It is all true, every sickening detail. Other stories
just like it, some of them infinitely more pitiful, can be written daily
by anyone who will peer into the cages of Covington jail. There is
nothing to be done; nothing _can_ be done.
It is the law of the land--the just, holy, beneficent law, which is no
respecter of persons.
II
BUD TILDEN, MAIL-THIEF
"That's Bud Tilden, the worst of the bunch," said the jail Warden--the
warden with the sliced ear and the gorilla hands. "Reminds me of a
cat'mount I tried to tame once, only he's twice as ugly."
As he spoke, he pointed to a prisoner in a slouch hat clinging half-way
up the steel bars of his cage, his head thrust through as far as his
cheeks would permit, his legs spread apart like the letter A.
"What's he here for?" I asked.
"Bobbin' the U-nited States mail."
"Where?"
"Up in the Kentucky mountains, back o' Bug Holler. Laid for the carrier
one night, held him up with a gun, pulled him off his horse, slashed the
bottom out o' the mail-bag with his knife, took what letters he wanted,
and lit off in the woods, cool as a chunk o' ice.
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