La Porte High School - El Pe Yearbook (La Porte, IN)

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Pape Twenty-nino

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9475. Warden wants to see you.” With- out further formality the guard opened the door cell for the first time since the prisoner had entered months ago. Following the guard obediently No. 9475 pondered on the nature of the summons. It couldn't be misdemeanor and his cell was always in neat order. Still pondering, the convict entered the warden’s office. The entrance of the two caused the war- den to look up. “No. 9475?” “Yes, sir.” “Governor has just granted suspension of your life sentence. Telegram here says you’re pardoned.” God! Pardoned! Pardoned from his dark cell; pardoned from the solitude that was driving him mad; pardoned. . No. 9475 reeled as in a faint. . . Then slowly he grasped the significance of the warden’s words. He was free! A free man. No longer must he suffer for the crime of another man. . . At last jus- tice had removed her blindfold, and he was free. . . He would go back to Nellie, the wife who had never lost faith in her convict husband. . . And Ma- mie, the baby. . . She must be old enough to talk now and Nellie had writ- ten with pride that she had just yesterday walked the entire length of the kitchen floor. . FREE! The joy of it all; No. 9475 shrieked for the song which sang in his heart. The unexpected outburst caused the warden to look up disapprovingly. He stroked his mustache. “You’re excused, No. 9475.” The walk back to the cell for his belong- ings was short. The ex-convict was to be a man once again with a real name, and No. 9475 was to pass out of existence. . He would surprise his little family and arrive unexpectedly. . . It would make it all the more joyful. . . But the lock clanked. . . They had reach- ed the cell. His little belongings in a red bandana, the man was leaving his cell, with the guard when a second attendant rushed up. “The warden wants to see you!” Together they again went into the war- den’s office. The official cleared his throat. “Ah—a—No. 9475, there—a—there has been a mistake made. The Western Union just phoned stating that due to the erron- eous workings of the automatic telegram ticker a confusion resulted in the numbers of the dispatch. No. 9457 is the pardoned man. You will serve your time.” And with that the warden closed the incident. Work was pressing him and he had no time to fool around. The song in No. 9475’s heart was stilled; the light of a soul reborn died; and the very being of him seemed to sag with age and despair. The guard’s hand fell heav- ily on his shoulder. Dazed, he staggered back to the cell. Again the lock clanked. Again the sound of footsteps faded away. And again No. 9475 shrieked—this time not of joy but the cry of the beaten soul of a man in the depths of despair. The descending sun reflected the shad- ows of the window bars on the face of No. 9475. With a shudder he realized the game Fate had played with him and had won. . . Back in his dark, dusty cell. . Back to this living hell where the best he could do was to wither and rot. . . God! —Edgar G. Schumm, ’23. Oh it isn’t the cough That carries you ough. It’s the coughin That carries you oughin. A Prof, there was quite sardonic, Whose lectures were never laconic. But the students all slept While the poor old Prof. wept. So he drowned all his cares in hair tonic. A fast young man Was Ernie Morz— He stuck between The swinging doors ’Twas midnight in the parlor, ’Twas darkness everywhere; The silence was unbroken, ’Cause there was no one there. PaRe Twenty-eight

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