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Updated: May 1, 2025
His imagination took the bit in its teeth. "Well, the stuff came in all right as you said," the captain of the Yard remarked. "And enough of it to blow half the prison sky-high," Winwood corroborated. "Enough of what?" the Captain demanded. "Dynamite and detonators," the fool rattled on. "Thirty-five pounds of it. Your stool saw Summerface pass it over to me."
The Captain of the Yard did not know that the cross know was being worked on him. Summerface was the most innocent of all. At the worst, his conscience could have accused him only of smuggling in some harmless tobacco. And now to the stupid, silly, melodramatic slip of Cecil Winwood. Next morning, when he encountered the Captain of the Yard, he was triumphant.
Now Summerface was a strapping figure of a bucolic guard who hailed from Humboldt County. He was a simple-minded, good-natured dolt and not above earning an honest dollar by smuggling in tobacco for the convicts. On that night, returning from a trip to San Francisco, he brought in with him fifteen pounds of prime cigarette tobacco. He had done this before, and delivered the stuff to Cecil Winwood.
He was convinced that thirty-five pounds of dynamite were loose in the prison and that forty desperate lifers were ready for a break. Oh, he had Summerface in on the carpet, and, although Summerface insisted the package contained tobacco, Winwood swore it was dynamite and was believed.
One of the convicts, a baker, was on the first night-shift. He was a stool of the Captain of the Yard, and Winwood knew it. "To-night," he told the Captain, "Summerface will bring in a dozen '44 automatics. On his next time off he'll bring in the ammunition. But to- night he'll turn the automatics over to me in the bakery. You've got a good stool there. He'll make you his report to-morrow."
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