of prison-work. The umbrageous Panama hat seemed to be the leading feature in this assortment and the old gentleman in charge had good reason to be proud of them. The tiny intricate patterns worked in straw and colored threads, and the superior quality of the above finished article over the ordinary shop-line make these hats very expensive - in fact beyond the reach of the ordinary wearer, the prices ranging up to five guineas each.
Samples of tailoring, cap-making, uniform and other branches of "separate-treatment" work are shown here, but of the lot, we took the liveliest interest in the curious relics of old "bonefaking" days - brooches, pins, paper-knives, scarf-rings, puzzle matchboxes, cigar-holders and toothpickers (all made from beef-bones) were represented. In former days these were sold to visitors and the profits put to the credit of the prisoner who made them; but various good old souls grumbled at this pampering of convicts and the thing was blocked entirely. The prisoner, nowadays, who wishes to have a few shillings of his own when he goes out, earns it by ordinary hard labor, at the rate of three or four pence per diem, or if he hath an irksome longing for luxuries, he can "take it out" in tobacco. The majority of them accept this latter alternative and the result is that when their time is up they are usually penniless and thrown upon their own resources. After roaming about town all the morning without a cent in his "kick" (pocket), the discharged prisoner begins to feel the pangs of hunger, and he throws his good resolves to the winds so he looks around for "a good bug" - i.e., a promising victim. He perhaps sees a rural gentleman standing at the corner gaping at the sights of Bourke-street and says, "I guess I'll wire this bloke," goes up, starts a little yarn about knowing the yokels' brother up on the Murray last shearing, and soon he has the loan of him completely. A confederate chips in before long, an adjournment is made for beers, and presently "the bug" finds himself minus his hard-earned cheque and not a shilling left wherewith to get home again. The two magsmen, inflated with success, retire to the seclusion of a quiet hotel where they put up en prince and carry on their little games until the law steps in, and in a week or two they are back again at Pentridge.
Warder X --- now informed us that we had seen everything worthy of attention in this division and piloted us out again into the open air, out to the square. Below us we could see a gang of grey-coated toilers at work in an extensive patch of mangel wurzels, each one automatically working a long garden-hoe under the surveillance of their overseer - a big brawny old fellow who seemed to be doing most of the work himself. Every now and then the old man would fasten on to one of the gang who did not seem to know his work as well as the others, and while he illustrated the proper method of wrestling with the garden-hoe the rest of the gang with an apparent yearning to learn a wrinkle too, would all knock off and rest on their hoes and watch proceedings. Then, suddenly noticing the reverential silence that reigned around, the overseer would let loose a cataract of abuse on all hands till the air seemed blue with blasphemy. Momentarily scared into the regulation Government stroke they would welt into their "graft" until the officials back was turned, then have another spell. "Is that the way that gang always does its work?" I asked. "Not much" said X---, shortly. "Though they certainly present a very languid appearance to the naked eye, they get there just the same. Old Charley has the reputation of being the ablest boss for knocking the most work out of bad material that we have ever had. He has to contend with the scum of Pentridge, and that's saying a good deal. Most of 'em are lunatics, or foreigners, or invalids or bad cases who have been given up by the overseers of other gangs and handed over to Charley for treatment. He sets them to work in an onion-patch or on a manure-heap and if they are foreigners and don't "savee" he howls at them till they do. This gang keeps the kitchen supplied in vegetables and also does all the farm work of the prison, such as ploughing, reaping, stacking, feeding the pigs and various other rural pets."
We turned and walked up the neatly asphalted path towards the next point of interest -"B" Division. On the way we passed two busy-looking fellows each with a bag of tools on his shoulder and a chew in his mouth. I again sought information from X---, so I remarked, "Judging by your frequent allusions to tobacco and the frantic efforts made by the prisoner to secure it, it must be a rarity in here." " Well I don't know," said X--- doubtfully. "Most of the prisoners I see are always wearing a chew in their jowl. Ask 'em what it is, they'll tell you it's a gumboil coming. How they get it is a mystery to the uninitiated, but they have their regular supply coming in always. Some of the men who are allowed certain little indulgences are given a small chip of tobacco daily. This is a 'ration.' (The whole cake is a 'fig' or a 'brick.') The lucky mortals who are thus donated are daily besieged by a crowd of old-timers who are no longer allowed such bloated luxuries, but whose appreciative powers are still as keen as ever. Most of them manage to get a toothful somehow, and they worry it all day, and when done with it put it carefully away inside the lining of their hats for future reference. The average prisoner will do anything for a chew. If he sees a speck of dirt on your coat and brushes it off, he does it with such a look of mute entreaty in his hungry eye that would prove irresistible to the kindly disposed official if he were not 'choked off' by the knowledge that a fine of £5 is the usual result of any such misplaced benevolence. If any old 'lag' imparts any useful information or friendly advice to a younger fellow-craftsman, he does it with a motive - he wants a chew. If he says 'Good Morning' he looks after you are gone to see if there's a chew anywhere around. 'I think we'll have rain to-day, sir," means a chew, and keep your eye open, the boss is about,' - two chews.
In fact the chew is the motive power in all prison machinery. Give a prisoner-tailor a suit of clothes to repair, and in less than one act he has gone completely through it in the hope of finding a morsel of panacea. I well remember old 'Tommy the Parson.' He was an aged gaol-bird, who loved the good things of this life and worked with the push down the quarries. One day there was a terrible accident down there, and among the unlucky poor devils who were blown up by the premature blasting of a charge was old Tommy, who was nobly trying to rescue his mates from the danger. Carefully and tenderly they lifted the old man up, put him on the little go-cart and wheeled him up to the hospital where the fatherly old warder-in-charge put him in bed, tended him with a motherly care, and sought to nurse the wounded man back to health and vigor. But alas! it was of no avail. The old man's race was run. The lamp of life whose flickering flame had been weakened by prolonged boozing and privation was nearly burnt out, and all could plainly see that he was doomed no more to sleep in No. 2 Boiler on the Yarra Wharf, or cadge I for any broken vittles, mum?' at the kitchen door of Menzie's or Young and Jackson's. So they sent for the clergyman, as the old chap was always true to the good old religion instilled into him at his mother's knee long years ago. The white-haired messenger of good tidings and comfort came, and at the bedside of hardened crime he sought to point out the glorious scheme of salvation to his erring brother. It was a touching scene. The setting sun lit up the dying man's face with an aureole of glory and the grim officials standing round felt themselves small and mean in the presence of this repentant wandering lamb.
With an effort he raised his aged head and by the tremulous fluttering of his lips evinced a desire to speak. A hush fell on all, and they bent to catch his dying words. The minister bowed and caught them as they fell. He said, 'Ah, sir, there's only one thing I want, to send me off happy and contented and that is --- 'What, what? Say it and you shall have it?' 'Only a chew, mister, only a chew.' Disgusting wasn't it ?
(To be Continued.)
