Somebody in Boots by Nelson Algren

Author:Nelson Algren
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781632460448
Publisher: Lightning Source Inc.
Published: 2017-07-10T00:00:00+00:00

On Sunday morning the early flushing of the thundermug in tank ten would waken the deputy’s family, where they slept directly below, on that one morning of the week when they wished to sleep late. It was flushed by hand, with a bucket; it thundered like Niagara through conduits and sewerage. For an hour after Hushing, it made strange seeping sounds. Therefore the prisoners had to wait, uneasily restraining themselves, till they heard someone stirring below them. The chief deputy rose at nine-thirty to build the fire on Sunday morning; not until that time could the men relieve themselves. Cass learned of this on his first Sunday morning in the tank. He rose in that January dawn, used the bowl, flushed it and returned to his blanket. The noise of the flushing wakened every man in the cell-block, but only O’Neill admonished him.

“If I wasn’t so tired we’d have court on you right now fer doin’ that,” Nubby muttered from beneath his blanket, “but you just wait till Joe Spokes gets up here. You won’t be getting no breakfast this mornin’, son.”

And Cass didn’t. At eleven o’clock Spokes’ son came up with four troughs of oatmeal and cornbread, and said simply, “Paw says some ’un done it agin. Y’all know who ’twas better’n paw er me, so here’s four troughs, an’ four is all y’ get.” So Cass watched the others eat, being hungry enough to clean the thundermug, inside and out, for one small nibble of cornbread. No one offered him a nibble; he did not expect anyone to do so. O’Neill sat cross-legged in his corner balancing his trough precariously between his right knee and his stump, digging in with his one good hand. Cass hoped desperately that the trough would spill, but it didn’t. The end of Nubby’s stump was callused with small red bumps hard as stone.

Although Nubby O’Neill was from South Chicago, yet his right forearm bore the legend, tattooed in hair above the stump: “Texas Kid. His Best Arm.” He insisted that this stump was of greater service to him than was his good arm, and to prove his contention he bashed in the bottoms of tobacco tins with one short blow of the nub. “There!” he would chortle, exhibiting a dented tin to Cass, “How many men is there could do that with a whole arm? Could you?” Cass would wag his head sadly, to express grave doubt, and would make a half-hearted effort to dent in a tin with his fist.

Nubby slouched all day on his blanket, his back to the wall, singing idle songs. He wore a pair of Spanish boots badly out at the heels, a gypsy’s bright bandanna, and a great gray stetson with three holes punched in its top. From the shoulders up he looked much like one of those fake cow-punchers first brought into popularity over a generation ago by William S. Hart astride a pinto pony. From the shoulders down, however, Nubby was clad only in a pair of the county’s overalls stuffed into the battered boots.

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