"But I never knew, Jack," I whispered back--I was compelled to whisper,
for five years of disuse had well-nigh lost me my voice. "I don't think
there ever was any dynamite."

"That's right," he cackled, nodding his head childishly. "Stick with it.
Don't ever let'm know. You're a good one. I take my hat off to you,
Standing. You never squealed."

And the guards led me on, and that was the last I saw of Skysail Jack. It
was plain that even he had become a believer in the dynamite myth.

* * * * *

Twice they had me before the full Board of Directors. I was alternately
bullied and cajoled. Their attitude resolved itself into two
propositions. If I delivered up the dynamite, they would give me a
nominal punishment of thirty days in the dungeon and then make me a
trusty in the prison library. If I persisted in my stubbornness and did
not yield up the dynamite, then they would put me in solitary for the
rest of my sentence. In my case, being a life prisoner, this was
tantamount to condemning me to solitary confinement for life.

Oh, no; California is civilized. There is no such law on the statute
books. It is a cruel and unusual punishment, and no modern state would
be guilty of such a law. Nevertheless, in the history of California I am
the third man who has been condemned for life to solitary confinement.
The other two were Jake Oppenheimer and Ed Morrell. I shall tell you
about them soon, for I rotted with them for years in the cells of
silence.