Soon after our return to the cells comes Landry, having understood perfectly my first attempt at convict conversation. I give him my message and he engages to see that it is delivered. As we are talking, another of the trusties passes by; and, before I can see who it is, a large sheet of paper is thrust under the door and the man is gone. I turn the paper over and on the other side is a most elaborate pencil sketch of myself, copied with extraordinary pains, apparently from some newspaper cut, and with it a slip of paper with this inscription: "Auburn Prison, September 30, 1913.

To Hon. Thomas M. Osborne, Auburn, N. Y. As a memento of the days spent in our midst and sacrificed in our behalf. Auburn No. 31----."

Arrived at the basket-shop and soon after Jack and I have started working, I have a bad attack of nausea. I was very thirsty at breakfast time and inadvertently drank some bootleg. That must be the reason. No human stomach, without practice, can stand that stuff. I keep on working, hoping the feeling will wear off, but it does not. Then I walk up and down energetically while we are waiting for a new stock of rattan, but that has no better effect. Jack is much concerned and insists upon appealing to the Captain, who promptly sends to the hospital for medicine. In the meantime I go to the large door in the rear of the shop with a hope of relief from the cause of disturbance, but am only partially successful. A young prisoner who is washing windows asks me if I would not like some hot water. Indeed I would, it is the very thing I want. So he goes and gets it. He is a good-looking lad, a Greek, with the appealing eyes I have noticed in some of the Italian prisoners. I drink large quantities of hot water and rest awhile before continuing my work. Jack and all the other men about me are most kind and solicitous for my comfort, and I have never seen a more ready and friendly expression of sympathy. It is worth being ill to experience it.

The young Greek keeps my jar of hot water filled as fast as I empty it, and even before the medicine arrives from the hospital I already feel better. I take a dose, however, and go to work again. By the time the morning work hours are over I am in shape to march back to the north wing, although for a moment at the bucket stands I feel as if I were about to keel over.

In my cell I slump into the chair. (I don't think I have mentioned that the large chair which gave so much trouble on Tuesday night was replaced the next day by one of more manageable proportions.) I rest my head against the mattress, as it hangs over the bed, and feel ill for a few moments. But I take another dose of the Doctor's medicine and by the time the march to dinner comes I feel better; so much better that, carefully avoiding the bootleg, I manage to make a fairly good meal.

The menu to-day consists of very excellent hot soup, cold salmon, and pickles. I avoid the salmon and pickles, passing them along to another man, and contenting myself with the soup and sour bread. This passing to others of what one does not want seems to be very general. As it has to be done without visible conversation it is a little difficult for the newcomer always to know what is expected of him, and I'm afraid I have not always disposed of my meal to the best advantage. I notice that Landry eats sparingly. As he has what might be called a semi-official position, I suspect that he reserves some of his gastronomic energies for the back pantry.

Again in my cell I address myself to sleep; and succeed in getting a brief nap, which is broken by my good friend Joe, who comes to make anxious inquiries after my health. He has heard that I am sick and is much concerned. I suppose he has learned it in the mysterious way so much news travels--by prison wireless.

I relieve Joe's anxiety; and then comes Landry with whom I have a pleasant talk on things in general, ending with religion. We are interrupted by the arrival of Captain Martin; and I am considerably amused at the deft way in which Landry has effaced himself and vanished before the officer regains his breath after climbing the stairs. Captain Martin comes from the Doctor to know whether I should like some milk.

"Thank you, sir, I think not now." I am on the point of adding that it would be extremely welcome this evening--well or ill; but the Captain does not offer it, and I do not quite like to ask for it. So I vouchsafe the information that I'm feeling better now and think I shall be all right in a very short while.

The Captain takes his departure; and my next caller is Dickinson, who is still radiant over the idea of leaving to-morrow. I give him the note I have written, which will enable him to get his clothes; and, when he tells me that owing to the late fine weather the authorities have refused to give him an overcoat, I add that item to his list.

When the time comes to go back to work I am feeling refreshed by my brief nap and the hour's rest after dinner. So I fall into line as usual with the company--I wonder what would happen if I stayed behind in my cell--and we march down the yard as usual. When I arrive at the shop, Jack is at my side in an instant.

"How are you feeling, Tom?" he inquires, anxiously.

I tell him that I am doing fairly well, and we set to work. In a very short time, however, the feeling of nausea returns; and Jack then gives me a remedy of his own which he says is often taken in the prison, where indigestion is only too common. It consists of bicarbonate of soda in vinegar and water. To show me that it is quite safe Jack takes a dose himself, I follow suit, and the result is satisfactory in both cases. I am also provided with plenty of hot water by my young Greek friend, who is apparently ready to take any amount of trouble for me.

While I am trying to do my fair share of the basket-making this afternoon one of my shopmates passes behind me and then pauses in the shadow of the post. "Say, Brown," he says, "you don't seem to realize that you are violating one of the fundamental laws of this institution, you're working too hard," and he goes off chuckling. I don't know that I am working too hard, but I do know that there seems to be about as little incentive to do a good, honest day's work as could well be devised. At a cent and a half a day the financial result is farcical, and my surprise is great that the state gets as good work as it does. Certainly it is far better than the state deserves. Looking about the shop I see a great many men who are doing their allotted tasks faithfully and well. Yet they have absolutely nothing to gain by it except the satisfaction of work well done.

In the course of the afternoon Jack and I resume our discussion about Sunday afternoons and the Good Conduct League. Further consideration has rendered both of us enthusiastic over the plan.

"Why, I know it would work, Tom," is Jack's decided statement. "The big majority of fellows in this prison the Warden don't have any trouble with.

Well, just keep the rest of 'em out of the League. There's no reason why the men who are tryin' to make good should suffer because those miserable degenerates won't stand for what's right."

"Then you think that if the right men were trusted they could take care of the bad ones?" I ask.

"Sure!" replies my enthusiastic partner.

"Well, now let's see about this thing," I say, becoming more and more interested as the great possibilities of the plan present themselves to my mind. "Suppose it is Sunday afternoon and Superintendent Riley has given permission to use the yard. You can't have the officers coming back and spoiling their day off. How would you manage?"

"Why, just let the League fellows manage themselves," is Jack's answer.

"Yes, but how?" I persist. "You'd probably have an occasional fight of some sort, and you'd have to have some means of enforcing discipline.

Could each company have a convict officer, a lieutenant to assist the regular captain?"

Jack looks grave. "That would be too much like Elmira," he says. "I'm afraid the fellows wouldn't fall for it. You know they just hate those Elmira officers; they're nothing but stool-pigeons."

Right here is where my Junior Republic experience comes to our aid.

"Yes," I say, "but we wouldn't have any Elmira stool-pigeons. Down there the inmate officers are appointed by the prison authorities, aren't they?

Well, here we'd have the members of the League elect their own officers."

Jack stares at me a moment, and then his quick mind grasps the point.

"That's it, that's it," he assents, eagerly, "we've got it now. Of course if the men elect their own officers they won't be stool-pigeons."

"Certainly not, they can't be," I rejoin, feeling now on familiar and secure ground, "for if the men elect them, they will be representatives of the men and bound to feel themselves responsible to the men. They may turn out to be poor officers--dictatorial, or weak, or incompetent--but they will not be stool-pigeons. Then you can guard against it still further by providing that whenever the men of a company lose faith in their officer he can be recalled and a new one elected."

As we discuss the matter new possibilities open up. Some sort of governing body of the League which shall plan ahead for its work, so that every Sunday something interesting may be presented. Perhaps the men might get up an entertainment themselves; or, as I suggest, possibly athletic sports on a holiday in the yard. This last makes Jack fairly gasp.

"Gee! I guess that we'd have everybody wantin' to join the League, all right," is his comment.

"And you really think the men would take an interest, and make such a thing go?" is my final question.

"Go!" says Jack. "The only trouble will be if we ever had a fight in the yard everybody'd want to stop it to show that they didn't stand for it.

And I'm afraid that fourteen hundred men would come pretty near to putting the two fighters out of business."

"Well, then, let us think over this matter fully and carefully, Jack, and later on I'll take it up with you and see what we can work out of it. I think you've got hold of the right end and struck a big thing."

The next time Stuhlmiller comes to our table I say, "Harley, listen to this," and give him a rough outline of what Jack and I have been discussing. Stuhlmiller listens with smiling attention and gives the plan warm approval. This is encouraging.

On the other hand, when we open up the subject to Blackie Laflam, he takes a different view. He is quite ready to accept the blessings of Sunday afternoons in the yard or chapel; but he balks at the idea of inmate lieutenants.

"Cut it out," is his comment. "I wouldn't be bossed by no convict. Ain't the keeper enough? What's he paid for? No Elmira stool-pigeons for mine!"

So there we have the two views very well outlined, and the two currents of public opinion fairly contrasted. Harley sees the point at once, is ready to join in and accept the responsibilities which must go along with the privileges; Blackie has to overcome his prejudices and be convinced of the benefit which may accrue to him personally. We shall have to take into account both groups of which these two men are types.[12]

Except for these discussions this last afternoon passes without any new excitement. I find myself frequently wondering about to-morrow. In my present condition it would be very foolish to attempt the jail.

Fortunately I am feeling better every moment, even if I am "working too hard"; perhaps because of doing so. By the time the order comes to fall in at the end of the afternoon I am quite myself again--thanks to Jack's remedy, the Doctor's medicine, and the Greek boy's hot water, to say nothing of the League discussion.

One incident of the afternoon touches me extremely. Working not far from us is a young lad from Brooklyn. He can't be more than eighteen or nineteen years of age--a good-looking youth, having no special friends apparently and speaking but little to any one. Every moment when he is not working he is either vigorously walking, or poring over some book, a lurid dime novel I should judge from its appearance. I have tried to make friends with him, but without much success. My advances are received pleasantly enough, but awaken apparently very little response. To be sure we do not have a chance to enjoy much real conversation, but his face does not light up as do those of most of the prisoners with whom I get the chance to exchange even a word or two.

This afternoon, while I am working away at the bench, I suddenly see a hand outstretched in front of me, and in its palm a small bunch of about two dozen green, dyspeptic-looking grapes. A more forlorn attempt at fruit I have never seen.

I turn, and it is my young friend of the dime novel. The lad has somehow or other come into possession of these sickly grapes, and is making to me the best offering he can. I dare say it sounds like a very commonplace occurrence, but in reality there is something infinitely pathetic in this poor imprisoned boy's attempt to express friendliness. I wish I could give him in return some of the real fruit that is at this moment wasting on the vines at home. As it is, I can only tell him that I do not dare eat fruit while my stomach is out of order, but that I appreciate his kindness none the less. So he goes back to his exercise; and I am left wondering how in the world--or rather, how away from the world--did the boy come by those grapes.[13]

Thus I close my last full day's work in the shop. Where shall I be at this time to-morrow, I wonder? It occurs to me that this was the same question I was asking myself only five nights ago, before I came to prison.

We march back up the yard without incident; and in due time I regain my cell, after getting my bread for supper.

Here Dickinson comes again, to express his gratitude and have me share in his joy at deliverance. I say, "And now I suppose it's good-bye."

"Oh, no," he replies; "I shall come and see you again to-morrow morning before I go." Then he tells me all his plans, and how he expects to rejoin his wife and children. His joy is pathetic when one reflects upon the individual sorrows and disappointments that must await him, with always in the background the horrible dread of having his past discovered. Even his children do not know the truth; they think their father has only been away on a long journey. I give him my very best wishes and plenty of good advice, and again he assures me of his undying gratitude. It seems to be very easy to make these poor fellows grateful. Just a little human feeling, that is all that is necessary.

This evening, having little appetite and bread and water not seeming quite adequate to tempt what little there is, I turn to Landry's apples which have been awaiting just such an occasion. I eat one; and it goes to just the right spot. I have seldom tasted anything more delicious. On the whole, it appears well to be on good terms with a gallery man; and I can see that it would be especially so if he is the captain's trusty. I can imagine that then he might be of great service; or might, on the other hand, work one a deal of mischief if he wanted to. The trusty must have it in his power very often to prejudice the captain for or against certain prisoners by what he tells; and the captain would have no practicable means of verifying the trusty's statements. A system of petty and very exasperating tyranny would thus grow up. It is bad enough to be tyrannized over by an officer, but to be tyrannized over by an officer's stool-pigeon must be almost unendurable. While I have seen no examples myself, I imagine from what I have heard that this state of things is not unknown, as of course it is inevitable. One has only to recall one's own school days to know that.

After I have finished my supper of apples, bread and water, one of the trusties comes to the front of the cell, and I have a long talk with him.

He grows confidential, and tells me his story. It is a mournful but perfectly natural one. An active boy, inclined to wildness; bad companions; a father whose business called him from home; a mother unable to cope with her wilful son; a life of dissipation; a picnic and drinking; a row with some other toughs; a handy pistol and an unpremeditated murder. Then comes the punishment which falls upon him, although others are equally to blame.

What surprises me about this, like other tales that have reached me, is the frank acknowledgment of the sin. There is usually an admission that punishment was deserved, occasionally an admission that on the whole prison has been useful--"I've learned my lesson"; but along with any such acknowledgment, an expression of intense resentment at unintelligent treatment and unnecessary brutality.

The tales of this brutality are almost beyond belief. They do not come out directly, put forward to arouse sympathy; very far from that. They crop out incidentally in the course of conversation and are only related when I ply the prisoner with questions. One man tells of being sent to a dark cell because he would not reveal to the warden something he did not know, and therefore could not reveal, about one of his fellow prisoners.