As Captain Martin and I traverse the long stone passage leading from his office to the death chamber, I listen intently to catch any sound from the jail, for I am wondering whether or not I shall have any companions in misery; but nothing can be heard. Even when the Captain unlocks and opens the door on the right at the end of the passage and I step into the dungeon, there is no indication of any other inhabitants. Except for our own movements the silence is complete, although there is a peculiar reverberation of the vaulted roof which reËchoes every sound we make. I am aware of a sort of uncanny feeling about the place, as though there were some sort of living creature—man, ape, or devil—in every cell, with his face close to the bars, peering through and holding his breath.

The Captain, going to a locker which is at his left, backing against the iron wall of the first cell, opens it and takes out a shirt, trousers, coat, cap, and a pair of felt shoes.“Take off your clothes and put these on,” he says briefly.

I take the clothes as he hands them to me and place them upon a bench at my right, where I also sit and proceed to make the required change. If these are the clothes which have been carefully washed and cleaned for me, I should like to examine—at a safe distance—the ordinary ones. They must be filthy beyond words. And I suppose no one but a prisoner ever wonders or cares about the condition of the last man who wore them.

I take off my gray uniform, shirt and shoes, and as I stand in my underclothes the Captain feels me all over from head to toes to find out whether I have concealed about me a weapon or instrument of any kind. I presume the idea is to guard against suicide.

After I have been thoroughly searched I clothe myself in the soiled old shirt and trousers, put on the felt shoes, throw the coat over my shoulder and take my cap in my hand. I can not, for the life of me, see what use can be made of a cap in a dark cell. Before I hand over my own trousers to the Captain I take my handkerchief out of the pocket.

“You can’t have that,” says the Captain gruffly; and he snatches the handkerchief out of my hand.

Well, of all the unbelievable stupidity!

Suicide again, I suppose. But has it never occurred to anyone responsible for this System that a man can strangle himself more easily with his undershirt or drawers than with his handkerchief?

Ah! I recall it now—the case of that poor fellow who committed suicide down in this place several years ago. It was with his handkerchief that he strangled himself; so I have been told.

The official remedy, therefore, for suicide in the punishment cells is to take away your handkerchief.

And then—leave you your underclothes.

In none too pleasant a frame of mind toward prison officialdom, I enter my iron cage. It is the first one of the eight and is absolutely empty of everything except a papier-mÂchÉ bucket. There is no seat, no bed, no mattress or bedding, no place to wash, no water to wash with, nothing—except the bucket. I presume I ought to be grateful even for that. But I wish it had a cover.

A convict trusty, who now appears within the radius of the electric light, hands me a round tin can, and the grated door is banged to and locked. I take my seat upon the floor and await developments.

Soon the trusty hands me, through an extra large slot in the door, a roll of pieces of newspaper, evidently intended for possible toilet purposes. There soon follows a slice of bread, and then there is poked through the slot the end of a long tin funnel which holds a precise measure of water. I hold my tin can to the end of the funnel and receive a gill—neither more nor less than exactly one gill—which is to last me through the night. I never appreciated before what a small quantity is measured by a gill. The water covers the bottom of my tin can to the depth of about an inch and a half.

And three gills of water is all the inmates of this place are allowed in twenty-four hours.

And up to the time that Warden Rattigan took office and first visited the jail, all the water a man here was allowed in twenty-four hours was one gill!

No wonder the men down here go insane! No wonder they commit suicide!

The electric light, held close to the grated door of my iron cage, has enabled me thus far to see the operations of Captain Martin and the trusty. Now they pass along to the other cells, and I can see nothing except the fragments of their moving shadows on the wall opposite. But they are stopping at the doors of the other cells, and are evidently giving out more bread and gills of water. So there must be other prisoners; I shall not be alone in the darkness, thank Heaven!

Having finished their duties, the trusty departs and the Captain follows; after extinguishing the electric light. The iron door turns on its hinges and is slammed shut; the key grates in the lock.

Standing up, with my hands and face close to the iron bars of the grated door, I can catch a glimpse of daylight at either end of the dungeon where the windows let in a small portion of the bright sunlight I left outside. I hear the Captain’s heavy footfalls retreating along the stone passage toward his office; then, muffled by the distance and the heavy iron door already closed, the outer door clangs faintly to, and is more faintly locked.

Then a moment of deepest quiet. Only the incessant whirr, whirr, whirr, of the dynamo through the opposite wall; and that seems not so much like a noise as like a throbbing of the blood at my temples. The rest is silence.

The sound of a voice breaks the stillness.

“Number One! Hello, Number One!”

As my cell is nearest the door, doubtless I am Number One.

“Hello!” I rejoin.

“Where do you come from?”

“From the basket-shop.”

“Say! Is that guy, Tom Osborne, workin’ there yet?”

Gathering my wits together so as not to be taken unawares, I answer slowly, “Yes, he’s working yet.”Then there comes a hearty, “Well, say! He’s all right, ain’t he? What’s he doin’ now?”

I hesitate for an instant as to how to answer this, but determine that frankness is the best course.

“He’s talking to you.”

“What!”

“He’s talking to you.”

“Gee! You don’t mean to say that you’re the guy?”

“Well, I’m Tom Brown; it’s pretty much the same thing, you know.”

“Well, say, Tom! You’re a corker! I can’t believe it’s you!”

Here a gentle voice breaks in. “Yes, I guess it is all right. I thought I recognized his voice.”

“Yes, I’m the fellow you mean,” is my reassuring statement. I feel that things are opening well.

“Well, Tom! I’m Number Four, and that other fellow’s Number Two. But, say, what’re you in for?”

“I refused to work.”

“Gee! Did you? How did you do it?”

So I tell the story again, of my complaint regarding our bad working material and the condition of my hands. Regarding the latter my statements, although somewhat exaggerated, are not so very far from the truth. As I mention my hands it occurs to me that they feel very disagreeably sticky. They must continue in that condition, however, for some time, for I can’t wash them until I am out of this place.

My invisible audience listens apparently with interest to my story; and Number Four sums up his impressions with another enthusiastic, “Well, Tom, you’re all right!” which seems to be his highest form of encomium.

Presently I take up some questioning on my own account.

“Hello, Number Four!” I begin.

A voice from the dim and fading daylight of the vault outside answers, “Hello, Tom!”

“How many fellows are there in here?”

“Six of us, now you’ve come. That fellow who spoke a while ago is in Two, next to you. There’s a fellow in Three, but he’s got a bad cold so he can’t talk very well. Then there’s my partner in Five; and a big fellow in Eight, but he don’t say much. Quite a nice party, you see, Tom. Glad you’ve come to join us. Say! how long are you goin’ to be here?”

“I don’t know. There was some talk of letting me out to-night if I would promise to behave myself.”

Then the pleasant voice of Number Two breaks in again. “Well, if they don’t let you out to-night, you’re good till Monday, because they never let us out of here on Sunday.”I shall not attempt to reproduce all the conversation of this memorable night. It was about four o’clock in the afternoon when I entered the dark cell. During the next three hours, as I sat on the floor close to the door of my iron cage, our talk covered a wide range of topics from grave to gay. We touched upon almost every subject, from prison fare and the ethics of the jail to the comparative merits of various trans-Atlantic liners. We discussed politics—New York City, state and national; Prison Reform, from various angles; the character and conduct of celebrities we had seen or known—both in and out of prison; and other things too numerous to mention. I must confess that, on the whole, more intelligent, instructive, and entertaining conversation it has seldom been my lot to enjoy. I soon came to the conclusion that under favorable conditions the jail was decidedly the most sociable place in prison.

The brunt of the talk fell upon Number Four, Number Two and myself; with occasional remarks from Number Five. Number Three was not in condition to speak, as will be seen later, and he and Number Eight contributed only one remark apiece during the entire night. The leader of the party was Number Four, and I hate to think what we should have done without him.

So much for the lighter side of the matter. But all the time our conversation was going on, more and more the influence of the place kept closing in upon me; more and more I found myself getting into a state of helpless anger against the Prison System, the men who have been responsible for its continuance, and the stupid indifference of society at large in permitting it. The handkerchief performance seemed a fair example of the unreasoning, futile, incredible imbecility of the whole theory and practice.

The mention of the handkerchief reminds me of one of Number Four’s early remarks.

“Hey, Tom, did you know a fellow committed suicide in your cell once?”

“No, did he?” I reply, feigning ignorance and yawning. “Well, I hope his ghost won’t come around to-night! There isn’t room for two in this cell.” At which frivolous remark they laugh. But in spite of my answer I do not feel in the least like laughing myself. The thought that I am locked into the very cell which was the scene of the tragedy of that poor human soul, whom a little decent treatment and kindly sympathy might perhaps have saved, only adds fuel to the flame of my wrath.

Before proceeding it may be well to give a brief account of my fellow-sufferers, as I became acquainted with them through the night or learned about them afterward. And let me begin by saying that I had fully expected that now at last I was to meet the worst that humanity has to show. While I had come to prison strongly inclined to disbelieve in the existence of a criminal class, as distinct from the rest of mankind, yet I had come with an open mind, ready to receive the facts as I found them, and duly readjust my previous opinions. I was entirely prepared to encounter many depraved and hardened men, but so far I had met none whom I thought hopelessly bad—quite the contrary. I had been put to work with the “toughest bunch of fellows in the prison”; and I had found myself side by side with Harley Stuhlmiller, and Jack Bell, and Blackie Laflam, and Patsy Mooney—the genial “baseball shark,” and the “dime-novel Kid,” who wanted to give me his grapes; to say nothing of that best of partners—Jack Murphy.

But surely in the jail, so I reasoned, I shall meet the “confirmed criminal.” In this prison are fourteen hundred convicts—men who, under the law, have been found guilty of robbery, arson, forgery, murder—all kinds of crime; men condemned to live apart from the rest of mankind, to be caged within walls. And now in the jail—in this place of punishment of last resort—here where the refuse of the System is gathered, I must certainly come in contact with the vilest and most hopeless. Men who will submit to no law, no control—men without faith in God or man—men who even in prison will still pursue their violent and evil ways; now I shall get to know what such creatures are like.

And this is what I find.

Farthest away, at the other end of the row of iron cells, is Number Eight. He is a big, good-natured, husky chap from the enamel-shop; sent down to this place of supreme punishment because he had talked back to one of the citizen instructors. For what reason he is placed in Cell Eight, which has no wooden floor, so that its occupant has to lie on the bare iron plates covered with rivets, I am unable to state. Formerly none of these cells had wooden floors, and everyone slept on the rivets, rolling over and over through the night as each position in turn became unbearable.

Cells Seven and Six are empty.

In Cell Four is my sociable friend, whose name I learn is Joe; and in Cell Five is the man he referred to as his partner, with whom Joe was having a friendly little scrap when they were interrupted and sent down here. The two fellows are, apparently, on perfectly good terms, but Number Five thought Joe had done something, which Joe hadn’t; so he punched Joe, and Joe punched him back. It was nothing more than a slight breach of discipline, for which a minimum punishment should have been inflicted—if anything more than a separation and a word of caution were necessary.In Cell Three is the fellow with a bad cold. He is being punished for hitting another inmate over the head with a crowbar. This sounds rather serious, but the other fellow had called him an ugly name—a name which any man considers himself justified in resenting; and one effect of confinement being to make tempers highly inflammable, Number Three had resented the epithet with the nearest weapon handy.

In such cases there is no proper examination made to see if there are extenuating circumstances; little or no opportunity is given the prisoner to state his side of the case; no belief when he is allowed to state it. The convict is reported by an officer. That is enough; down he comes immediately.

Called upon in the course of the night by Joe to give an account of himself, Number Three makes his one remark. “You fellows’ll hev to excuze be; I god such a cold id by ’ead I cad’t talk. Besides I shouted so las’ dight that I cudd’t talk butch eddy how!”

I find myself wondering how Number Three manages to do without a handkerchief—having so bad a cold in the head. Blows his nose on his shirt, I suppose. Quite pleasant and cleanly for the next fellow who is to wear the shirt, and for whom it will not be washed by order of the Warden. Again I am thankful for that particular special privilege.Now I come to Number Two, and, my feelings on this subject being rather strong, I shall not trust myself to do more than state coldly the plain facts. This boy, for he is only twenty-one years of age, on Tuesday of this week after being two weeks in the hospital, had an operation on his ear, being already deaf in that ear from an injury received before he came to prison. The operation was on Tuesday; on Thursday afternoon, two days later, he was discharged from the hospital as being able to work, although the wound in his ear had not yet healed. Being a slight, lightly-built youth, and just out of the hospital after an operation, he was put to work at—shoveling coal! But the next morning, Friday, before he had fairly started on his job, he was ordered to the jail office. There he found that a report had come down from the hospital to the effect that while there he had been somewhat troublesome and had talked with another patient.

For this offense the sick lad was sent down here to the dark cell on bread and three gills of water a day. No handkerchief to wipe the running wound in his ear. No water to wash his ear or his face. Clad in filthy clothes. And when I arrived on Saturday afternoon he had been down here nearly thirty-six hours. And was due to stay at least thirty-six more, for “they never let us out of here on Sunday.”Nor is that all. This inhuman treatment—I hope I am not guilty of too much rhetoric in the use of the adjective—this punishment of being sent here to the dark cells, is only one, as I learn from my new friends, of five simultaneous punishments, all for the same offense.

There is First: Your imprisonment in the jail, under such conditions as I am trying to describe.

Second: Your hard-gained earnings are taken away by a fine which is charged against you on the prison books. As an instance, take my own case. My six days’ work in the basket-shop would have entitled me, as a convict, to receive from the state of New York the munificent sum of nine cents. But my fine for spending one night in the punishment cells was fifty cents. So at the end of my week’s work I owed the state of New York forty-one cents. If I had been a regular convict I should have had to work four weeks more before I could have got back even again. But, on the other hand, had I been a regular convict I should have been much more heavily fined, and my punishment would not have ended with a single night.

This is of course the highly humorous aspect of my particular case. To a prisoner who sometimes loses several years’ pay for the privilege of spending a few days in these cells, there is precious little humor about it. At the mere whim of a bad-tempered keeper he may lose the acquisition of months of patient toil. And against the keeper there is no practicable appeal whatever, for the P. K. simply registers the action of the officers, on the theory that “discipline must be maintained.” Experience has taught the convict that there is no use in kicking—that would only be to get into deeper trouble; so he takes his medicine as the shortest and quickest way out. But we may be quite sure that the convict does not forget his grievance, and ultimately Society pays the penalty.

But let us go on with the other punishments involved in this jail sentence.

Third: The disc upon your sleeve is bulls-eyed—that is, changed to a circle—or taken off altogether, as a mark of disgrace. And you never can regain your disc, no matter how perfect your future conduct. Your sleeve shows to every observer that you have been punished; that you are or have been a disturbing, if not dangerous, character. It is astonishing how much the prisoners get to care about this disc, and how deeply they feel the disgrace implied in the loss of it. But however strange it seems, there can be no doubt as to the fact.

Fourth: If you have been fortunate enough to earn by a year’s perfect record a good conduct bar upon your sleeve, that bar is taken away, or whatever credits you have gained toward a bar; and you have to begin your struggle all over again. Here also, however odd it may seem to us, the prisoners treasure greatly these evidences of a good record, and resent their loss.

Fifth: Some portion, if not all, of the commutation time which you may have gained by previous good conduct is also forfeited, so that you may have to serve out your full term.

Of course one can easily comprehend how this avalanche of punishments, all for the same offense, no matter how trivial, is admirably calculated to inspire in the prisoner respect for authority, loyalty to the state, and love for its officials. Its admirable reformatory influence must be apparent upon the slightest consideration.

Such were my companions of the dark cells, and such the nature of their offenses and punishments. These were the voices and personalities which came through the bars of my iron cage, reflected from the opposite wall.

It is a very curious experience—getting suddenly upon an intimate footing with a number of people whom you cannot see, acquainted only with their voices. The vaulted room gives each sound with peculiar distinctness, but I cannot tell where any voice comes from; they all sound equally near—equally far off. It is the same strange effect I noticed in my regular cell in the north wing. And as I think of that cell it seems by contrast rather homelike and pleasant, but very far away. I feel as if I had been in this place a large part of my natural life. At any rate I ought to be getting out before very long. And that reminds me——

“Hello, Number Four!” I call out. “Wasn’t there another fellow here, a chap named Lavinsky, who was brought down on Wednesday evening?”

“Sure there was,” answers the voice of Number Four. “They took him away about an hour before you came.”

“What sort of a fellow was he?”

“Oh, he was a bug, all right. Threw his bread out of his cell and his water all over, and hollered a good deal. I guess they knew you was comin’, didn’t they? That’s the reason they took him out. And, say! What do you think they wanted to do with Abey and me?” he continues. “They took us over to the north wing and wanted to put us in a couple of those screen cells. But nix for us! We refused to go into ’em. Said that Superintendent Riley had ordered those cells stopped, and they wasn’t legal. Then Captain Martin sort of laughed and brought us over here. Seems as if they didn’t want you to make our acquaintance, don’t it?”

And it certainly does seem that way.[15]On the whole, thanks to my agreeable companions, the time has passed so quickly that I am rather surprised when I hear the farther door unlocked and opened and steps coming along the passage. This must be Grant arriving to set me free. Now I must settle in my mind a question which has been troubling me for the last hour or so. Shall I go back to my cell or shall I spend the night down here?

On the one hand, is my rising anger and horror of the place, the evil influence of which I begin to feel both in body and in mind; on the other hand is the sense that I am nearer the heart of this Prison Problem than I have yet been; nearer, I believe, than any outsider has ever come. I am in the midst of an experience I can never have again, and it is what I came to prison to get. Moreover, if I go now, will there not arise a feeling among the men that at the last moment I failed to make good, that my courage gave out just at the end?The steps reach the inner door. Which shall it be?

The key grates in the lock, I hear the inner door swing open, the electric light is turned on. Amid complete silence from the other cells my door is unlocked; and there appears before my astonished eyes no less a person than the P. K. himself, attended by another officer.

In an instant my mind is made up about one thing—I will not go with the P. K. anywhere. At the sight of his uniform a fierce anger suddenly blazes up within me and then I turn cold. All my gorge rises. Not at the man, for I certainly have no personal grievance against Captain Patterson, but at the official representative of this hideous, imbecile, soul-destroying System. I am seized by a mild fit of that lunatic obstinacy which I have once or twice seen glaring out of the eyes of men interviewed by the Warden down here; the obstinacy that has often in the course of history caused men to die of hunger and thirst in their cages of stone or iron, rather than gain freedom by submission to injustice or tyranny.

It is all very well to talk of breaking a man’s spirit. It can be done; it has been done many times, I fear, in this and similar places of torture. But after you have thoroughly mastered his manhood by brutality—after you have violated the inner sanctuary of the divine spirit which abides in every man, however degraded—what then? What has become of the man? The poor, crushed and broken wrecks of humanity, shattered by stupid and brutal methods of punishment, which lie stranded in this and other prisons, give the answer.

I fear that in consequence of my somewhat disordered feelings I am lacking in proper respect for lawful authority. Instead of rising to greet the P. K. I remain seated on the floor in my old soiled and ragged garments, looking up at him without making a motion to shift my position. He is evidently surprised at my attitude, or my lack of attitude. Bending forward into my cell he whispers, “It’s seven o’clock.”

“Yes; thank you, sir.” I am glad to find that I can still utter polite words, although I am seething within and remain doggedly obstinate in my seat on the floor. “But I think I will wait until Mr. Grant comes.”

The P. K. seems surprised. With considerable difficulty he bends farther forward and whispers still more forcibly, “But it’s seven o’clock, and you were to be let out at seven—it was all arranged.”

“Yes, P. K.,” I say, “and it’s very kind of you to take all this trouble, but I don’t quite know yet whether I want to go out. You see there are a lot of other fellows here, and——” I come to a stop, for I despair of being able to make the P. K. understand. And when one comes to think of it, I don’t know of any reason why he should be expected to understand. I suppose it’s the first time in his experience that a man in his senses has ever deliberately refused to be released from this accursed hole.

“It was all arranged that you were to come out now,” insists the astonished P. K., getting more and more serious and perturbed. I shouldn’t wonder if he thinks I’ve gone bughouse.

“Yes, but Mr. Grant was to come for me, and he——”

“Well, Mr. Grant told me to come for you, and it’s all right,” urges the anxious official.

I look up at him with what must be a tolerably obstinate expression of countenance. “I don’t want to leave at present,” I remark quietly, “and I shall stay here until Mr. Grant comes.”

The P. K. looks at me for a moment as if he would like to order his attendant officer to haul me out by the scruff of the neck. Then he shakes his head in a hopeless fashion, and without another word bangs to and locks the grated door. The light is extinguished, and we hear the inner door shut and locked; footsteps resound faintly along the stone corridor, and the outer door is shut and locked.

“Hello, Tom!” This from Number Four.

“Hello!”“Who was that? What did they want?”

“It was the P. K. He came to let me out.”

“Come to let you out; and you didn’t go? Gee! I wish they’d try it on me. What did you tell ’em?”

“I told the P. K. that I would wait until Grant came. I told him I hadn’t had enough of the jail yet.” At this delirious joke there is laughter loud and long. Then Number Four says,

“Ah, don’t go, Tom! We need you down here!”

“That’s so. Sure we do!” chimes in the voice of Number Two.

And then there is a murmur of assent along the line.

“Well, boys,” I say, “I’ll see about it. I shouldn’t have any supper now if I did go out, and I suppose this floor is as soft as any pine planks I’ve ever slept on. But if I am to stay, we must get better acquainted.”

“Sure!” sings out Number Four. “Let’s all tell what we would like for supper. What do you say, boys, to a nice, juicy beefsteak with fried potatoes?”

At this there is a general howl of jovial protest; loudest of all the poor lad in Cell Two, who has had nothing but bread and water for thirty-six hours, and who, to emphasize the fact of his coming from Boston, says something humorous about beans. The way these prisoners can joke in the face of their sufferings and privations has been a continual wonder to me.

It is not long before our talk turns in a new direction. The popularity of the prison officials is discussed. They all agree that the present Superintendent of Prisons is all right; that Warden Rattigan is square; and not only tends to his business but is on the level. Joe from Cell Four expresses his opinion that the treatment by the prisoners of the Warden when he first took office last summer was inexcusable. “That strike was a dirty deal,” he says. I am glad to hear about this, and Joe goes on to give me some interesting details. It was not due to the poor food, he declares, although that was the supposed cause. In reality, he assures me, the strike was instigated by some of the officers who had no use for Rattigan. They spread all manner of stories against him before he was appointed, and after he took office they deliberately egged on the convict ringleaders to strike and fairly pushed the men into it. This tallies with certain inside information I had at the time of the strike so I am not indisposed to believe it.

As we are still discussing these interesting matters, once more the faint sound of a key turning in a lock is heard and the opening of the outer door. This surely must be Grant. Steps come along the passage, and Joe makes a final appeal. “Say, don’t go, don’t go!” he whispers at the last moment. “Stick it out, Tom! Stick it out!”

That settles it. I remain. Joe has won the day, or at least the night.

The key turns in the inner lock and we hear the door turn on its hinges. Then the light is lighted, the grated door of my cell is again thrown open, and Grant stands there. This time I rise. “Come in here,” I say, “where we can’t be heard,” and taking him by the arm I lead him back into the darkness of the cell.

“What’s the matter?” asks Grant, with a trace of some anxiety in his tone.

“Nothing’s the matter,” I answer. “Only I’m learning such a lot down here that I ought to stay the night. There are four or five fellows in the other cells and I can’t afford to miss the opportunity. Just explain to the P. K., will you? I’m afraid I was rather rude to him.”

Grant explodes in mirth. “Well, you did jar him a little. He telephoned up to my house while I was at supper and said, ‘Please hurry down here, for I can’t get that fellow out!’”

I can not help laughing myself at the poor P. K.—panic-stricken because a man refused to come out of the jail. “Now let me stay the night here,” I say to Grant, “and send someone for me at six o’clock to-morrow morning. But for Heaven’s sake don’t make it any later than six,” I add.

Grant is a little anxious, feeling his responsibility to the Warden. “Are you sure you’d better do this?” he asks. “How do you feel? How are you standing it?”

“Oh, it’s the most interesting thing I have done yet,” I answer, “and my experience would have been a failure without it. Now, don’t worry. I shall last until six o’clock in the morning at any rate. But remember—not a minute later than six!”

Grant promises to arrange it, and our whispered conference comes to an end. He and the other officer take their departure; again the inner door is shut and locked, the footsteps travel down the corridor, the outer door is shut and locked; and then silence, which is broken once more by the voice of Number Four, an anxious voice this time.

“Has he gone?”

Silence. Then Number Two’s gentle tones, “I think he went with the officer. I don’t hear anything in his cell. Yes, he must have gone.”

A sigh comes from Joe, and I think it unfair to let the matter go any farther. Some remarks might be made which would prove embarrassing.

“No, boys, I haven’t deserted you!”

I shall not attempt to set down the words that follow.

Now I truly am a prisoner; I can not possibly get myself out of this iron cage, and there is no one to let me out. There is no one except my fellow prisoners within hearing, no matter how loud I might cry for help. This at any rate is the real thing, whatever can be said of the rest of my bit. And now that all chance of escape is gone I begin to feel more than before the pressure of the horror of this place; the close confinement, the bad air, the terrible darkness, the bodily discomforts, the uncleanness, the lack of water. My throat is parched, but I dare not drink more than a sip at a time, for my one gill—what is left of it—must last until morning. And then there is the constant whirr-whirr-whirring of the dynamo next door, and the death chamber at our backs.

For a while after the departure of Grant we are still talkative. There is a proposition to settle down for the night, but Joe scouts the notion. So the conversation is continued; and by way of reviving our drooping spirits Joe asks again, “Say, fellows! What would you say now to a nice, thick, juicy steak with fried potatoes?”

As by this time we are all ravenously hungry and some of us well-nigh famished, what is said to Joe will not bear repetition.

Then we have music. Joe sings an excellent rag-time ditty. Number Two follows with the Toreador’s song from “Carmen,” sung in a sweet, true, light tenor voice that shows real love and appreciation of music. I too am pressed to sing, but out of consideration for my fellow prisoners decline, endeavoring in other ways to contribute my share to the sociability of the occasion. I can at any rate be an appreciative listener.

After a time, announcing my intention of going to sleep, I stretch out full length on the hard floor—and it certainly is hard. However, it will not be the first time I’ve spent a night on the bare boards; although I’ve never done so in a suicide’s cell, with the death chamber close at hand. I don’t wonder men go crazy in these cells; that dynamo, with its single insistent note, slowly but surely boring its way into one’s brain, is enough to send anyone out of his mind, even if there were no other cause.

This is the place where I had expected to meet the violent and dangerous criminals; but what do I find? A genial young Irishman, as pleasant company as I have ever encountered, and a sweet-voiced boy singing “Carmen.”

Is this Prison System anything but organized lunacy? I fail to see where ordinary common sense or a single lesson of human experience has been utilized in its development.

“Are you asleep yet, Tom?” It is Joe’s voice again.

“No, not yet.”

“Well, you know, we don’t do much of that down here; but it’s a mighty sociable place.” Then, as if the idea of sociability had suggested it, “Any bedbugs yet?”

Horrors!

“Bedbugs!” I gasp, then laugh at the suggestion. “I don’t see any bed; how can there be any bedbugs?”

“Well, I guess you’ll have plenty visiting you before the night’s over,” says Joe.

Number Two’s plaintive voice is heard again, “I’ve just killed two.”

Good Lord! it only needed this!

Immediately I begin to feel myself attacked by vermin from all directions. I know of no other instance where the power of suggestion can give so much discomfort. Once mention vermin, and all repose of mind is gone for me until I can reach a bathtub. Just at present, however, I should feel grateful if I could even wash my hands.

Stretched on the floor at the back of the cell I try to find a comfortable position, but without success. I toss and turn on the hard boards, and finally give a groan of discouragement.

“What’s the matter, Tom?” Number Four is alert as usual.

“Oh, nothing, only I can’t find a soft spot in this confounded place. It wouldn’t be so bad if I had a pillow.”

“Guess you don’t know how to sleep on the floor,” says Joe, and he proceeds to give useful instructions as to the best means of arriving at a minimum of discomfort. Following Joe’s advice, I remove my felt shoes, and with my shirt rolled up on top of them have a very fair pillow. My coat must be taken off and thrown over the body as a coverlet, for one gets more warmth and comfort in this way than when it is worn. As I make these changes I also shift my place in the cell, moving over toward the door; for just as Joe is giving me his suggestions, a suspicious crawling on my neck gives the chance to remove a large-sized bedbug which, in spite of the special cleaning the cell had undergone just before my arrival, has found its way in.

And now comes a weird episode of this strange night’s experience. What the hour is I can only guess; but, having heard the distant sounds of the nine o’clock train going west, and the nine-fifty going east, I think it must be in the neighborhood of half past ten. Lying on the hard floor I am feeling not sleepy, but very tired—drowsy from sheer mental exhaustion. I hear my name called again, asking if I am still awake, but I do not answer, for I hardly know whether I am or not.

Suddenly a wail comes from the next cell, “Oh, my God! I’ve tipped over my water!”

For an instant I feel as if I must make an attempt to batter down the iron wall between us. I have been hoarding my own water; let me share it with that poor sick boy. But the next thought brings me to my senses. I am powerless. I can only listen to the poor fellow’s groans, while tears of rage and sympathy are wiped from my eyes on the sleeve of my soiled and ragged shirt.

“How did it happen?” I hear Joe ask.

“Oh, I just turned over and stretched my legs out and kicked the can over. And now—I can’t get any water until to-morrow morning! Oh, what in Hell shall I do?”

The speaker’s voice dies away into inarticulate moaning. Quietly I reach over for my own precious can of water and place it securely in a corner—far removed from any probable activities of my feet. Then presently as I lie quietly, awake and listening, I become aware of a terrible thing. I hear Number Two talking to himself and then calling out to Joe, “When he comes in here to-morrow morning, I’ll just—I’ll—I’ll throw my bucket at his head!” and I realize that he is talking of an assault upon the keeper. Then he begins to mutter wild nothings to himself. Gradually there dawns upon me a hideous thought—the poor lad is going out of his mind.

What shall I do? What can I do? What can anyone do? If we could only get some water to him! But the iron cage is solid on all sides. If we could only arouse the keeper! But there is no possible way to make anyone hear. We could all scream our lungs out and no one would come. We might all go mad and die in our cells and no one would come.

But if I am helpless, not so Number Four. I soon hear Joe beginning to talk with the boy; and I perceive that Joe also has realized the situation, and with admirable patience and tact is applying the remedy. Never have I witnessed a finer act of Christian charity toward suffering humanity, never more skilful treatment of a sick and nervous fellow-creature. The first thing an intelligent doctor would advise in such a case is that the patient should confide in a sympathetic friend, air his grievance, get it out of his system, let the dangerous gases escape. A more sympathetic friend than Joe one could not find. Bit by bit he draws Number Two’s story from him and encourages him to vent his anger at the prison officials and their whole infernal system, and in fact at all things and persons related to his present situation.

Then having laid bare the wound Joe begins to apply antiseptic and soothing treatment. “Now you mustn’t worry too much about this thing,” is the advice of the sympathetic listener. “You’ve had a rotten deal, but listen to this.” And he relates some peculiarly atrocious case of punishment—true or otherwise. He gradually soothes the boy’s irritated temper, and then at the appropriate moment says, “Now give us another song!”

Number Two, after some demur, complies; sings a tender, sentimental ballad, and evidently feels better.

Then Joe cracks a joke; chats with Number Two about a few topics of general interest; and then, yawning, expresses his own intention of going to sleep. There are a few scattered incidental remarks at ever longer intervals. Then as I listen carefully and hear nothing in the next cell, I conclude that Number Two is safely over the strain for the time; that with Joe’s help he has conquered his black mood and is back on the right road again.

Good for you, Joe! Whatever your sins and failures of the past, whatever your failures and sins of the future, I do not believe that the Recording Angel will forget to jot down something to your credit for this night in Cell Four.

Quiet has settled upon us. There is heavy breathing in some of the cells, and I think that even Joe is contradicting his statement regarding sleep in the jail. But for a long time I can get no such relief. My ever increasing sympathy and anger are making me feverish. But at last, somewhere near midnight as near as I can judge, I do succeed in dropping off to sleep. It is a restless slumber at the best, for I am repeatedly made aware of some bone or muscle with the existence of which I am not usually concerned. So I twist and turn, as every few moments I am hazily and painfully aroused into semi-consciousness.

But even this restless slumber is denied me. Before I have found relief in it for more than half an hour I am suddenly and roughly awakened. The door of the cell is rattled violently and a harsh voice calls out, “Here! Answer to your name! Brown!”

Recovering my dazed and scattered senses as well as I can, I reply, “Here, sir!” and have a mind to add, “Still alive,” but suppress the impulse as I wish to ask a favor.

“Officer,” I say, as politely as possible, “that poor fellow in the next cell has tipped over his can of water. Can’t you let him have some more?”

The answer is far more courteous than I deserve for such an unheard-of and scandalous proposition. The keeper says shortly and gruffly, “’Fraid I can’t. ’Gainst the rules.” And he coolly proceeds to wake up the occupants of the other cells.

Setting my teeth firmly together, while the blood goes rushing to my temples, I feel for the moment as if I should smother. Perhaps it is as well that I am under lock and key, for I should like to commit murder. To think that any man can grow so callous to human suffering as to forget the very first duty of humanity. Even soldiers on the battlefield will give a drink of water to a dying enemy. And here we have an organized System which in cold blood forbids the giving of a few drops to the parched lips of a sick lad, to save him from misery and madness! And if I am almost stifling with anger at the outrage, what must those men feel who are really suffering? What must those have felt who in the past have been kept here day after day, slowly dying of thirst or going mad on one gill of water in twenty-four hours?

Is it imagination that the very air here seems to be tainted with unseen but malign and potent influences, bred of the cruelty and suffering—the hatred and madness which these cells have harbored? If ever there were a spot haunted by spirits of evil, this must surely be the place. I have been shown through dungeons that seemed to reek with the misery and wretchedness with which some lawless medieval tyrant had filled them; but here is a dungeon where the tyrant is an unreasoning, unreachable System, based upon the law and tolerated by good, respectable, religious men and women. Even more then than the dungeons of Naples is this “the negation of God”; for its foundation is not the brutal whim of a degenerate despot, but the ignorance and indifference of a free and civilized people. Or rather, this is worse than a negation of God, it is a betrayal of God.

After duly waking my companions the keeper amuses himself by fussing with the steam pipes. The vault was already disagreeably close and hot; but he chooses to make it still hotter, and none of us dares to remonstrate. Then he turns out the light and goes his way, and he certainly carries with him my own hearty maledictions, if not those of my fellow prisoners.

It is hopeless to think of going to sleep again at once, although my head is thick and my eyes heavy with fatigue. So again I sit close to the grated door and open up communication with Joe. As usual, he is entirely willing to give his attention, and enters readily into conversation.

“Hey, Tom! Do you want to know my name? It’s Joseph Matto. Funny name for an Irishman, ain’t it? Well, you know, it ain’t my real name. My real name’s McNulty. But you see it was this way. When my case came up in court, down in New York, they called out, ‘Joseph Matto’; and the cop said, ‘Here, you, get up there!’ I said, ‘That ain’t my name’; and he said, ‘Never you mind, get up!’ So you see I got some other fellow’s name, but I thought I might as well keep it, and so I have ever since.

“But it’s all right, because I don’t want to disgrace my folks. They don’t know where I am, and I wouldn’t have my mother know for anything. You see, I’m the black sheep of the family, the rest are all right. I’m the only one that ain’t goin’ straight. But when I get out of here I mean to go straight. Say, Tom, do you think I can get a job, here in Auburn? My bit is up in December, and I should like to stay here and get straight before I go back home.”

“When you get out,” is my answer, “it will be up to me to stand treat for a dinner of beefsteak and fried potatoes, at any rate. And I’ll do the best I can to help you get a job, Joe, if you really do mean to go straight. But in that neither I nor any one else can help you; you know you’ll have to do that yourself.”

Poor Number Four! I have not the slightest doubt he means what he says, but here again—this cursed System. It is particularly deadening to a young fellow like Joe. He evidently has just that lively, good-natured, shiftless, irresponsible temperament which needs to be carefully trained in the bearing of responsibility.

While Joe and I are conversing, Number Eight makes his one remark. “Would there be a job for a bricklayer around here?”

I don’t know, and tell him so; but add, as in Joe’s case, that if he means to go straight I will gladly do what I can for him; and in any event I consider that I owe each of them a good dinner. Thus it is agreed that they will all dine with me in turn upon the happy occasions of their release.

“By the way, Tom, did you go up to that Bertillon room?” Joe is off on a new tack.

“Oh, yes. I did all the regular stunts.”

“Were you measured and photographed, and all that?”

“Yes, and my finger prints taken. I went through the whole thing.”

“Gee! Well, then, they’ll have your picture in the rogues’ gallery, won’t they, along with the rest of us?”

“I suppose they will,” is my answer, and then I tell how my scars and marks were all discovered and duly set down in the record; and wind up with a variation of the same mild joke which so bored the clerk of the Bertillon room. “And do you know, boys, after he had got me all sized up and written down, I felt as if it would never be safe for me to adopt burglary as a profession; and I’ve always rather looked forward to that.”

My companions are not bored but appreciative, they laugh with some heartiness. Then after a pause Joe says quite seriously, “Well say, Tom! I can just tell you one thing, you needn’t ever have any fear that your house will be entered!”

“Oh! Do you think the crooks will all recognize me as one of themselves?”

“Sure!” is Joe’s hearty rejoinder. He evidently considers it a compliment, and I accept it as such. At any rate I have apparently hit upon rather a novel form of burglary insurance.

It must be somewhere between half past one and two o’clock that sheer exhaustion sends me off to sleep again. This time my slumber is more successful than before. It is only occasionally that the discomfort of the hard floor forces me back into consciousness, and forces me also to such changes of position as seem necessary to prevent my bones coming through. Many of them seem to be getting painfully near the surface.

It was Number Five, I think, who informed me that it is the custom down here for the keeper to visit us every four hours—at half past twelve and half past four. The first visit I have described. After that, for nearly three hours, I get such sleep as the hard floor affords. About half past four I am having an interval of semi-consciousness—enough to realize dimly how utterly worn out I still feel both in body and mind, and how both crave more rest. So I am struggling very hard not to awake, when the light of the keeper’s electric bull’s-eye flashes through the iron grating straight into my eyes.

With curses too violent and sincere for utterance I report myself still in existence.

Now I am so constituted that at the best of times a sudden awakening always annoys me greatly. Just now it quite upsets my equilibrium. A torrent of rage and hate surges up through my whole being; it fairly frightens me by its violence. For a moment I feel as if I were being strangled. Then I make up my mind that I must and will get to sleep again, in spite of the keeper and his infernal light; and I make desperate attempts to do so, for I realize that I am expected to speak in chapel before many hours, and have a trying day before me. I am bound, therefore, to have myself in no worse condition than I can possibly help.

But of course it is impossible to get to sleep again, I can only follow my whirling thoughts. How in the world am I ever to speak to those men in chapel? What in Heaven’s name can I say? How can I trust myself to say anything? How can I urge good conduct, when my whole soul cries out in revolt? How can I preach resignation and patience against this dark background of horror?

An aching, overwhelming sense of the hideous cruelty of the whole barbaric, brutal business sweeps over me; the feeling of moral, physical and mental outrage; the monumental imbecility of it all; the horrible darkness; the cruel iron walls at our backs; the nerve-racking monotone of the whirring dynamo through the other wall; the filth; the vermin; the bad air; the insufficient food; the denial of water; and the overpowering, sickening sense of accumulated misery—of madness and suicide, haunting the place. How can I speak of these things? How can I not speak of them? How can I——

Hark!

Click! Click! Click! Click! I hear the levers being pressed down by the officer, and the stirring of life along the galleries.

Click! Click! Click! Click! I had no idea it was possible to hear the sounds from the south wing, ’way in here. And it is still so early in the morning—only half past four.

Click! Click! Click! It must be the prisoners who work in the kitchens, they are the only ones who would be moving at such an hour. But again, how is it possible to hear them so far away, shut in as we are by stone walls and iron doors?

Uneasily I shift my position and turn over on my left side, which feels temporarily less bruised and painful than the other. The clicking stops. But other vague sounds succeed; and then suddenly——

Tramp! Tramp! Tramp! Tramp! It is the march of the gray companies down the stone walk of the yard.

Tramp! Tramp! Tramp! Tramp! It is certainly not only the kitchen gang, for there must be many companies of them.

Tramp! Tramp——But this is ridiculous, at half past four in the morning! It can’t be true, it must be my imagination. I am not really hearing these sounds, for my reason tells me they are impossible.

Nevertheless I do hear them. Tramp! Tramp! Tramp! Tramp!

I try in vain to reason myself out of the evidences of my senses. I am hearing sounds that I am sure do not exist.

Tramp! Tramp! Tramp——

Heavens! Am I going mad?

This is past bearing. I abandon the attempt to sleep and sit up. As I do so the cell is suddenly filled with flying sparks which dance from one end to the other. Aghast, I steady myself with my back against the side of the cell.

This is getting serious. I grit my teeth together, and, shutting my eyes in the hope of keeping out the sight of the flitting sparks, I say firmly to myself, “This must not be. Don’t lose your nerve. Cool down. Control yourself. Slow up. Keep steady.”

As I rise to my feet my head seems to clear, the sparks disappear, the sound of marching footsteps had already ceased. There is nothing to see or hear—only the dreadful blackness and the dead silence of the night. I take two turns about the cell, carefully refraining from kicking over the bucket in the corner, and then stand close to the grating, in the hope of a breath of cool, fresh air. But there is no such thing in this foetid place.

“Joe! Are you awake?”

“Hello! What’s the matter?”

“For God’s sake talk to me!”

“Sure! What shall we talk about?”

“Anything. I don’t care. Only something.”

So Joe begins to chat with me, and presently Number Two joins in, and Number Five has a few words to say. What we talk about I have not the faintest recollection; it is the only part of this night’s occurrences that makes no impression whatever on my memory. I only know that I am longing for speedy escape as I have seldom longed for anything; that I am saying constantly to myself, “It can’t be more than an hour more! They must surely come in about forty minutes! Half an hour! Half an hour! It can’t go beyond that! Oh, why don’t they come?”

I answer any remarks directed to me quite at random, for I am waiting, waiting, waiting, and listening.

An hour and a half does not seem such an endless period of time usually. Well, it all depends. When you are in a dark prison cell, waiting for deliverance, it seems a lifetime. I lived through every hour in the minute of that interminable period of five thousand four hundred seconds.At last I hear a sound—one of the most welcome sounds I ever heard—the six o’clock train blowing off steam over at the New York Central station. I find myself wondering why I am not ready to shout with joy, and I discover it is because I feel as if all power of emotion had been crushed out of me. It is not merely utter and hopeless fatigue; it is as if something had broken inside of me; as if I could never be joyous again; as if I must be haunted forever by a sense of shame and guilt for my own share of responsibility for this iniquitous place. My sensation, when at last I hear the sound of the key in the lock of the outer door, is not one of exultation, only of approaching relief from deadly pain—pain which has become almost insupportable.

Once more we hear the outer door open and steps coming along the passage. I rise from my seat on the floor, and put on my shirt and shoes as I whisper, “Good bye, boys. I wish I could take you with me.” Then the inner door is opened, the light is lighted, and my cell door swings out.

Some one stands there—I do not know who—I do not care. Listlessly, like one in a dream, I pick up my cap and coat; and silently, wearily, move out and toward the bench where I changed my clothes last night. Last night!—a thousand years ago. The officer—the keeper—the man, whoever he is, who has come to release me, produces my regular prison uniform; and listlessly, silently, wearily, I make the change, dropping my jail garments upon the floor. I feel as if I should like to grind my heels into the loathsome, hated things.

With a parting look along the row of cells which imprison my comrades, and choking down my feelings as I think of the sick lad we are leaving without water, I stumble along the passage to the jail office, pausing only while my attendant locks behind us the two iron doors. Another moment and I feel my lungs expand with a deep refreshing breath, and find myself out in the ghostly quiet of the prison yard.

The morning air is fresh and cool, and there is a soft gray light which seems to touch soothingly the old gray stones of the prison; but I have a feeling as if nothing were alive, as if I were a gray, uneasy ghost visiting a city of the dead. The only thing suggestive of life seems to be the sound of my heavy shoes upon the stone pavement.

I have a remote impression that my attendant is saying something. Perhaps I answer him. I think I do, but I am not sure. If so, it is only from the force of habit, not from any conscious mental process.

We traverse the upper part of the yard and enter the main building. Here my shoes make such a clatter on the stone floor that my guide looks at them inquiringly. I do not know whether he recommends their removal or whether I do it of my own accord; I am only aware that I have taken them off and am carrying them in my left hand as we mount the iron stairs and creep quietly along the familiar gallery of the second tier.

At Number 15 we stop, the key is turned in the lock, the lever clicks, the door opens, and I enter my cell. I think the man says something; I do not know. I stand motionless just within the door, as it swings to and is locked. The footsteps of my guide retreat along the gallery, down the stairs, and so out of hearing.

There is no sound in the cell house. All is silent, as the gray light of morning steals through the barred windows into the corridor and through the grated door into my cell.

What next?

I do not know.

Suddenly there wells up within me a feeling which is no longer rage, it is a great resistless wave of sympathy for those poor fellows in that Hell I have just left; for those who have ever been there; for those in danger of going there; for all the inmates of this great city within the walls—this great community ruled by hate—where wickedness is the expected thing—where love is forbidden and cast out.

Obeying an impulse I could not control if I would, I throw myself on my knees, with my arms on the chair and my face in my hands, and pray to Our Father who art in Heaven.

My prayer is for wisdom, for courage, for strength. Wisdom to determine my duty, courage to endeavor, and strength to persevere.

May I be an instrument in Thy hands, O God, to help others to see the light, as Thou hast led me to see the light. And may no impatience, prejudice, or pride of opinion on my part hinder the service Thou hast given me to do.