It seemed a “walkover” for Benjamin. He began to think how “Honorable” would sound before his name. The voting proceeded. The superintendent of elections was the night keeper. He announced Benjamin’s unanimous election to the office of Mayor. The sounds of revelry and thanksgiving from Benjamin’s cage sounded like rival camp-meetings possessed of the devil. He—Ben, not the latter—made an eloquent speech of thanks as befitting the occasion in which, for the last time in his life, he spoke well of me.
In response he heard the announcement of my election as—Governor. Then there was silence in Benjamin’s executive mansion, the “city hall,” as he had just christened his cell. The first official act of “His Excellency” was to exercise his inherent right and remove “His Honor, the Mayor,” from office. Benjamin never recovered. When, a few months later, they escorted Ben through the “little door,” I think he was perfectly willing to go.
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_A Psychological Experiment (A Chronicle of the Tombs)_
It was in the old Tombs prison and in the old days which are past, when they hung men in its courtyard, and it was a very hot night in summer. Of all the human beings within its walls—keepers and kept—one man alone was there because he wanted to be. Not another beneath its old roof but would gladly have changed his position—on either side of the bars—for the free hot night without. It was blistering, and there was no breeze or beer to be obtained in the Tombs, and very little rest or sleep.
Does it seem incongruous that a man of wealth, culture, and position should be there of his own volition? Not at all; he was trying an experiment. And that was why, after a liberal expenditure of money and the use of some little influence, this young man was the occupant of that particular narrow cell for the night. What he saw there was very little, for the apartments were constructed from a point of view not scenic but secure. What he heard might perhaps better be left unsaid. And what he smelt was indescribable. For this story is of the Tombs in the old days, and really to describe it at night and in summer would be to drive realism insane. The home of misery, revelry, and some repentance—tears and jests six inches apart—romance and death, young sin and old crime; folly, vice, and worse, all mixed together and seasoned with a very little humor.