Within an hour the defendant was standing up, the
cheery grin still on his black countenance, to be sentenced to two
years and eight months in the Zone penitentiary at Culebra. A deaf
man would have fancied he was being awarded some prize. One of the
never-ending surprises on the Zone is the apparent indifference of
negro prisoners whether they get years or go free. Even if they
testify in their own behalf it is in a listless, detached way, as
if the matter were of no importance anyway. But the glance they
throw the innocent arresting officer as they pass out on their way
to the barb-wire enclosure on the outskirts of the Zone capital
tells another story. There are members of the Z. P. who sleep with
a gun under their pillow because of that look or a muttered word.
But even were I nervous I should have been little disturbed at the
glare in this case, for it will probably be a long walk from
Culebra penitentiary to where I am thirty-two months from that
morning.
A holiday air brooded over all Gatun and the country-side. Workmen
in freshly washed clothing lolled in the shade of labor-camps,
black Britishers were gathering in flat meadows fitted for the
national game of cricket, far and wide sounded the care-free
laughter and chattering of negroes, while even within Gatun police
station leisure and peace seemed almost in full possession.
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