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For a brief instant she leaned heavily against the bars as if for support, then her eyes sought her child. I waited until she had reassured herself of its safety, and continued my questions, my finger-nails sinking deeper all the time into the palms of my hands.

“Did you make the whiskey?”

“No, it was Martin Young’s whiskey. My husband works for him. Martin sent the kag down one day, and I sold it to the men. I give the money all to Martin ‘cept the dollar he was to gimme for sellin’ it.”

“How came you to be arrested?”

“One o’ the men tol’ on me ’cause I wouldn’t trust him. Martin tol’ me not to let ’em have it ‘thout they paid.”

“How long have you been here?”

“Three months next Tuesday.”

“That baby only two weeks old when they arrested you?” My blood ran hot and cold, and my collar seemed five sizes too small, but I still held on to myself.

“Yes.” The answer was given in the same monotonous, listless voice–not a trace of indignation over the outrage. Women with suckling babies had no rights that anybody was bound to respect–not up in Pineyville; certainly not the gentlemen with brass shields under the lapels of their coats and Uncle Sam’s commissions in their pockets. It was the law of the land–why find fault with it?

I leaned closer so that I could touch her hand if need be.

“What’s your name?”

“Samanthy North.”

“What’s your husband’s name?”

“His name’s North.” There was a trace of surprise now in the general monotone Then she added, as if to leave no doubt in my mind, “Leslie North.”

“Where is he?” I determined now to round up every fact.

“He’s home. We’ve got another child, and he’s takin’ care of it till I git back. He’d be to the railroad for me if he knowed I was coming; but I couldn’t tell him when to start ’cause I didn’t know how long they’d keep me.”

“Is your home near the railroad?”

“No, it’s thirty-six miles furder.”

“How will you get from the railroad?”

“Ain’t no way ‘cept walkin’.”

I had it now, the whole damnable, pitiful story, every fact clear-cut to the bone. I could see it all: the look of terror when the deputy woke her from her sleep and laid his hand upon her; the parting with the other child; the fright of the helpless husband; the midnight ride, she hardly able to stand, the pitiful scrap of her own flesh and blood tight in her arms; the procession to the jail, the men in front chained together, she bringing up the rear, walking beside the last guard; the first horrible night in jail, the walls falling upon her, the darkness overwhelming her, the puny infant resting on her breast; the staring, brutal faces when the dawn came, followed by the coarse jest. No wonder that she hung limp and hopeless to the bars of her cage, all the spring and buoyancy, all the youth and lightness, crushed out of her.

I put my hand through the bars and laid it on her wrist.

“No, you won’t walk; not if I can help it.” This outburst got past the lump slowly, one word at a time, each syllable exploding hot like balls from a Roman candle. “You get your things together quick as you can, and wait here until I come back,” and I turned abruptly and motioned to the turnkey to open the gate.

In the office of the Chief of Police outside I found Marny talking to Sergeant Cram. He was waiting until I finished. It was all an old story with Marny–every month a new batch came to Covington jail.

“What about that girl, Sergeant–the one with the baby?” I demanded, in a tone that made them both turn quickly.

“Oh, she’s all right. She told the Judge a straight story this morning, and he let her go on ‘spended sentence. They tried to make her plead ‘Not guilty,’ but she wouldn’t lie about it, she said. She can go when she gets ready. What are you drivin’ at? Are you goin’ to put up for her?”–and a curious look overspread his face.