THE FINANCIER 
"trusty," referring to the undressing and bathing process 
which was to follow. 
"This way," said the latter, addressing Cowperwood, 
and preceding him into an adjoining room, where three 
closets held three old-fashioned, iron-bodied, wooden-top 
bath-tubs, with their attendant shelves for rough crash 
towels, yellow soap, and the like, and hooks for clothes. 
"Get in there," said the trusty, whose name was 
Thomas Kuby, pointing to one of the tubs. 
Cowperwood realized that this was the beginning of 
petty official supervision; but he deemed it wise to appear 
friendly even here. 
"I see," he said. "I will." 
"That's right," replied the attendant, somewhat 
placated. "What did you bring?" 
Cowperwood looked at him quizzically. He did not 
understand. The prison attendant realized that he had 
said something here which was superior to Cowperwood. 
The latter did not know the lingo of the place. "What 
did you bring?" Kuby repeated, in a weird, superior way. 
"How many years did you get?" 
"Oh!" exclaimed Cowperwood, comprehendingly. " I 
understand. Four and a half." 
He decided to humor the man. It would probably be 
better so. 
"What for?" inquired Kuby, familiarly. 
For the first time Cowperwood winced as if he had 
been stuck with a knife. His blood chilled slightly. 
"Larceny," he said. 
"Yuh got off easy," commented Kuby. "I'm up for 
ten. A rube judge did that to me." 
Kuby had never heard of Cowperwood's crime. He 
would not have understood its subleties if he had. To 
him a criminal was a criminal like himself. Cowperwood 
did not want to talk to this man; he did not know how. 
He wished he would go away; but that was not likely. 
He wanted to be put in his cell and let alone.