"Didn't you really know, or wouldn't you be a stool-pigeon?" is my natural question.

"I really didn't know," replies the trusty.

But the warden chose to think that the poor fellow did know, and sent him to the dark cell on bread and water for eight days. Then he was brought up, more dead than alive, given a single meal, and sent back to the dark cell for twelve days more.

Twenty days in darkness--on bread and water--for withholding information which he did not possess.

(It should be added that this did not happen under any warden now holding office.)

What are men made of who can treat human beings like that? I supposed that the Middle Ages were safely passed; but here is the medieval idea of the torture chamber to extract information right over again.

Then there is that other story of the man who committed suicide in the jail. This is what is told to me:

A number of years ago a poor fellow was sent here. His first night in prison was so terrible a nervous strain upon him, as it apparently is to all prisoners, that he could not keep from hysterical crying. The officer on guard ordered him to stop, but he could not control himself. So the officer chalked him in.

The next day he was reported for punishment and sent down to the jail, although he protested that it would kill him. That night he strangled himself with his handkerchief.

It is the jail which, apparently, either sends a man bughouse, or which lays such a foundation that he becomes so later on. But even when the time spent in the dark cell is short, as in Jack Murphy's case, who spent only eight hours there, there seems to be left an impression of horror--for which I find it difficult to account. I certainly cannot make a full test of prison life without having a jail experience. For me surely it can hold no such horror as for these poor fellows who are kept so many days on starvation diet. Yes, if I do not feel physically unfit to-morrow I must undertake the experience.

Soon after eight o'clock the Warden and Grant appear at my cell door. My ears are becoming sharper, I think. I can tell now the moment the door opens into the corridor below whether or not it is the Warden that is coming. Of course he arrives about the same time every evening, but also about this time the door is opening and closing a number of times. I recognize also the Warden's footfalls on the stone pavement below. It would not be very long, I imagine, before I should have a hearing as acute as my fellow prisoners seem to have.

The Warden begins with an apology. "I'm very sorry," he says, "but I forgot your newspaper to-night." Then he adds the usual remark, "I don't know how I came to forget it."

"Don't worry," I say, "it doesn't make any difference. I've read it."

The Warden stares at me incredulously. "You've read it! To-night's paper?"

"Certainly," I answer, "from beginning to end. Don't you believe it?" And in proof of my statement I produce the paper.

The Warden gasps. "Well, how in the devil did you get that?"

"Oh, come now! Don't you understand that I'm a convict?" I say jeeringly.

"You mustn't expect me to answer such a question."

The Warden takes it all in good part. "Well, Dan," he says, turning to Grant, "this man seems to be on to the game all right. What shall we do to him for violating the rules and smashing our system?"

"Don't you know," I remark with a serious air, "that so long as you hold me a prisoner I don't care a pin for your rules, and even less for your damn'd system. What do you say to that?"

"I say you're a dangerous man, and the sooner we get you off on parole the better," laughs the Warden. "But you will have to promise you won't make more trouble for us after you get outside."

"Oh, you're in for trouble, all right; whether I'm inside or out." I say it in jest, but we know there is many a true word spoken in that way. The Warden will have many new problems to handle while he is in office; for the old way is worn out and the new way is surely coming. Fortunately he is a genuine progressive and the new has no terrors for him.

Taking up the serious part of our business, the Warden says he must go out of town again to-morrow; and be gone over Sunday.

"What about that poor fellow they dragged down to the jail night before last?" I ask.

"Oh, you're all wrong about that matter," the Warden answers. "He was insolent and violent, flung his bucket at the keeper's head, and there was nothing to do but punish him. I've inquired into it and the officers were all right."

"You are being deceived," is my comment. "These men realize they are in bad. They're afraid of the truth; and they're steering you wrong. Take my word for it, Warden, there is more in that affair than they are permitting you to know. And you are up against the System as well as the prisoners themselves."

The Warden is troubled, no man has a heartier dislike of being made the victim of dishonesty or hypocrisy than he. "Well, what had better be done?" he asks. "I shall be very busy to-morrow before I go."

"Suppose we wait then," I suggest. "The man is probably not being abused now, wherever he is; and after I get out of here you can have a thorough examination made. I can guarantee plenty of material to enable you to get to the bottom of it."

"I am more than ever sorry I have to go away," says the Warden. "Now how about the jail? Are you still determined to go there? And, if so, how do you propose to be sent?"

"Well, as you know, I don't wish to be a fool about this thing, nor do I want to run any unnecessary risk. To-day I felt very sick; and, to be quite frank, if I should feel to-morrow as I did to-day I couldn't be hired to go to jail. But I feel so much better to-night that I think I shall be in good condition to-morrow. So what I propose is this. Let Dan come here to-morrow noon, and if I feel all right we can put through our plan. I did intend to go down to the jail to-morrow morning, so as to have the whole twenty-four hours there; but it would be better to wait until after dinner. There is no use in taking too large a dose. I ought to get all necessary information in--say, four hours.

"Some time in the afternoon, then, I will simply strike work. Grant can tip off the Captain; and he will send me to the P. K. Of course, if a fellow refuses to work, the only thing they can do is to send him to the punishment cells. If you were to be here I had thought of putting in a warden's call; and then of being so insolent to you that you would have no recourse but to order me punished. I should quite enjoy telling you what I think of your rotten old institution. But if you're going away that plan's no good, so we'll try the other."

"I think your present plan is better," says the Warden. "I should hate to have you tell me what you really think of us. Well, that ought to work out all right. Now how long do you say you want to stay there?"

"Well, I don't know that I'm anxious to stay any longer than just to get a good idea of what the place is like. I want to feel the flavor of it. But if I should be down there alone, it won't be very exciting. Suppose I go down about four o'clock; and Dan can come down and let me out about eight, or half-past seven, or say, seven. I think three hours will be a big enough dose."

"I've ordered some clothes cleaned for you," says the Warden, "so those are all right. Well, Dan," he adds, turning to Grant, "is everything perfectly clear?"

Thus it is arranged. I say good-bye to the Warden; and tell him that the Chaplain has asked me to say a few words to the men in chapel on Sunday.

The Warden thinks it a good idea, and adds that the details about my leaving the prison can be arranged with Grant to-morrow. The general plan is that I shall go out on Sunday, marching back with the men after the chapel exercises. I can then take my belongings from the cell and go quietly up to the Warden's quarters, where I can wash and dress.

Our plans being thus settled, my visitors depart. Now to bed to see if I can get a good sleep in preparation for the most exciting part of my exciting adventure.

It is curious how far I have fallen into the prison rut. In the evening I find myself no longer thinking of my home or wondering what my family and friends are doing, unless I make a conscious mental effort. The tendency of this life is always to flatten one's thoughts, like one's actions, to a gray uniformity--a deadening routine.

Another sign that I had better be getting away from this place: I am losing all respect for authority of every kind. It is a mistake to suppose that rigid discipline increases respect for authority; it usually does nothing of the sort. In this place it increases disrespect, for many reasons which it is unnecessary to mention here. Whatever the reasons, the fact is undeniable. I believe every man in this place hates and detests the system under which he lives. He hates it even when he gets along without friction. He hates it because he knows it is bad; for it tends to crush slowly but irresistibly the good in himself.

CHAPTER XII

SATURDAY

In my cell, Saturday noon, October 4.

This morning,--the morning of my last full day in prison,--dawns bright and sunny; a pleasant change from the dark, cloudy and oppressive weather we have been having. The routine of my day has become firmly established now; and I conform to it almost without thought. At six I arise. As I sleep in my one suit of underclothes, my dressing may be said to have already begun. I add my socks and the clumsy state shoes, which are on the chair close at hand. Then I am ready to stand upon the stone pavement of the cell. After this I gain space, and at the same time put my house in order, by hanging up mattress, pillow and blankets, and turning the iron bed up under them against the wall. Then I brush my teeth, wash my face and comb my hair. Then I finish dressing by putting on shirt, trousers, coat and cap. These and other necessary operations completed, I am ready for the day.

In the midst of my toilet the electric light is switched on; so that the latter part has been accomplished with its aid. As I have dressed leisurely there is not very long to wait before I hear the clicking, which marks the unlocking of the levers, far around the corner to my left.

Already, however, I have heard the tread of shuffling feet in the corridor below; and know that the first company has already started down the yard.

All the familiar sounds,--the familiar routine,--seem to give me a sort of strange, new feeling on this last day. It seems so curious that something which now seems like the established order of the universe should ever have been unfamiliar, or that it should so soon come to an end--at least, so far as I am concerned.

The levers click; the captain unlocks the cells; the long bar is raised; the doors are opened; the galleries are filled with hurrying figures carrying the heavy iron buckets; and my company forms at the foot of the stairs.

What special reason there is for so much haste I have not yet discovered; but I presume that the officers put off their arrival at the prison to the very last moment, allowing the shortest possible time for the operations between their arrival and breakfast.

The air and sunshine are pleasant and invigorating as we march down the yard and back, emptying and leaving the buckets as usual. Then to my cell where I sweep out and shut myself in.