Chapter XXXIV: The Death of Dick

_Sub Rosa_,
Jan. 15, 1900.

TONY:

I write in an agony of despair. I am locked up again. It was all
on account of my bird. You remember my feathered pet, Dick. Last
summer the Warden ordered him put out, but when cold weather set
in, Dick returned. Would you believe it? He came back to my old
cell, and recognized me when I passed by. I kept him, and he
grew as tame as before--he had become a bit wild in the life
outside. On Christmas day, as Dick was playing near my cell, Bob
Runyon--the stool, you know--came by and deliberately kicked the
bird. When I saw Dick turn over on his side, his little eyes
rolling in the throes of death, I rushed at Runyon and knocked
him down. He was not hurt much, and everything could have passed
off quietly, as no screw was about. But the stool reported me to
the Deputy, and I was locked up.

Mitchell has just been talking to me. The good old fellow was
fond of Dick, and he promises to get me back on the range. He is
keeping the position vacant for me, he says; he put a man in my
place who has only a few more weeks to serve. Then I'm to take
charge again.

I am not disappointed at your information that "the work" will
have to wait till spring. It's unavoidable, but I am happy that
preparations have been started. How about those revolvers,
though? You haven't changed your mind, I hope. In one of your
letters you seem to hint that the matter has been attended to.
How can that be? Jim, the plumber--you know he can be
trusted--has been on the lookout for a week. He assures me that
nothing came, so far. Why do you delay? I hope you didn't throw
the package through the cellar window when Jim wasn't at his
post. Hardly probable. But if you did, what the devil could have
become of it? I see no sign here of the things being discovered:
there would surely be a terrible hubbub. Look to it, and write
at once.

A.