"It's hard to choose from such a bill," was his answer, "but I guess the number that grabbed me most was Eddie Foy and his kids."
"Fond of children?" I suggested.
"Yes, by God!" he choked, and added that he had three of his own. He spoke as if he had no hope of seeing them again.
"But aren't all the old restrictions removed? You can see your children here, can't you?" I asked.
"They don't know where I am," he told me. "Probably they think me dead. It's better so."
Another prisoner I fell into conversation with proved to be a youthful Italian gunman, twenty-five or twenty-six, who had been born in Italy and spoke English with a mixture of Neapolitan accent and New York East Side argot which I shall not attempt to reproduce. His job, I discovered, was the incongruous one of superintendent of knitting. It was during the War and Sing Sing was competing with the mothers and sisters of the country in knitting mufflers, socks, sweaters and helmets for the troops. My gunman was as handy with knitting needles as with an automatic or a stiletto, it appeared. He told me of going with two other convicts to Auburn, the other New York State penitentiary,
[200]
