But the sight is evidently no new one to my comrades. A few minutes only and the shadow has passed. There is even apparent an air of anxiety lest we dwell too much on the mournful episode. It will not do to think of death here; anything--anything but that!

It must be at about half-past eleven that a certain air of restlessness pervading the shop shows that dinner time is approaching. Murphy goes for his soap and towel. "Come on, Brown, and wash up."

"I'm sorry, I forgot and left my soap and towel in my cell."

"Well, never mind, come and use mine."

So, raising my hand for the Captain's permission to leave my place, I join Murphy at the sink, and again we use his soap and towel in common. My partner's treatment of me is certainly very satisfactory; there is just enough of an air of protection suitable for a man who knows the ropes to show toward his partner who does not, combined with an open-hearted deference to an older man of wider experience that somehow is extraordinarily pleasant.

Before going back to the cell-house we march first to the place where we left the buckets this morning before breakfast. Each man secures his own bucket, which is marked with the number of his cell; then we go swinging up the yard, break ranks at the side door of the north wing, up the stairs, traverse the long gallery, and so to my cell around the corner.

It begins to have a certain homelike association; but I do dislike having to close the grated door and lock myself in every time.

The gallery boy has been most attentive. I find a rack for my towels and a mirror added to the cell equipment; also he has promised me a better electric light bulb. There are two gallery boys, I find; one is George, the other is Joe. George is Captain Lamb's trusty, and serves in the shop as well as the gallery. He has been the one who has added my new furnishings. Joe I see only when I am in my cell; and I do not know where he works. He brings me water and has been most genial.

There seems to be about half an hour at noon between the shop and the mess-hall. As soon as I am back in my cell I remove my cap and coat and "slick up" for dinner. Then I chat with any of the trusties that happen to drift along to my cell. One of them brings me a book which a prisoner on our gallery is sending to me. It is Victor Hugo's "Ninety-Three." Opening it I find a note. The writer begins by saying that he had found the book interesting and hoped I would, and then adds, "Some of the guards laughed at you when you passed this morning. I know it is a hard proposition you are up against; but say, stick it out! I only wish I could help you, and I am voicing the sentiments of all the boys who work in the school."

Generous in him to run the risk of punishment in order to send me this word of encouragement.

We march to dinner in the same order as at breakfast, and I find myself again next to the blue-shirted Landry. I like his looks and his personality. It is curious how one can get an effect of that, even under the rigid and unnatural demeanor which the discipline engenders. There is a dapper little chap who leads the right line of our company to whose back I have taken a great liking; some day I hope to get acquainted with his face.

Our dinner is mutton stew, which is really good. I had been told at the shop in the morning what the bill of fare would be; for as one week's dietary is exactly the same as all other weeks, you can calculate with accuracy upon every meal. I eat my dinner with peculiar relish after our morning struggle with the coal car.

Arrived back at the cell, Joe, the other gallery boy, stops to chat, after he has dispensed water along the tier. "Say, Brown," he begins, "do you know after the talk you give us up in chapel on Sunday there was some of us didn't believe you really meant to come down and live with us. Then they thought if you did come you'd manage to get up to the Warden's quarters for supper and a bed. But, say, when the boys see you marchin'

down with your bucket this mornin'--they knew you meant business!"

Then the youngster puts his face up close to the bars, squints through them admiringly, looks me all up and down from head to foot, and breaks out with: "Gee! You're a dead game sport!"

On the whole I think that's by far the finest compliment I ever had in my life.

CHAPTER VII

TUESDAY AFTERNOON AND EVENING

In my cell, Tuesday evening, September 30.

Laying aside my journal this noon, I don my coat and cap and stand ready at the cell door. The Captain passes by, unlocking the levers; then repasses, pushing them down, and I am ready to fall in line as usual; but one of the gray figures stops suddenly and whispers to me, "Your cup!

You've forgotten your cup!" So I create a momentary halt and confusion in the gallery as I dash back into the cell to get my tin cup and out again, leaving it on the shelf at the entrance. We traverse the gallery, descend the iron stairs, line up at the door, march first slowly then rapidly down the yard, through the sewage disposal building to the bucket stands; and so to the basket-shop again.

"Well, Brown, how did you enjoy your dinner, good?" This question is my partner's afternoon greeting.

"Good! I should say it was! I'd like to tackle another car of coal this afternoon to give me such an appetite. No, on second thoughts, not this afternoon--to-morrow morning. I don't think I'd better get up much of an appetite with nothing but bread and water ahead of me."

Murphy laughs. "Well, we've got two bottoms each to do this afternoon, to make up for our exercise this morning; so we must hustle up and get 'em done."

So we both start basket-making; he joking at my efforts to keep up with him, and I, in a futile attempt to do so, "working like a race-horse," as he expresses it. With pleasant chat the time passes quickly. The strangeness of my situation is beginning to wear away; and the men are getting over their aloofness as they see that, in Joe's words, I mean business; and also see how well I get along with my partner and my boss.

The latter, the smiling Stuhlmiller, drops round to our table frequently; makes valuable and friendly criticism and suggestion as to my work, by which I try to profit; and incidentally tells many things which both directly and indirectly throw valuable light upon the life here. As a workman I must pay my tribute of admiration to Stuhlmiller; his small, delicate hands with strong, pliable fingers are made for craftsmanship. It gives positive delight to see him take hold of the weaving, to show me or someone else how it should be done. There are the elements of the real artist of some sort in that chap. What a pity to have these rare qualities wasted in prison!

In the course of the afternoon a party of visitors is shown through the shop by the Warden in person. It is only this evening that I have learned all the facts of this incident, as I was so busy working that I never noticed the party at all; although they walked by, only a few feet away, passing directly between me and the keeper. This is the story as I get it first hand, from the Warden himself.

It seems that some newspaper men from New York were in town to-day and were most anxious to see Tom Brown at work. The strict order that everything at the prison was to go on exactly as usual forbade their interviewing me, or even having me pointed out; but there was nothing to prevent their being shown over the prison in the ordinary way. The Warden, who had returned from Albany, thinking he would like to take the opportunity of himself seeing his "new boarder" at work, offered to conduct them. So down through the yard they all came and in due course reached the basket-shop.

"This is the place where Tom Brown is working," remarked the Warden; "but, gentlemen, please remember you are not to speak to him or even seem to give him special notice."

So they entered the shop and leisurely made their way through; the Warden exchanging a word or two with the Captain as he went by, and all of them looking curiously at the various basket-makers within sight.

After they had passed out of the shop at the farther end, one of the visitors said,

"But, Warden, I didn't see him."

"Neither did we," chimed in the rest.

"Well, gentlemen," laughed the Warden, "this is certainly one on me; for I looked everywhere and I couldn't find him myself."

It was true; the whole party had passed within twenty feet of me, and not one of them--not even my intimate friend--had recognized me.

"But I'm very sure he's there," continued the Warden; "at any rate I can verify it at my office."

So they returned to the main building and found out, sure enough, that Thomas Brown was duly registered in the basket-shop.

Two of the visitors insisted upon returning; they had known me very well by sight and were sure they could find me out. So back they came to the shop, and this time I noticed them.

"I wonder who those guys are, rubbering around?" is my remark to Murphy, speaking in the vernacular, as we are working away. I was taking good care not to stare hard at them in my turn.

"They're not looking at you, anyhow," is Murphy's report. I steal another glance and catch an intent, searching look from one of the visitors. I am just finishing off a basket bottom and have on eyeglasses of unusual shape--rather too fine for Tom Brown. I fear that the visitor may have spotted these. However, I return his stare insolently, with as much of the air of an old timer as I can muster on the spur of the moment. At the same instant I whisper some joke over to Murphy that makes him smile; and the guy moves on, staring at others of my shopmates in their turn.

"I guess he was after me, all right," I remark to my partner, "and I'm afraid these infernal specs may have given me away."

As a matter of fact the two visitors returned from the basket-shop again disappointed. One of them thought he had seen Tom Brown, but wasn't quite sure. My identity seems to be sufficiently merged--so far as outsiders are concerned.

Toward the close of the afternoon my talk with my partner becomes more serious. In spite of the rules, newspapers seem to circulate here and are precious in proportion to their rarity. Some one hands a paper to Murphy, who passes it over to me; and I, after glancing over it, hand it back to him to be returned. The editor of this particular sheet, in commenting upon my adventure, expressed doubt as to the possibility of "the amateur convict" being able to get hold of the real life of the prison. This view makes me smile, under the circumstances, and I ask Murphy what he thinks about it. His reply is that there is no doubt of my being able to get all I want, and getting it straight.

"Well, I want to know all there is," I lightly rejoin, "and I'm thinking of breaking the rules in some way before I get out of here, so as to be sent down to the punishment cells."

A look of genuine concern comes over my partner's face, and his voice sinks to an awestruck whisper. "Do you mean the jail?" he asks.

"Yes," I answer; "I want to learn everything possible about this place, so I think I may as well spend at least one night in jail."

"Well, you'd better be careful." My partner speaks slowly and impressively. There can be no doubt of his sincerity; a glance at his earnest, troubled face settles that. "I went down to that place once," he continues; "and I want to tell you--after eight hours of it I just caved right in! I told them that they could do anything they liked with me."

"Was it so very bad?" I ask.

"Well, my advice to you is to give it a wide berth," is his evasive answer. Then there is silence between us for a moment, and when he begins again it is evident that his thoughts have turned into a still more serious channel. "Yes, you can learn a great deal, but let me tell you this, Brown: no one can realize what this place really is like, until--until--well, until there is someone he cares about who is sick and he can't get away." There is a tremor in his voice. Poor fellow! The Chaplain told me last night that Murphy had recently lost his mother and felt her death very deeply.

This talk occurs at the end of the day's work when we are waiting for the Captain's signal of return, and Murphy is sitting on the edge of the table talking quietly, turning his head away from the Captain and toward me as I stand on my regular side of the table.