"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."