Democratic Sentinel, Volume 11, Number 41, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 4 November 1887 — THE CONDEMNED REDS. [ARTICLE]

THE CONDEMNED REDS.

A Glance at the Seven Men Awaiting’ Execution in the Chicago Jail. Parsons Is Jaunty, Spies Sneeringy Fielden Quiet, and Lingg Defiant. [Chicago special.] Sheriff Matson has as yet made no preparations that he is willing to give for publication. The circumstances attending thecase make such a course on his part wise. As far as the actual work of setting up themachinery of execution is concerned, it can be done in a very few hours, and other necessary details can be arranged at very short notice. There is a feeling in some quarters that the Governor may grant a short respite upon pioper application in ordert* give the condemned time to prepare their souls for eternity. The Sheriff dislikes his job exiremdy, and feels that in view of the uncertainties in the matter any parade of arrangements sooner than is necessary is in poor taste. “The time is drawing near,” remarked Jailer Folz, as his eyes rested on the palo faces of the doomed men. “Do they say anything about it?” he was asked. “Not a word. They ain’t a bit changed,” was the reply. At that moment Fielden, with his long,, thick Lair and beard bushy and defiant, was leaning indolently against the iron tailing jflst in front of his cell, in an attitude of seeming indifference. Parsons had his soft black bat jauntily cocked on one side of his head, and seemed keenly toenjoy the prospect of his sixty minutes’ freedom without the narrow boundaries of his prison home. His hair was neatly combed, his clothing was brushed clean, and while chatting with three women who called to see him, he toyed with a cigar which he puffed from time to time. Lingg in appearance grows more like a wild animal every day. He has broadened out across the chest since his confinementin jail, and appears to be strong as a giant. His face and head are covered with a mask of intractable hair, and his voice is a hoarse, thick guttural. Lingg is the only one of the anarchista whose demeanor hasn’t been changed by jail life. He is still defiant. He walks upright like a soldier and with a heavy step, as if he wanted to crush something every time he put down his foot. A young woman with an ample figure and healthy, red face is his sweetheart, and calls to see him almost every day. She visited him this morning just a, moment or two after Nina Van Zandt dropped in. Nina was burdened with sundry baskets and parcels lor Spies, who too-k them with an ineffusive composure, just as a man reaches out for some money that has long been due him. The ex-editor of the Arbeiter Zeitung is a. cold-blooded gentleman. His usual expression of emotion is a crafty smile, a parting of the lips in a grin full of guile that exposes his teeth, which, by the way, he brushes carefully every morning. On his countenance of late there has grown a frown. In the parlance of the street, he has the face of a "kicker.” He is no worse off than Parsons; but Parsons has always a pleasant word, and he is really bearing up with a nerve that is the admiration bf toe jail officials. There is not much change to be noted in the others. Schwab is as apathetic as ever. His wife, despite her pathetic appeal, will not be allowed to embrace him before he dies—so Jailer Folz said this morning. Engel looked like a man who had abandoned hope; but Fisher was talkative and. sociable. None of the doomed men like the presence of merely curious people, and this morning none but friends called on them.