Let me resume the thread of my story.

The officer takes me from the Doctor's office to the room where the Bertillon measurements are taken. Here there is a fifth set of questions to answer. I have not the slightest possible objection to giving all the statistics the state officials want; my time is theirs, and there is no possible hurry. I may as well get rid of a few hours, more or less, of my "bit" in this way as in any other; so I shall not register any kick even if I am called upon to supply fifty sets of statistics instead of only five.

The orders of the Bertillon clerk are given perfunctorily, with the air of one who is greatly bored by the whole performance. Naturally it is not so novel to him as to me. I remove my coat and put on, as they are handed to me by the assistant, a white linen shirt-bosom, a very dirty collar of the requisite size, and a black coat and necktie. Then I am photographed--front view and profile. The use of the peculiar apparel is, presumably, either to make the photograph clearer, or to have all "subjects" taken under similar conditions and looking somewhat as they do when out of prison and in ordinary clothes.

Then my finger tips, on both hands, are carefully rolled one by one in India ink, and impressions of them taken on cards--twice separately, and twice all five at once. This seems to bore the clerk more than the photographing.

Then a series of measurements from top to toe is taken, and every possible means of identification noted and registered: color of hair and eyes; shape of head; characteristics of eyes, nose, mouth; the scar received at football thirty-four years ago, which I supposed was successfully concealed by my right eyebrow; the minute check on the left ear from a forgotten frostbite; the almost imperceptible bit of smooth skin on the back of my right hand, where a small lump was once removed by electricity; no blemish or defect is over-looked--until I begin to feel like a sort of monstrosity. I derive some satisfaction, however, from the fact that my business-like inquisitor is quite at a loss to account for six peculiar scars upon my upper left arm, familiar to Harvard men of my generation. It is some satisfaction to know that my Alma Mater has not sent many of her sons to take a post-graduate course in this institution.

So complete and searching have been the examination and record for identification that I have a sort of discouraged feeling about the future.

It occurs to me that I may be cramped in a choice of further activities; and that my chance of ever gaining a good living by honest burglary has been considerably reduced, if not destroyed. I communicate this rather frivolous sentiment to the clerk who receives it grimly, and is more bored than ever. I feel properly snubbed and rebuked.

Evidently a prisoner should speak only when spoken to, and certainly should not venture to joke with an official. I shall take warning and not offend again.

I wonder how my measurements differ from those of the average criminal, and how much of a rough-neck my photograph will make me look.

At last all preliminaries are completed; and now I am free to consider myself a full-fledged convict.

The young officer who up to now has been my guide and philosopher, if not exactly a friend, conducts me down the yard once again, duly delivers me over to Captain Lamb at the basket-shop, and takes his final departure.

The Captain leads me at once to a rough wooden table, about thirty feet in front of the raised platform on which he sits. Here stands a good-sized, broad-shouldered, black-haired fellow, working with his back to us as we approach. He pauses as we stop before his table.

"Jack," says the Captain, "this is Thomas Brown. Thomas, this is John Murphy, who will be your working partner."

"Glad to meet you, Mr. Brown," says a pleasant voice.

Looking toward my partner and his outstretched hand, I decide to venture another joke. "Captain," I remark, advancing my hand cautiously, "this may be all right; but it's only fair to warn you that if this gentleman is any relative of the Boss of Tammany Hall there may be trouble."

A pair of honest gray eyes light up with a smile as the owner says, "No, Mr. Brown, I'm no relation; and what's more I haven't any use for him."

Upon this we shake hands cordially. "Excuse me, Captain," I remark to that officer, "but you see I want to be careful and not run into difficulties of any kind."

The Captain smiles gravely in his turn, and introduces me to another of the prisoners who has approached at a sign from the officer. He is a slightly built, pleasantly smiling young man who is to be my boss in the shop, Harley Stuhlmiller. By him I am to be initiated into the art of making basket bottoms; and Murphy is to have me as his partner or apprentice, and see that I make no mistakes in following the boss's instructions.

So I take off my cap and coat and start to work. I do not find it very difficult; for, curiously enough, over forty years ago I learned something of the art of weaving baskets. When I was a young lad my family spent a summer at a place on the New England seacoast. On the beach was the tent of an old Indian, who made and sold baskets; and, having much time on my hands, I persuaded the old fellow to teach me basket-making. One certainly never knows when an odd bit of knowledge or information may come handy; here am I making use of something learned two generations and more ago, and never practiced since.

I spend a really pleasant afternoon learning my job and chatting under my breath with the two men--my boss and my partner. They give me some wise advice as to my conduct, some information as to prison ways, and compliment me upon the quickness with which I pick up the basket work. I explain about the previous experience and tell them not to give me too much taffy. They assure me that what I have done in the short time I have been working is really very good. The expected task for a man and his partner is five bottoms a day, and I accomplish one and a half for a part of the afternoon. Stuhlmiller calls this to the attention of John, the citizen instructor, and he smilingly grunts approval, but suggests certain improvements in my manner of work. Thus, so far as the shop is concerned, I seem to be a success. The convicts about me pay very little attention to the newcomer, but I catch an occasional smile and nod of encouragement.

Along in the afternoon, about four o'clock I should judge, work begins to slack up; and several of the prisoners who have finished their allotted tasks are walking back and forth. Each one confines himself to such a very short distance, that I inquire of Murphy the reason; and he tells me that the boundaries of each man's walk are the posts of the building on either side of his bench or table. This gives a very restricted area for exercise, but, as it is the only chance for exercise at all, the men make the most of it.

At about half past four my partner proposes that we knock off work and clean up. By this time there is a general cessation of labor about the shop, and most of the men are sweeping up around their tables and benches.

Murphy produces a broom, and informs me that when two men work together it is customary to take turns in cleaning up after work-hours. So at this hint I take the broom and soon have the work done. Then we wash up; my partner sharing with me his soap and towel. I put on my coat and cap and await further developments.

Murphy, after replacing the soap and towel in his locker, comes around to my side of our workbench or table. "Say, Brown," he remarks, "I hope you won't think me imposing on you in any way, but while we work together I intend to treat you as if I had never seen or known of you before."

"Thank you, Murphy," I reply, pleased at his frankness, "that is exactly the way I want to be treated."

Certainly nothing could be better than the attitude of the two men with whom my work has brought me in contact. There has been not the slightest tinge of self-consciousness; no trace of servility or currying favor, absolutely nothing except Murphy's frank explanation to make me feel that they are not treating me exactly as I asked them yesterday to do--as a new man and one of themselves.

After we have sat around patiently and wearily for a considerable time, the hour for return to the cell-house arrives. The Captain gives the signal to fall in. "Good night, Brown!" "Good night, Murphy!" and I take my place in the line. The Captain counts us with care while we stand rigidly before him. Then the cripples, invalids and poor old broken-down men start ahead of the main body to hobble wearily back to their cells.

Meanwhile we able-bodied men of the company march over to the stands where the buckets are drying, pause for an instant, then swing up through the yard, with a tramp, tramp, tramp, that is quite exhilarating after an afternoon's work in the shop.

We march straight up the yard and into the basement door of the main building where, just within the entrance, are placed some tables laden with slices of bread. Following the example of the other men, I grab a slice--some take two slices, there is apparently no restriction as to amount--and then climb the slippery iron stairs in my heavy shoes. As we go along the gallery the man just behind me whispers, "Well, Tom, how do you like it?"

I turn and whisper laughingly, "All right, no kick coming," and turn into my cell.

On the iron shelf outside stands my tin cup filled with a hot black liquid--whether tea or coffee I don't know. What I do know is that the odor is vicious. I hesitate about taking it into the cell.

The gallery boy arriving says, "Brown, I didn't know whether you wanted tea or water, so I gave you tea."

"Thank you," I rejoin, "but I think I'll take water." So he brings back my tin cup filled with a liquid which if mild is comparatively harmless, and at least does not smell to heaven. I enter my cell, which is shut and locked.

After a light breakfast, a lighter dinner, and the afternoon's work, I feel ravenously hungry--so hungry that the bread and water actually taste rather good, even if the bread is sour. To my surprise I make away with the whole slice, dipping each mouthful into the water and eating as I write; for I have at once taken up this journal to chronicle the events of the afternoon while they are still in mind.

I wonder what those greedy children at home will have for dinner to-night.

Or whether they will think of this poor, hungry prisoner, eating his lonely bread and water. This morning my eldest remarked cheerfully, "Well, of course we can telephone you any time." How little does he realize the reality.

We used to laugh when in "Pinafore" they sang:

"He'll hear no tone Of the maiden he loves so well; No telephone Communicates with his cell."

I reminded the young man of those lines this morning.

No, I fear there are few of us who reflect very much upon what is remote from our direct line of vision. But there will be at least one of us who will do considerable reflecting--after this experience.

I certainly do feel hungry!

As a supplement to the foregoing, our friends, A and B, have some further interesting passages:

A: About the first thing an apprentice learns here is the military step; so a few of us watched the company to which Tom was assigned as they passed through the yard from the mess-hall to the shop. As Tom marched by, it became evident from his brisk step that he either learned it at a military academy or had served time in another "institution."[5]

The routine of prison life, which possesses its good, bad and indifferent parts, can hardly be described here. Suffice to say Tom adhered to it for an entire week.

This is what B has to say:

Tom Brown's bed was brought upon the third gallery, cell 55, N.W.; and then in less than fifteen minutes it was changed again, taken down to cell 15, N.N.W. Well, this made the gallery man on the third feel a little blue, for he thought he would like to have Tom on his gallery; and we began to kid him regarding his tough luck.

Well, to make this long story short, the gallery men had their own troubles. Every second man wanted us to drop a note in Tom Brown's cell.

But the stools watched; and me, for one, would take no chance. If he got all the notes that was meant for him he would have no room for his bed in his cell.

Well, when he left the cell house that day, after dinner, when he got in line with the rest of the cons he marched down the yard like a major. And make out the cons didn't feel good! And make out the keepers didn't feel blue!

The keepers wouldn't look at Tom when he was looking their way; but after he passed, yog--yog--what a rubbering he got!

So this was the way of the cell house for one whole week; and, believe me, it was some week, indeed.

They tell me when he got in the shop Jack Murphy handed him a broom. You know Jack can be funny when he wants to be. Now the question in mind is, "Did Jack give him that broom to clean out the shop, or did he mean the whole place needed a cleaning out?" Well, I guess Jack, himself, will have to slip us that answer.