In my cell, Thursday evening, October 2.

This morning is cloudy and dark; it has been raining heavily during the night, and the atmosphere is damp and oppressive. Oppressive too is the feeling left by the unexplained occurrences of last evening.

My first visitor is Officer X, the man who wouldn’t answer my question last evening when he was standing back of the Warden and I asked him what that noise was. This morning he is exceedingly bland and also, like the weather, oppressive. He is so very anxious to know how I passed the night; and I tell him. He then says that a thousand people have inquired of him about me; and I remark that I’m glad my experiment is arousing so much interest. He then says that several men have said to him that I must have something special in mind, that I must be here for some ulterior purpose, and they believe the result will be some dismissals among the officers; to which I say that doubtless there are many people who, not having taken the trouble to read my address in the chapel last Sunday, although it was printed in the newspapers, are quite ready to believe anything except the simple truth.

He then enters upon a long rigmarole, the gist of which is how necessary it is for a man to do his duty; with which novel sentiment I express my entire agreement. Then he adds that he has always been careful to do his own duty; upon which I make the startling comment that it is in the long run the best course to pursue. Then he casually turns the conversation around to show how closely connected he is to various admirers of my father and myself, and gracefully insinuates that he also shares these feelings; to which I can answer nothing, as this sort of thing always reduces me to embarrassed and wrathful silence. I hate to tell a man that he’s a fool, and I hate quite as much to have him take me for one.

As the officer stands there talking, it is borne in upon me that he not only knows all about last night’s disturbance, but that he was probably concerned in it, and is now deliberately trying to switch me off the track. He would not answer my question last night, and he avoids all reference to the matter this morning, substituting for the explanation which he knows I want, for he heard me speak to the Warden about it last evening, all this stuff I have outlined. Instead of being frank and telling the plain truth about last night’s occurrence, he is trying to flatter me and pull the wool over my eyes.

He walks away and the taste in my mouth is not pleasant.

Soon Captain Kane unlocks the levers, and George presses them down to release us for a new day. I regret to say that I again create some confusion on the gallery by being late; but, as there is trouble with the lock on the tier around the corner, I catch up while the front of the line is held back by the delay.

Marching down the yard, my interest is aroused by a long, whispered conversation between Roger Landry at my side and Jack Bell who is immediately in front of him. Neither is farther than a foot or so away, yet my ears are not sensitive enough to catch a single word of what they say; and when I glance toward Landry I am unable to detect the faintest motion of his lips, although the talk is still going on.

Upon return from bucket duty I sweep out the cell, finding it for some reason especially dirty. Soon after I have finished this task, I come into possession, through a channel it is best not to specify, of an account of last night’s performance, including the names of most of the actors. I judge that it is a bad business. This is the story as it comes to me.[9]

Three of the officers, among them X (just as I suspected), went into the cell of a young prisoner on one of the upper tiers of the south side, hit him over the head, handcuffed and dragged him downstairs very roughly. His offense seems to have been that he is bughouse through confinement in the jail. So in their enlightened wisdom they have sent him back there; to cure him, I suppose, on the homeopathic principle, similia similibus curantur.

Before the march to breakfast George kindly brings me another package of sugar. It is evidently of distinct advantage, in more ways than one, to stand well with the trusties; I wish I knew them all, but possibly some may be afraid to show themselves at the door of my cell. I have a vague feeling that it is being closely watched.

Breakfast to-day consists of some kind of porridge, with the usual bootleg and punk. Thanks to George, I do not need the sugar which Landry again offers me; and, having more than enough for my own portion of porridge, I silently pass what I have left to my neighbor on the other side, who receives it without daring to express any evidence of gratitude.

Arrived back in my cell, George stops to have a pleasant chat with me, and tells me a little about himself and his experiences. Then, after the usual operations attendant upon our release from the cells, we march down the yard and arrive at the basket-shop, ready for the business of the day.

Murphy is on hand with his usual cheerful smile:

“Well, good morning, Tom.”

“Good morning, Jack.” And upon this more intimate footing we commence our fourth day’s work together.

As I left a bottom incomplete last evening, I begin work with vigor in order to finish it; but unfortunately the rattan we are now using is so stiff and rotten that it not only breaks constantly and is very hard on the fingers, but makes good workmanship quite impossible. Finally we are compelled to stop altogether, while the withes are taken and soaked in hot water, instead of the cold water in which they have been lying over night. Once in a while we have been getting soft and pliable withes that make work easy and pleasant, but most of them have been very brittle and difficult to handle.

While we are waiting for material, I hear the name of Brown called out; and find that I am told off, along with Jack and a number of others, to help pull up another car. This time it is lumber and not coal; the identical lumber, in fact, that stood in front of the north windows and caused the P. K. such anxiety about our eyesight yesterday afternoon.

The gang is duly counted and handed over to the officer charged with the job; and soon we are enjoying the exercise of successive tugs of war with the block and tackle, similar to those of Tuesday. It is not so hard a job as that was, however, there being but one car and that a comparatively light one; so Jack and I regret that our spell of exercise is not longer and stronger. It is far better than nothing, however, and we return, refreshed and invigorated, to our basket-work.

While we are waiting for working material, Jack approaches me cautiously, leaning against the table with a very listless air, as if nothing were further from his thoughts than a subject of serious import.

“Did you hear anything last night, Tom?” he asks, turning his face just enough in my direction to reach me with his voice, which is subdued to its lowest tone.

“Did I? I should think I did,” is my low reply. “What can you tell me about it?”

Jack repeats the story substantially as I have already heard it. The affair happened in one of the upper tiers almost directly over him, but he could see nothing of it, and he only heard the details through others. He thinks it is a bad matter, and adds one new item of information. He says that a certain trusty has threatened to go to the Warden about the case; he told the P. K. to his face that he would do so, and the P. K. threatened the trusty with retaliation if he did; but that the man feels so outraged by the brutality he witnessed that he intends to do it in spite of the P. K.[10]

I know this particular trusty and should be sorry to have him get the ill-will of the P. K., or any of the prison authorities. So I decide to try to take steps to prevent this. Convicts, as I have already hinted, have underground means of communication of which the officials do not always know.

The truth of this last statement was demonstrated in an interesting way this morning. Strict orders were given by the Warden when I first came here that there was to be no photographing. We cannot prevent publicity about this affair of mine. But at least we can, and have, cut out the moving pictures; and discouraged other attempts to exploit and emphasize the personal side of it. It is not our fault if many of the newspapers print ridiculous statements which are not founded upon fact.

I have, by the way, been seeing a number of newspapers, as the men in the shop are all keenly interested and are anxious to share with me any “Tom Brown dope” that comes their way. Every day half a dozen papers reach me in roundabout ways. I always read them, taking care to lurk behind a post or otherwise screen myself from the eye of the Screw. Captain Kane, like Captain Lamb, evidently feels that it is well to temper discipline with tact and discretion. He is firm in manner, quiet and self-contained, allowing no liberties from anyone, but evidently bent upon doing his duty and at the same time being kindly and fair in his treatment of the men.

What I started to say was that the order against photography was obeyed until to-day. There is doubtless a good reason for this morning’s exception—I have to leave that for the Warden to explain; but while Jack and I were talking, one of the convicts passing behind me said in an undertone, “Look out, Brown! Camera inside.”

In due course of time, Grant makes his appearance, showing around a visitor who carries a kodak. He makes no attempt to exercise the machine in our neighborhood, and is simply shown through like any other visitor. Not long after he is gone the hour of noon approaches. We form in due order, and, while awaiting the signal to start, for the first time I dare to turn my head sufficiently to get a good look at the dapper young prisoner who leads the right line of our company, the back of whose head and manner of marching had so pleased me. And whom should I discover him to be but my own boss, Harley Stuhlmiller. Here have I been three days marching behind him ten times a day, and seeing him at frequent intervals all day long in the shop; and now for the first time I am able to match his face and the back of his head together. This gives a good idea of the remoteness of man and man in this unnatural place.

We make our usual march down to the stands, where each man secures his bucket, and then back up the length of the yard.

Sure enough—there he is. The camera fiend is standing with Grant and some others just outside of the main door. Evidently he has not been told that at noon we turn aside to the door leading into the north wing; it is only at night that we march directly into the main building in order to secure our bread for supper. The men quickly catch the humor of the situation, and there is a deal of quiet enjoyment of the photographer’s disappointment. He hastens down toward us, but only succeeds in snapping our rear ranks as we enter the building. Tom Brown has escaped him.

It is certainly wonderful how news gets about in this prison. From what the Warden tells me this evening, it could not have been more than half an hour after the man with his kodak entered the front gate before the warning of his camera was received by me, over at the farther end of the yard. The Marconi system hasn’t very much advantage in speed over the wireless telegraphy of the prison.

My first action upon getting back to the cell is to get my own telegraphic system in working order, so as to get word to that trusty who has threatened to go to the Warden about last night’s occurrence. I want him told not to attempt to go over the head of the P. K., but to leave the whole matter to me. I send two messages through the secret channels and then get ready for dinner.

That meal, when we reach the mess-hall, turns out to be corned beef, potatoes, an excellent pickled beet, and the usual bread and coffee. I eat with more relish than usual, and find the time allotted for the meal altogether too short for a proper enjoyment of it. Or perhaps the word enjoyment is a little too strong—let us say, for a proper disposal of it.

Upon returning to my cell I find a piece of paper folded up to its smallest capacity lying on the floor. It is a note from one of my fellow prisoners—a kite, to use the proper term. I have been receiving such documents ever since I came. They reach me in all sorts of ways; all of which ways are of course forbidden. Some of the notes are business-like, some are rambling and incoherent, some are sad, some are humorous, all are characteristic and good tempered. The majority contain requests to see the writers, after I get through my bit. Some go into long accounts of themselves and their experiences. One has written a good-sized pamphlet, telling his life-story in considerable detail. All of them are filled with a pathetic sense of gratitude toward Tom Brown, their new pal. They seem to think that I am making an unheard-of sacrifice for their sakes.

It is curious how far away is the feeling of dread of this place that I used to have; that I must confess to have had even when I decided to come here. Exactly the same, I imagine, as one would feel about entering a den of wild beasts, except that these were capable of being talked to and reasoned with. I suppose I did have some little, a very little, notion of personal danger, which now seems wholly absurd. I have at present a sense of companionship and sympathy with these men, as warm and strong as I have ever felt anywhere. It is accompanied, of course, by a great feeling of pity for their mistakes, the bitterness of their expiation, and the well-nigh hopeless difficulty under present conditions of regaining their hold upon life.

After the regular period of rest in the cell after dinner, and my usual calls from the trusties, we march back to the shop. The routine is always the same. Again I hear the clicking far away to the left around the corner. Whereupon I rise from my shelf-table, unhook and drop it down, put away my writing materials in the locker, and don my coat and cap. Again the Captain passes by, unlocking the levers as he goes. He quickly finishes the remainder of the cells on this side of the tier, then repasses, pressing down each lever just long enough to allow the grated door to be pushed open by the prisoner waiting inside. Again I shove my door open as quickly as possible and follow immediately after the Captain; for all the men who belong in front of me in the line lock in farther along the gallery. When we reach their cells I drop behind enough to give them their proper places, and thus there is a minimum of disorder when we have descended the flight of iron stairs to the door and are lining up in double column for our march down the yard.

The marches too are always the same—day after day—with only slight variations; as for instance the one after breakfast when, as it is unnecessary to visit the sewage disposal building, we march directly to the shop. But this afternoon it is the same as all afternoons; short-step at first until all the company have reached the walk; then a rap of the keeper’s stick and full-step down the yard; swing around to the left; through the sewage disposal building for the benefit of the few who bring down their buckets in the afternoon; a momentary pause at the stands and then away to the shop. As we go down the half dozen steps into the building we break ranks and Jack Murphy comes up from his place, somewhere in the rear, with his usual pleasant greeting.

“Well, Tom, how did you enjoy your dinner?”

“It was all right, only to-day I didn’t have time enough to eat it.”

“No, they cut us pretty short sometimes at dinner.”

No incident of particular interest happens this afternoon. My fingers are getting rather stiff and sore, working with the hard and brittle rattan that they give us. It is discouraging to attempt good work with such material, but we do the best we can. Stuhlmiller has taken the matter up with John, the citizen instructor, whose last name I have not yet learned, and with Captain Kane. They are thinking about repairing an old vat where the withes can be properly heated and softened by steam. That is all right, but it won’t help my fingers much, as I shall be out of here long before it is done.

About my going out there is a little joke. Every man wants to know how long I’m going to stay here. I tell them I don’t see how I can remain beyond Sunday, as there is business I have to attend to in New York City next week. Whereupon Jack winks his eye and, speaking to the questioner in a loud whisper, says, “Oh, these new guys are always thinkin’ they ain’t going to stay long. New trial, or pardon or something. He’ll be here for some time yet, so don’t you worry. He’s a little bug about going right out, you know.” A joke which has its non-humorous side; founded, as it undoubtedly is, upon many a grim fact. As the Scotch saying runs, “A true joke is no joke.”

In the course of the afternoon, talking again of last night’s occurrences upon which no further light has come, I retail to Jack my visit from Officer X this morning, and that gentleman’s conversation. At the conclusion Jack looks over to me with scorn on his honest face and blurts out, “Say! I wonder what they take you for anyway!”

“For a damn fool, evidently; that is, some of them do,” is my answer. “But fortunately, Jack, they can’t be all like that. Probably these officers last night were afraid that I should hear the disturbance that young fellow was making, and felt that they must hustle and get him out of the way on that account. At least that’s how I am inclined to figure it out.”

“Well,” says Jack, “some of them seem awful anxious to know all about you. They come around to my cell every night and ask after my partner’s health, and want me to tell them about everythin’ you say and do. But you can bet I throw ’em off the track. Say,” he continues, “I just wish you could have seen one of the screws last night when he asked me how long you were goin’ to stay here, and I told him that from what I heard you say I judged it wouldn’t be much over two months. Gee! but you should have seen his face! He was just horrified.” And Jack laughs heartily at the recollection.

“Too bad to give the poor fellow a jolt like that. But after all, Jack, the keepers act a good deal as most any of us would in their places.”

This kindly view is not perhaps altogether sincere on my part; but I do not wish to use my influence to stir up trouble between the keepers and the prisoners. Without standing up for the keepers when they are wrong—to do that would be to forfeit the confidence of my companions, I shall do my best to make the men feel that resistance to authority is both foolish and useless. Prisoners cannot expect to have things to their liking; but neither can keepers expect their charges to be blind to hypocrisy, or to acquiesce in brutality.

In the course of the afternoon I have a long and pleasant talk with Jack Bell. A convenient post is just at my right, behind which Bell stands, screened from the view of the Captain. I can talk low without turning my head, and the officer cannot tell that I am not talking to Murphy. As everything else is going on as usual and the men working near pay no attention, not even looking at us, we are able to enjoy quite a prolonged conversation. Finally, however, the Captain seems to suspect something and steps down from his platform, but Bell glides off quietly and with an admirable innocent air of business. The Captain returns to his seat, apparently satisfied.

After Bell has dropped away, I have a long and interesting discussion with my partner. For some years I have felt that the principles of self-government, as developed at the Junior Republic, might probably be the key to the solution of the prison problem; but as yet I have not been able to see clearly just how to begin its application. There have seemed to be almost insuperable difficulties. In this connection Jack makes a suggestion which supplies a most important link in the chain.

In discussing the various aspects of prison life, the better and the worse, the harder and the less hard, we reach the subject of the long and dreary Sundays. Jack agrees with all those with whom I have talked that the long stretch in the cells, from the conclusion of the chapel service, between ten-thirty and eleven o’clock Sunday morning until seven o’clock Monday morning—over twenty hours, is a fearful strain both physical and mental upon the prisoners.

“Well, Jack,” I say, “from what I have heard Superintendent Riley say, I feel sure he would like to give the men some sort of exercise or recreation on Sunday afternoons; but how could it be managed? You can’t ask the officers to give up their day off, and you don’t think the men could be trusted by themselves, do you?”

“Why not?” says Jack.

I look at him, inquiringly.

“Why, look here, Tom!” In his eagerness Jack comes around to my side of our working table. “I know this place through and through. I know these men; I’ve studied ’em for years. And I tell you that the big majority of these fellows in here will be square with you if you give ’em a chance. The trouble is, they don’t treat us on the level. I could tell you all sorts of frame-ups they give us. Now if you trust a man, he’ll try and do what’s right; sure he will. That is, most men will. Of course, there are a few that won’t. There are some dirty curs—degenerates—that will make trouble, but there ain’t so very many of those.

“Look at that road work,” he continues. “Haven’t the men done fine? How many prisoners have you had out on the roads? About one hundred and thirty. And you ain’t had a single runaway yet. And if there should be any runaways you can just bet we’d show ’em what we think about it.”[11]

“Do you really think, Jack, that the Superintendent and the Warden could trust you fellows out in the yard on Sunday afternoons in summer?”“Sure they could,” responds Jack, his face beginning to flush with pleasure at the thought. “And there could be a band concert, and we’d have a fine time. And it would be a good sight better for us than being locked in our cells all day. You’d have fewer fights on Monday, I know that.”

“Yes, it would certainly be an improvement on spending the afternoon in your cells,” I remark. “Then in rainy weather you could march to the chapel and have some sort of lecture or debate; or Mr. Kurtz and I would come down occasionally and give you a violin and piano recital.”

“Sure,” says Jack; adding with a smile, “the boys would like that best of all, you know.” (It takes an Irishman to slide in a delicate compliment in passing.)

“Well, that would all be first rate,” is my interested comment; “but how about the discipline? Would you let everybody out into the yard? What about those bad actors who don’t know how to behave? Won’t they quarrel and fight and try to escape?”

“But don’t you see, Tom, that they couldn’t do that without putting the whole thing on the bum, and depriving the rest of us of our privileges? You needn’t be afraid we couldn’t handle those fellows all right. Or why not let out only those men who have a good conduct bar? That’s it,” he continues, enthusiastically warming up to his subject, “that’s it, Tom, a Good Conduct League. And give the privilege of Sunday afternoons to the members of the league. I’ll tell you, Tom! you know last year we got up an Anti-swearing League here in this shop, and we had a penalty for every oath or dirty word. The forfeits were paid with matches. You know matches are pretty scarce here, don’t you? Well, we had a grand success with that league. But this Good Conduct League would be a much bigger thing. It would be just great. And go! sure it’ll go.”

“Well, Jack, perhaps you’ve hit the right nail on the head. We’ll think it over, and talk more about it to-morrow.”

Thus I close the conversation, wishing time to consider Jack’s suggestion before we continue discussing a subject so big with possibilities. Sunday afternoon may be the key to the whole situation, and Jack may have found the key to the question of Sunday afternoon.

Toward the end of the day, when we have finished our work and Jack is sweeping up, I first read all the newspapers which have floated in my direction, and then take a long walk in stretches of ten feet or so. Our talk has given me much to think about. Jack, after finishing his sweeping, also walks, but in a different direction; for there is a strict rule that no two convicts may walk together. I manage at times to stretch my course a little, on one side or another, and whisper a word or two to some of the other prisoners. My remarks are always greeted with a ready smile and a pleasant gleam of the eye—even in the case of a poor fellow whose face shows that he is lacking in ordinary intelligence.

Closing time comes. “Good night, Jack!” “Good night, Tom!” (I got ahead of my partner this time.) We form in line; the old men and cripples start off first; the rest of us march up the steps and along the tracks; then after pausing at the bucket stands, swing up the yard to the main building; where I seize my bread, clamber up the iron steps; pass a whispered word or two to some of my special friends as we separate for the night; take my tin cup of fresh water which stands on the shelf; stand for a moment at the cell entrance watching the fellows pass who lock in around the corner; and then pull to my iron grated door, locking myself in for the night. I never perform this last operation and hear the click of the lever which announces that I am fastened securely in my cell, without a feeling of resentment. At least, if a man is to be caged like this, it ought to be done by visible exercise of authority. They shouldn’t expect him to lock his own cage. Speaking as a convict, I call it adding insult to injury.

The following is Jack Murphy’s description of the regular routine: “On reaching his gallery each inmate must go direct to his cell, closing his iron door to within an inch of the catch, where the lever falls in place. He must then stand with hands on his iron-grated door until the Captain (who is now on his way, locking up) reaches his cell; then the convict pulls in his door, the lever falls into its catch and the Captain simultaneously inserts his large key into a lock at the side, locking the lever so that it cannot be raised. He then counts his company.

“The process of counting is done in this manner: the Captain, in passing each cell, takes hold of the lever while the inmate shakes his door vigorously. In this way the Captain does two mental things at one time, namely: he assures himself that each cell door is securely locked, and that his charge is behind that secured lock. This procedure is continued until the last cell and convict is counted. Then the iron bar which runs the length of the gallery is let down by a lever operated by the Captain at the end of the gallery. This bar runs in front of an iron rod or arm attached outward from the cell door. It is twenty inches long by half an inch square, and is fastened to the left side of the cell door.

“I forgot to say that, after the lever, which lowers the long iron bar, is pulled down, it is also treated to the lock-up system. A Yale lock is used for this purpose; so you see the poor dumb iron is even a victim to the Prison System.

“In case of illness, after the prison is closed for the night, an officer has to go to the trouble of running up to the front hall for the key of the gallery on which the convict is ill. This would take him 15 minutes to do; and after he got through unlocking all the locks and pulling the lever the convict might be fit for an undertaker instead of a doctor.

“A convict must not loiter on his gallery. This is considered by some captains a serious offense; and as for talking—good night! This last is as bad as if you were charged with talking out of your cell to your next-door neighbor. A report for such an offense would read something like this: ‘Convict Brown is reported by Captain Jeff [or Mutt] for the following: Loitering on the gallery, talking and causing general disorder.’ Next morning Convict Brown would hit the Booby Hatch for three or four days and a fine of $5.00.”

Jack’s statement is, of course, correct. I knew that I was taking a chance in whispering; but I got away with it, all right. So do others, including Jack himself.

To understand fully the Prison System it should be added that this long iron bar, which forms the third lock and about which so much fuss is made, only exists in the basement and second tier in the North Wing, and not at all in the South Wing. There is no discrimination made, by confining the more dangerous men in the extra-locked cells. But, gravely, every night and morning, that silly extra bar is lowered and raised for a small percentage of the prisoners—a ridiculous waste of time and energy.

This evening has been marked by a visit from the Chaplain, who has returned from Syracuse. He tells me that my experiment has aroused great interest among the clergymen assembled at a religious conference he has been attending; that he has had to answer countless questions. He also tells me that he is returning there again this evening and will telephone to the gentleman who was proposing to employ his assistant, Dickinson, and see if work cannot possibly be found for him. I tell the Chaplain of my letter, and beg him to add assurance of my own belief in the young man’s stability and intention to do right.

Later the Warden comes. He brings me, as usual, a copy of the Auburn newspaper, so that I must set this down as the third exception that is made in my case. As a regular newcomer I should not be allowed a newspaper.

I ask the Warden about last night’s disturbance. He has inquired into it, he says, and found it was only a case of a troublesome fellow, sent up from Sing Sing recently, who was making some little disturbance in the gallery. After they admonished him he wouldn’t stop, so they had to take him down to the jail. When the officer entered his cell, he threw his bucket at the officer and there was a little row. “I’m inclined to think,” adds the Warden, “that he may be a little bit crazy, and I’m going to look into it.”

“I suppose that is the official version,” I remark to the Warden. “Well, I certainly hope you will look further into it; for, speaking frankly, I think they are trying to slip one over on you. If my information is correct, and I believe it is, the case is rather different from what you have told me; and the treatment given the young fellow was inexcusably brutal.”

I put the matter rather mildly to the Warden, for I don’t want him to think that I am losing my balance and taking everything that is said to me by all my fellow-prisoners as gospel truth. To believe everything they say would doubtless be as stupid as to believe nothing.

The Warden and I again discuss the desirability of my working in one of the other shops during the remaining time here; but after full consideration we both feel that more is to be gained by staying where I am. There is only a day and a half left.

“You still feel, then, as if you wanted to try the jail?” asks the Warden.

“Yes, more so than ever,” I answer, “for I must find out why the prisoners all speak of it with such horror. When you showed me the place last June, I thought it a very uncomfortable hole, and it was not pleasant to think about afterward. But there must be some such place to put men who defy all authority; and it didn’t strike me as so very terrible. These fellows all speak of it with bated breath and a queer look in the eyes, as though it held some ghastly recollection. What can it be?”

“I’m sure I don’t know,” answers the Warden.

“Well, neither do I, and I want to find out. Of course,” I add, “I’m not going to be foolish about the thing. If I find I don’t feel well enough for any reason, when Saturday comes, I shall just cut it out. But if my physical condition continues as good as it is now, I mean to try it.”

“All right,” says the Warden. “I wanted to know, so that I can give orders to have one of those jail suits washed. There is no need of your running any unnecessary risk in the matter, and those dirty old clothes I don’t like.”

This is my first knowledge of the custom of giving the prisoners who are sent to the punishment cells clothes especially reserved for the jail; and my thoughts travel at once to the filthy and disreputable garments I had seen on a prisoner the Warden had once interviewed there in my presence.

“Well, I shall appreciate it if I can have a clean suit,” I said. “There’s no reason, I suppose, why I should not accept that exception.”

So it is arranged. The Warden’s visit comes to an end, and another day of my voluntary exile from society is closed.

Now for another long and restless night.

I shall not mind so much the periods of wakefulness to-night. Jack Murphy’s Good Conduct League will give me plenty of food for thought. I believe he has struck the path for which I have been groping.