In my cell, after dinner; Tuesday, September 30.

At about seven o'clock this morning the long iron bar, which locks the whole tier, is raised; and the Captain pauses a moment at my cell.

"Good morning, Thomas, how did you get through the night?"

"I didn't sleep very well, sir."

"They seldom do the first night. How are you feeling now?"

"Well, fairly good third rate, thank you, sir."

He leaves me; but soon returns along the gallery, unlocking the levers as he comes. Immediately after him walks his trusty, one of the gallery boys, pressing down the levers and letting us out of the stone caves where we have spent the long night. I breathe a sigh of relief and satisfaction as I swing open the iron grating and come out upon the comparative freedom of the gallery.

Each man grasps with his left hand the handle of his heavy iron bucket filled with the slops and sewage of the night. I do the same; and steady my steps by running my right hand along the iron rail as I hurry down the gallery after the others. It is a long journey to the farther stairs, but it is made cheerful by the smiles on the upturned faces of the prisoners in the corridor below. When I have taken my place in line at the foot of the iron stairs, I find further satisfaction in the nods and winks of encouragement from the men gathered about the doorway, at whom I glance as much as I can without turning my head. I rest my heavy bucket on the ground while waiting for the company to complete its formation, taking meanwhile deep breaths of the refreshing morning air. It is another beautiful, sunny autumn day as we look out into the yard.

A sharp rap of the Captain's stick on the stone pavement, and we stand at attention, the handle of each man's bucket in his right hand. Two more quick raps, and we "short-step" out of the building and then "full-step"

down the yard. Our route is the same as that of yesterday afternoon. We meet many other companies returning. We march down to the extreme southwest corner of the prison inclosure where is the small brick building which serves as a sewage disposal plant. It seems to be very well arranged for its purpose. As we reach there our ranks divide, entering by two doors, and we march through almost at full speed. I watch my comrades and do exactly as they do; remove the bucket cover upon entering the building; empty the contents into a large circular stone basin, or hopper, into which a stream of water is constantly pouring; pass on quickly to a second basin and fill my bucket at its stream of water; rinse the bucket as I walk along and discharge the contents into a third stone basin with its third stream of running water. It must be confessed that there is a minimum of smell and nastiness; but what a medieval system! The sewage of 1,400 men simply dumped into the river, which flows just outside the walls, and carried along to poison all the towns and villages downstream.

After thus emptying and rinsing the buckets we leave them to be disinfected, aired and dried, upon some wooden racks where each company has its allotted place. Then we march back up the yard, meeting many other companies laden with their buckets on the way down. The march back is very pleasant and I wish it were longer, as exercise in the fresh air and sunlight seems to soothe the tired nerves. By the time we are back at the north wing I am feeling in good condition and ravenously hungry.

Arrived at the cell I have another call from Captain Lamb. I have found him very pleasant and intelligent; and his men, so far as I can yet judge, seem to like him. He has some excellent ideas, and tells me that he would like to give his company setting-up exercises as he once did; but he abandoned them as he received no encouragement; on the contrary it was considered that they were subversive of discipline. This awful fetich, discipline. We most of us do so love it--for others.

Why does it not occur to somebody in authority that the first and best means of getting real discipline, in the sense of good conduct, is to give these men exercise? Here they live, standing or sitting listlessly at their work all day, and shut in their narrow cells fourteen hours at night, with no chance to work off their superfluous energies and keep themselves in proper physical condition. The result in very many cases must be steady degeneration, not only of body, but of mind and soul as well.

The Captain tells me that before breakfast I should clean out my cell; so after he leaves me I carry out his instructions with the assistance of the old broom in the corner. I sweep the dust out of the cell into a corner of the entrance; and the lever locks me back into the cell as I shut the door after the job is completed.

This has not been long done before the clicking of the levers begins again in the distance. Every time we march to meals the clicking begins around the corner to my left and we march to the right; every time we go to the shop the clicking begins on my right and we march to the left. I am beginning to catch on to these various complications. Also to learn the etiquette of dress. When we go to breakfast we wear coats but no caps; to the shop, both caps and coats; to dinner, neither. Waistcoats seem to depend upon the taste and fancy of the wearer. I have worn mine, so far, only in the evening--for warmth.

Marching to breakfast I find myself by the side of a young fellow who is conspicuous among the prisoners by the use of a blue shirt with collar and necktie. He is tall and good-looking, with an air of refinement which is appealing.

I make no breaks upon the march. I shuffle my feet along the stone corridor like the rest, as we move slowly forward; letting other companies who have the right of way go in ahead of us. Then when our turn comes we march more rapidly, changing to single file as we near the mess-room. As the Captain has directed me, I fall in behind my blue-shirted companion and have my right hand on my left breast in ample time to salute the P. K.

who, as at yesterday's dinner, stands at the entrance to the mess-hall.

Arrived at my place, which is now in the center of one of the long shelves or tables, I find waiting for me a large dish of oatmeal porridge, a bowl one-third full of the thinnest of skimmed milk, two thick slices of bread, and a cup of the dark fluid we had yesterday and which is supposed to be coffee, but which I learn is called "bootleg" by the prisoners--presumably because old boots is the only conceivable source of its taste and smell. Judging by the samples I've had, the hypothesis does not seem untenable. The taste is quite as bad as the smell, as it is drunk without milk or sugar, and there is no escape from drinking some of it, as it is the only liquid on the table. The bread is known as "punk"--a name not so strikingly appropriate as the other.

I can see no excuse for bad coffee; for good coffee can be made in large quantities, as some railroad refreshment rooms can testify. Tea is a different matter. I do not believe that good tea can be made except in small quantities. If I were to suggest to the prison authorities, it would be cocoa instead of tea, and coffee should be drinkable at least.

George, one of the gallery boys, has presented me this morning with a small package of sugar wrapped in newspaper; but, before I have a chance of deciding whether it is safe to transfer it from my pocket to the oatmeal, my friend in the blue shirt, seated on my left, slides a small yellow envelope toward me. I turn my eyes and head sufficiently to see him. He is staring straight ahead of him, and without moving his lips or a muscle of his face gives a low whisper, "Sugar." I turn back my head and in a voice as low as I can manage and with my lips moving as little as possible mutter, "Thank you." I have had my first introduction to the motionless language of the prisoners.

The sugar makes the oatmeal palatable, and I breakfast very well on that and the bread soaked in what milk I have left over from the porridge. I had forgotten the rule about no bread being left on the table until my new friend reminds me of it by pointing to my two slices and then to the approaching waiter. I promptly toss one of my slices into that functionary's bucket as he passes by, and go on with my breakfast. I feel guilty in taking my neighbor's sugar, when I have some of my own in my pocket, but reflect that mine can be saved for another occasion and shared with him. I find myself wondering if the sugar I'm eating has been honestly come by. Not that I suspect my blue-shirted friend of doing anything wrong; but I am quite sure that in my present condition of mind I should enjoy it better if I knew it had been stolen. I feel as though I would gladly annex almost anything from the state of New York that I could lay my hands on, provided I could do so without too much risk of getting caught. I hope it will be considered that I am not now condoning dishonesty; I am merely trying to explain a state of mind.

The silent meal finished, we return to our cells, where I now have a call from my friend in the blue shirt. It seems that he is a trusty of the "box office"; and has charge of the orders for groceries and their distribution, and his name is Roger Landry. Each convict is allowed to spend three dollars a month in groceries, tobacco and other luxuries--that is if he is fortunate enough to have that amount of money to his credit.

As his wages, at one cent and a half a day--the regular rate--could only amount to thirty-seven and a half cents a month, it is obvious that a prisoner must have some outside resources to allow him to spend three dollars. So the prisoners who are better off outside the prison have the luxuries when they get inside; and the poor fellow who has nothing can get nothing. It seems to be a rather literal rendering of the Scripture, "To him who hath shall be given." Certainly from him who hath not is taken away about everything possible--his liberty, his capacity to earn money, his family, friends, and incidentally his self-respect.

The way in which a man's family and friends are taken away seems superlatively cruel. A prisoner gets no wages for his work except his board, lodging, clothes, and the ridiculous cent and a half a day. In the meantime his wife and children may be starving on the streets outside; he is powerless to help them, and can write only one letter a month. In other words, as a prisoner once said to me bitterly, "At just the time we need our friends the most, they are taken away from us. We must write our one letter a month to a wife, a mother, or some member of the family having special claim. Our friends do not hear from us; they think we are hard and do not care--we are criminals; so they drop us and we are forgotten."[7]

All this Landry explains or suggests; and as we grow confidential he tells me quite frankly of his own troubles and how he comes to be here; the mistakes he had made, his keen desire and strong intention to do better when he goes out and to make good. "My father has stuck by me," he says; "and now I intend to stick by him."

After about half an hour spent in the cells, from eight to eight-thirty, we are off to work. Again the keys are turned in the locks, again the clicking of the levers, again the hurried march along the gallery, again my heavy shoes clump down the iron stairs, again we form in the sunny doorway, again we march down the yard to the basket shop.

As we break ranks my partner, Murphy, comes forward with a cheerful smile.

"Well, Mr. Brown, how do you feel to-day?"

"Fine," I respond briefly, and we step to our working table.

"How did you sleep?"

"Not very well; I kept waking up all night."

"Well, don't worry. It's always like that the first night; you'll sleep better to-night."

And with this comforting assurance we hang up our coats and caps and start to work.

The convict instructor, Stuhlmiller, comes to our table. "Well, Brown, how did you like bucket duty?"

"Oh, I've had to do worse things than that," I reply. "I don't know that I should select that particular job from preference; but somebody has to do the cleaning up. That's the reason I was once mayor of Auburn."

The other two are greatly amused at this view of official position; and so we start pleasantly with our basket-making.

Before the morning has far advanced the Captain comes over to me and in a low voice asks would I like to be sent out with a gang to help move some coal. I haven't the least idea what is involved, but I'm keen for anything. I am here to learn all I can. So I answer briefly, "Sure," and he returns to his desk. Presently I hear the name of Brown called out with those of Murphy and eight others. Murphy says, "Come on, Brown, we'll get some fresh air!" I start at once for the door, but Murphy pulls me back; we have to be lined up, counted, ten of us, and duly delivered to another officer who takes us in charge.

There are two heavy cars of coal, it seems, to be moved up grade to the coal pile; and as the prison possesses no dummy or yard engine, this has to be done by hand labor. It seems singularly unintelligent to have things so arranged; but for the present it is all the better for me, as it serves well for exercise. A block and tackle is rigged up and we have repeated tugs of war, during which I get my hands very grimy and receive a number of friendly admonitions not to work too hard. There is also the offer on the part of a pleasant young negro to lend his leather mittens.

"Thank you," I say, "but I think you need them more than I do." (It was stupid of me not to give him the satisfaction of doing this slight service.)

The men on the coal gang, in view of their heavy and disagreeable work, are allowed to talk, it seems; and they certainly make good use of this privilege. There were several negroes among the lot, and they kept us all in roars of laughter. In fact it was as cheery and jolly a lot of fellows as one could find, joking about their work, and about their breakfast, and joshing each other in the best of tempers. While we were waiting to get things arranged for the second car, one of the men who works in our shop good naturedly disposed of much of his week's allowance of chewing tobacco to the crowd.

During all these proceedings I stick pretty close to Murphy, both that I may make no mistakes, and because I am already getting to have a great liking for my sturdy partner. Yesterday I was on my guard with him and I think he was quietly sizing me up; but to-day there is an absence of restraint and a pleasant feeling of comradeship growing up between us, which is not lessened by the discovery that we both like fresh air and exercise. Poor fellow! he gets little enough of either. The forty minutes spent in the vigorous tugs of war with the coal cars start an agreeable glow of health and spirits in both of us.

After the coal job is finished I am for going back at once to the shop, which is close at hand, but Murphy halts me again. "Hold on, Brown, we can't go back just yet." It seems that we must again line up and be counted; then we are escorted by the officer temporarily in charge of us back into the shop, where we are once more counted before we return to our regular places.

In order to make up for lost time Murphy and I work steadily on our basket bottoms; he suggesting that we each watch the other's work, to see whether we are keeping the sides even. A mistake is easier to notice across the table than in your own work closer at hand. My fault seems to be to pull the withes too tight, making the sides somewhat concave; while Murphy has just the opposite fault--he makes his sides too convex. So I watch his work and he watches mine, and all things go on very agreeably.

At one stage in the morning's proceedings I forget where I am, for the moment, and begin to whistle; but a swift and warning look from Murphy startles me into silence.

"Look out," he warns me, "whistling's not allowed. You'll get punished if you ain't careful."

"Is a whistling prisoner worse than a whistling girl?" I ask; but I see that my partner is not acquainted with the proverb, so I repeat it to him:

"Whistling girls, like crowing hens, Always come to some bad ends."

He is much amused at this sentiment, despite its imperfect rhyme, and asks me to repeat it so that he can learn it.

As we are working busily away, I perceive a sudden commotion over at the western end of the shop. One of the poor old prisoners, those mournful wrecks of humanity of which our company has its full share, has fainted, and lies cold and white on the stone floor. It is pleasant to see how tenderly those about him go to his help, raise the poor old fellow, seat him in one of the rough chairs--the best the shop affords--and bathe his forehead with cold water. It is also pleasant to hear the words of sympathy which are passed along from one to another.

In due time a litter is brought; the pitiful fragment of humanity is placed gently upon it, and is carried out of the shop into which he will probably never return. The look on his face is one not easy to forget, in its white stare of patient suffering. It seemed to typify long years of stolid endurance until the worn-out old frame had simply crumbled under the accumulated load.

There may be another lonely deathbed in the hospital to-night. No wife or child, no friend of any sort to smooth the pillow or to close the eyes.

Alas, the pity of it!