"Look not mournfully into the Past; it comes not back again.

"Wisely improve the Present; it is thine.

"Go forth to meet the shadowy Future without fear and with a manly heart."

Halting and inadequate as are the words of my speech, I feel certain that my audience understands me. Had I stood up here and repeated the alphabet or the dictionary, I think it would have been the same. The men are going far behind the words; they are looking into my soul and I into theirs.

I have come among them, worn their uniform, marched in their lines, sat with them at meals and gone to the cells with them at night; for a week I have been literally one of them--even to fourteen hours in the dark punishment cells; what need therefore of words? It makes little or no difference what I say, or how far I fail to express my meaning. They understand.

A feeling of renewed life, a sense of hope and exhilaration kindles within me as I look in their faces and realize for the first time the full measure of their gratitude and affection. I step down from the platform and again take my seat with the basket-shop company; receiving warm grips of the hand from Stuhlmiller, Bell, and the others as I crowd past them to my seat in the center.

There ensues a long and dreary wait. In the mess-hall the first ones in are the first ones out; but up here in chapel the first ones in are the last ones out. It is a very tiresome arrangement for the earlier ones; and as we are well beyond the center, the delay seems interminable. Over thirteen hundred men have to march down stairs in single file, and that apparently takes a long time.

However, it gives a chance for my excitement to calm down, and my tired senses to get a bit rested. So that by the time I have marched down stairs, through the stone corridor, up the iron stairs and along the gallery to Cell 15, second tier, north, north wing, I am in a more normal condition than I have been since yesterday afternoon.

While I am packing my few belongings into the small handbag, Grant appears at the door; and as soon as I am ready I accompany him for a last journey along the gallery, down the iron stairs and through the stone corridor.

Then we turn up the stairway leading to the main office--the stairway down which I descended into prison six days ago. At the head of the flight two light taps on the iron door bring the face of the hall keeper to the pane of glass set in the door, the key grates in the lock and the heavy barrier swings open. I have passed the inner wall and breathe more freely.

Arrived in the Warden's rooms--he himself is unfortunately still away--I lose no time in getting into a tub. After a most refreshing bath, I dress in my ordinary citizen's clothes and am served with eggs and bacon and a cup of coffee. It is real coffee, not bootleg.

I do full justice to the food and drink, and feel very sorry for any one who has not had the experience of a first meal out of prison. I envy the Warden his cook and his devoted attendants.

After being thus invigorated, I gird up my loins for the next duty, and go to measure arguments with the Principal Keeper in his private office. I begin by shaking hands with him warmly, for I wish to atone for any rudeness of last night and make him understand that I have no hard feelings toward him personally. Then I plunge at once into the subject.

"P. K., I don't wish to be unpleasant, nor do or say anything I am not fully justified in doing or saying, but I must tell you plainly that I can not go from this place, leaving that poor sick boy down in that second cell in jail. There are others who, in my opinion, ought not to be there, but his is the worst case. He should be in the hospital, not in such a damnable hole as that. He's sick, and you are driving him crazy with your absurd rules about water. And I shall not--I can not--leave the prison unless something is to be done about it."

This and much more I pour into the patient ears of the P. K. It is written in the veracious "Bab Ballads," concerning Sir Macklin, a clergyman "severe in conduct and in conversation," that:

"He argued high, he argued low, He also argued round about him."

It is much the same in this case. My arguments are many, and some are based on high moral ground and others on mere motives of self-interest. My words flow easily enough now.

The P. K. takes refuge behind the official policies. He disclaims any personal motives--almost any personal responsibility. He seems to think that there is little or no occasion for the exercise of any judgment on his part. A complaint comes from an officer about a prisoner. There is apparently nothing for the P. K. to do but accept the complaint, take the word of the officer as a matter of course, and punish the prisoner. I also get the impression that sending every offender to the jail is the most desirable form of punishment, as it involves no troublesome discrimination or attempt at careful adjustment; it makes the thing so simple and easy.

Anything more crude, any greater outrage upon justice and common sense than the system of prison discipline as revealed in this illuminating discussion, it would be impossible to conceive. If a deliberate attempt were to be made to draft a code of punishment which should produce a minimum of efficacy and a maximum of failure and exasperation among the prisoners, it could not be more skilfully planned. One can no longer be surprised at the anomalous condition of things, as revealed by the kind of men I found in the jail.

In the midst of the discussion I welcome a warm ally in the Doctor, who at my request is brought into consultation. He had by no means intended that Number Two should be sent to the jail when discharged from the hospital; although he states it as a fact that the boy was a somewhat troublesome and unruly patient--a fact which I do not doubt in the least. Under existing conditions I should think any man, unless he were a dolt or an idiot, would be troublesome.

This statement of the Doctor's gives me the chance to utter a tirade against a System which has no gradation in its punishments. If stress is to be laid on punishment rather than reward, there should be at least some approximation to justice, and the punishment should bear some proportion to the offence. "You admit," I say to the P. K., "that these punishment cells are the severest form of discipline that you have. Then why, in Heaven's name, do you exhaust your severest punishment on trivial offences? If you use the jail with its dark cells and bread and water for whispering in the shop, what have you left when a man tries to murder his keeper?"

In reply the P. K. makes the best showing he can, but in truth there is no reply. One of the things that is most irritating about prison is the number of questions that admit of no sensible explanation. It irresistibly reminds one of the topsy-turvy world that Alice found in Wonderland; and of the Hatter's famous conundrum, "Why is a raven like a writing desk?" to which there was no answer.

The P. K., finding himself driven from point to point in the argument, takes refuge in the statement that complaint comes from the prison department in Albany that he doesn't punish often or severely enough. This seems very extraordinary. How in the world can the clerks in Albany judge of the need of punishments in this prison, concerning the inner workings of which they know absolutely nothing?

I argue, I implore, I threaten. The Doctor more gently and diplomatically seconds my efforts. Finally the P. K. with an air of triumph brings out his last and conclusive argument.

"There is a great deal in what you say, gentlemen, and I should like to oblige you, Mr. Osborne, but you see this is Sunday; and you know we never let 'em out of jail on Sunday."

The P. K. leans back in his chair, evidently feeling that he has used a clincher. Then I rise in wrath. "Sunday!" I exclaim. "In Heaven's name, P. K., what is Sunday? Isn't it the Lord's Day? Very well, then. Do you mean to tell us that you actually think if you take a poor sick boy, with an open wound in his ear, out of a close, dirty, vermin-filled, dark cell, where he isn't allowed to wash, and has but three gills of water a day--do you mean to say that to take that sick boy out of such a detestable hole and put him back into the hospital, where the Doctor says he belongs--do you really think that such an act of mercy would be displeasing to God? Do you think God approves of your infernal jail? Do you think----"

I break off, simply because I haven't the strength to continue; anger and disgust, on top of all the excitements of the last twenty-four hours, bring me to my last ounce of endurance. Fortunately the tide turns. The P.

K. is silent for a few moments after my last outburst, but as I watch him I see something beginning to stir, a light is dawning upon the official mind, a smile of triumph announces a solution of the difficulty.

"Why," he gasps, "that's true. I think you're right. We put 'em in on Sunday; why shouldn't we take 'em out?"

The great question is solved. The P. K.'s brilliant logic has made it possible for mercy to temper justice, and pleased at his great discovery he determines to do the thing handsomely while he is about it, and let not only one but all the prisoners out of the jail. To this I have no objection to offer. He also generously accedes to my desire to pay a visit to these as yet unseen friends of mine; and I assure him that I will not pose as their deliverer, but simply give them good advice, and leave it for him to take them the news of their liberation.

On this errand I pass once more behind the barriers. I descend the gloomy staircase from the rear office, and traverse part of my memorable walk of last night--through the stone corridor and down the yard to the jail office. Here the Captain in charge takes the heavy keys from the locker and opens the outer door. As our steps resound in the passage, I think how each of the five prisoners within is listening and wondering who and what is coming.

The inner door is unlocked and opened, and amid complete silence from the occupants of the other cells, Number Two's door is thrown open.

As I have said, it is a curious experience making acquaintance and establishing intimate relations with people whom you cannot see; but it is equally curious to see for the first time men with whose voices and personalities you already feel well acquainted. Last night I had the first of these experiences, now I have the other. One by one the cell doors are opened and the occupants, unwashed and in their dirty jail clothes, are allowed to step forward, shake me by the hand and have a few words of friendly conversation. I tell them I have come to see them face to face before leaving the prison, to thank them for their friendly treatment of me, to renew my invitation to dine when they leave, and to talk briefly over the case of each.

Number Two I advise to apologize to the Doctor. He admits being troublesome in the hospital; and it is quite evident the poor fellow needs to go back there. He is a dark-haired lad, with a sweet voice and a confiding, boyish manner that is very winning.

Number Three I advise to apologize to the Captain of his company and to try to keep his temper better in the future. The person who called him ugly names, having been sent to the hospital, seems to have been sufficiently punished. To my relief Number Three seems to be decidedly better of his cold.

Number Four (it is needless to say that my heart warms toward the handsome young fellow whom I greet as Joe) I advise to apologize to his Captain for the fight with Number Five, and to be more careful for the future. Joe is rather abashed and self-conscious by daylight, but very prolific of promises. Methinks he doth protest rather too much, and in spite of his good looks, his eyes do not give the direct glance that one likes to see.

To Number Five I give advice similar to Joe's, and he engages to profit by it.

To Number Eight I also urge an apology to the powers that be and submission to the inevitable. He is a little harder to convince than the others, but we reach an agreement.

"What is the use," I say to all of them, "of letting your tempers get the better of you when it hurts nobody but yourselves?" My preaching is directed rather toward a cultivation of self-interest than of lofty idealism, but I believe it hits the mark. They none of them admit the justice of their jail sentences, and on that point I can not argue with them. I acknowledge the injustice, but ask them to face the facts. So one and all admit they have been wrong and express themselves ready to make all amends for the present and try their best for the future.

And so, in a much pleasanter frame of mind than when I last left this place, I retrace my steps to the Warden's rooms.

Returning through the back office I shake hands all around--with both officers and prisoners--all but one man. A slight, pale figure in glasses is bending over his desk in a corner of the office. He is one of the Warden's stenographers. Last July I had an extended conversation with him, at the Warden's suggestion, and a more hopeless and discouraging proposition I never struck. He is an old-timer, knows all the ropes, has been through the game, and has settled down to hopeless cynicism. He seems to have no belief in himself or others, and I have no doubt is utterly uninterested in my whole experience, and will be one of the greatest stumbling blocks to any attempted reforms. He will condemn them at the outset, discouraging others who are willing to try. This, at least, is the impression I had of him last July when the Warden persuaded me to talk with him. Now, as he bends over his desk with his eyes on his work I pass him by; for he evidently has no interest in me and I can not see where I can be of any service to him.

There remains now but one more thing to do--bid farewell to my partner, my dear and loyal friend, Jack Murphy. He has been sent for; and, as I reenter the Warden's office, he stands looking out of the window.

"Jack, old fellow, I couldn't leave here without saying good-bye to you."

He turns, and the tears are running down his cheeks. As for myself I have long since got beyond that stage. "Oh, Mr. Osborne----" he begins, but I stop him.

"Cut it out, partner, cut it out! You mustn't meddle with my last name. It has been Tom and Jack now since Wednesday, and Tom and Jack it must continue to be. I am still your partner, and clothes are not going to make any difference with you and me."

"Oh, Tom!" says the poor fellow. "What am I going to do now?"

For the first time I fully realize how deep this experience has cut into the hearts of these men. I thought I already understood it, but Jack reveals a new depth.

"What are you going to do?" I ask in answer. "You are going right ahead making baskets down in the old shop. But you are also going to help out our Commission. While I am working outside, you will be working inside.

And together, Jack, we are going to assist in giving things a good shaking up. You've got the hardest part of the work to do, but I shall keep in close touch with you, and we will often consult together. And sometime, Jack, some day in the future when the right time has come, you can count upon me to go to the Governor for you."

At this suggestion of a pardon, I expect to get from Jack a quick word of gratitude, some sort of indication that he is conscious of having attained his first step toward freedom, the interest of a friend who may be able to secure fair consideration, at least, of an application for pardon.

To my surprise he turns to me almost roughly. "Put that right out of your mind, Tom," he says. "Don't you bother your head about that, one single minute. I am ready to stay behind these walls all my life if I can help you and the Commission bring about some of these reforms you have in mind.

That's all I want!"