so slowly do the secrets of prison intrigue leak out.

Winwood said that the forty men in the break, in whose confidence he was,
had already such power in the Prison that they were about to begin
smuggling in automatic pistols by means of the guards they had bought up.

"Show me," the Captain of the Yard must have demanded.

And the forger-poet showed him. In the Bakery, night work was a regular
thing. One of the convicts, a baker, was on the first night-shift. He
was a stool of the Captain of the Yard, and Winwood knew it.

"To-night," he told the Captain, "Summerface will bring in a dozen '44
automatics. On his next time off he'll bring in the ammunition. But to-
night he'll turn the automatics over to me in the bakery. You've got a
good stool there. He'll make you his report to-morrow."

Now Summerface was a strapping figure of a bucolic guard who hailed from
Humboldt County. He was a simple-minded, good-natured dolt and not above
earning an honest dollar by smuggling in tobacco for the convicts. On
that night, returning from a trip to San Francisco, he brought in with
him fifteen pounds of prime cigarette tobacco. He had done this before,
and delivered the stuff to Cecil Winwood. So, on that particular night,
he, all unwitting, turned the stuff over to Winwood in the bakery. It
was a big, solid, paper-wrapped bundle of innocent tobacco. The stool
baker, from concealment, saw the package delivered to Winwood and so
reported to the Captain of the Yard next morning.

But in the meantime the poet-forger's too-lively imagination ran away
with him. He was guilty of a slip that gave me five years of solitary