Cool Hand Luke by Donn Pearce Page A

putting out the fire. When we could reach the eggs we used our spoons and sticks of wood clamped together like chopsticks, fishing them out and laying them on the ground to cool off.
    We had no more bags so we brought the eggs inside the Building carried in our caps, five or six of us in a single file gingerly coming in with our caps in our hands as though they were the nests of exotic birds. Triumphantly we lay our fragile burdens on the poker table, counted them, put the four extras away and then counted them again.
    The poker table was cleared. Everyone was ordered to stand back. Only Luke and his coaches and trainers were allowed to sit on the bench. Then the surprise. Koko stepped forward and admitted that he had worked to con us into betting against Luke. So he was allowed to take his place with Curly and Dragline who were sitting with owlish seriousness at the table. There was some more haggling. Luke’s handlers declared their intention to peel the eggs for him. We argued. Society Red virtually screamed. But finally even he had to admit that the bet was only to eat the eggs in one hour. However, we won a small concession, Cool Hand’s team agreeing not to begin peeling the eggs until the official time was started.
    So everything was set.
    Boss Shorty had just been relieved by another guard who took his shotgun and pistol. Then he came inside the Building with Boss Higgins to see what was going
on. Everyone gathered round. Dice and poker, boxing, reading, howling, wallet manufacturing, grab-ass, haircuts, sleeping, listening to radios, letter writing, making jewel boxes out of hundreds of wooden matches all glued together and sandpapered—all the normal activities of the weekend were suspended. Everyone was silent. We waited. Outside we could hear the clump of Luke’s feet and his deep breathing as he did side-straddle hops. Then he stopped.
    We sat and we stood and we waited. Luke came in, sweating from his exercise. Then he went to his bunk and got a towel, undressed and came back to the shower, walking on the balls of his feet. Seemingly unaware of our hushed presence, he soaped and rinsed himself methodically with graceful and deliberate drama. We watched every move. We noticed how big he had grown since his arrival, how dark his skin had become. We looked at his scars. We looked at his belly, still heaving from his exercise and noticeably concave.
    He dried himself off, combed his hair in the fragment of broken mirror in the corner and studiously squeezed a blackhead out of his forehead. After squinting at his reflection a moment, he wrapped the towel around his waist and went back to his bunk. In a few minutes he came stalking back with his pants on. He stopped by the poker table, looked at the huddled family staring at him with awe, grinned and said—
    Well. Is everybody ready?
    Dragline jumped up and grabbed him by the arm,
pulling him forward as he puffed up his chest and stuck his chin out with belligerent pride. Slapping his fist against his chest, he announced with gusto.
    This here’s mah boy!
    The uproar started. Last minute bets were made. We looked at Luke and then we looked at the massive pile of glittering eggs that filled the striped and muddy caps lined up on the table. Then we dug down for our last nickles and dimes, wrote out I.O.U.s against future money orders from home, mortgaged unfinished wallets and signed ourselves up for terms of indentured labor. All bets were covered by the Syndicate. If they lost they knew they would be in hock to the whole camp for the rest of their Time.
    Everything was ready. Luke sat in the middle of the bench facing his three trainers on the other side of the table. He shuffled his feet. He twitched his toes. His stomach visibly palpitating, he swallowed continuously, his fingers trembling as they clutched at the edge of the table.
    Solemnly Boss Shorty held his pocket watch, staring at the advancing seconds. At ten seconds to one o‘clock