Upon arising this morning at home, the toothache, although I could still feel it grumbling, had so modified that I became convinced that it was largely imagination. As it has since disappeared it must have been entirely imagination. There seems to be no excuse whatever for not going ahead.

Having noticed yesterday that, although the prisoners are allowed to wear their hair as they please, their faces are all smooth shaven, I begin the day by the sacrifice of my mustache. I shave, dress, and eat as much breakfast as I can—which is not very much.

At nine o’clock I am at the railway station to say good-bye to the Warden, who has been called to Albany on business. After the train leaves at 9:30 I go to my office, where there are some last matters to attend to, bid farewell to the few friends who are about, and at ten o’clock present myself at the prison entrance.

The polite guard at the gate unlocks it, I enter, and the first barrier between me and the world shuts behind me. I mount the steps to the main building, and turn into the Warden’s office. I am dressed in old clothes, appropriate for the occasion, and have no valuables or money about my person.

In the Warden’s office a few last details are arranged with Grant, the Prison Superintendent of Industries, who is acting for the Warden; and my name and certain details of my family history and career of crime are taken down by the Warden’s clerk on a slip of paper, which is handed over to a good-looking, well-groomed young officer, to whom I am given in charge.

On Saturday, when writing out yesterday’s address, it occurred to me that it might be useful to take an alias. Such a notion doubtless seems a trifle foolish at first thought; considering that there is no secret of my identity, but I reasoned that if officers and prisoners always had my own name in mind or on tongue every time they looked at or addressed me, it would really make it more difficult to be accepted on the basis of an ordinary inmate. I decided, therefore, to take a name which would have no association whatever with the chairman of the Prison Reform Commission, yet would be somewhat in character. So on the records I am entered as Thomas Brown, No. 33,333x.

The young officer in his neat blue uniform, carrying his loaded stick, says briefly, “Step this way, Brown.” I am hazily aware of being a momentary object of interest to the men in the back office; a heavy iron door is unlocked at the head of a flight of iron stairs; and as the door clangs behind me and I hear the key turn in the lock, I begin to realize that I am a prisoner. I have made a bargain with myself to stay here a week, and I cannot leave sooner without serious loss of self-respect.

The taciturn young officer takes me downstairs and across the yard. I am conscious of many pairs of eyes looking out from windows and doors, and the few prisoners scattered about the yard singly or in groups stare with interest. My guide accompanies me to one of the buildings about halfway down on the left, which proves to be the tailor shop. Here in a corner of the shop, without any screens and in full view of all passers in and out, are three porcelain-lined iron bathtubs side by side, looking very white and clean. I am directed to take off my clothes, which I do, and then ordered to get into one of the tubs, in which a negro prisoner has drawn a warm bath. I obey and make use of the soap, and later of the towel which the attendant hands me. After I am dry I am given my prison clothes—a suit of underwear, a pair of socks, a cotton shirt with narrow blue and white stripes, and a suit of rough gray cloth. There is also a pair of very thick and heavy shoes. All the clothes are new. My coat fastens down the front with five light metal buttons, on which are the words State Prison in raised letters. The seven smaller buttons of the waistcoat are similar. My uniform is not exactly a first-class fit, but good enough for the purpose. A cap, rough gray to match the suit, together with a stiff new gray towel and a cake of white soap, completes my outfit. I am ordered to remove my wedding ring, but the officer explains that I am to be allowed to retain it. This is the first exception made in my case.

The rest of my belongings are bundled up and disappear from sight. All that is left of my former self is what can’t very well be eradicated. So far as is humanly possible, I am precisely like the other 1,329 gray figures which to-day inhabit this abnormal world within the walls.

We return to the administration building and I am taken to the office of the Principal Keeper, where are propounded to me a series of questions, the answers to which are duly entered on the records: name, age, occupation, married or single, Protestant or Catholic, parents living or dead, any children, character of my crime, is this my first term, have I ever gone under any other name, temperate or intemperate, and so forth and so on. Some of these questions have already been answered at the front office, and the officer holds the paper in his hand; but I answer them again, suppressing such facts as I do not wish to have a matter of record.[3]

After my history has been duly taken, I am handed a copy of the rules of the prison; and the Principal Keeper facing me across a small desk makes a neat little speech, giving friendly advice as to my conduct while in the institution. It is excellent advice, as far as it goes, and for it I thank him respectfully.

Then clearing his throat he says slowly and ponderously, “Brown, after you have had your medical examination, you will be put to work in the basket-shop, under Captain Lamb. He will give you full instructions concerning your place in his company and your work.”

It is on the tip of my tongue to say, “But it was all arranged with the Warden that I should be put first with the Idle Company.” Fortunately, however, I catch myself just in time. It is not for a convict to offer objections or to argue with the P. K. So I utter another brief but respectful, “Thank you, sir,” and feel a certain relief at the postponement of my acquaintance with the “toughest bunch of fellows in the Prison.” The Warden returns to-morrow, and an exchange can then be made if it is thought advisable; in the meantime it is my business to do exactly what I am told.

From the Principal Keeper’s office I am taken next door to the Chaplain. Here my reception is in marked contrast to the previous official frigidities. I fear that this is partially due to the Chaplain’s failure quite to realize that it is only Thomas Brown, a stranger and a new arrival, whom he takes so warmly by the hand. My evident embarrassment evidently embarrasses him, for I am beginning to enter so much into the spirit of the place that I almost feel as if I had been detected in an attempt to conceal my identity. The Chaplain turns me over to a convict stenographer who plies me with another series of questions, and I give my statistics for a third time. I can only hope that my answers to these various sets of questions are fairly uniform, or else that they will not be compared too closely.

The Chaplain and his assistant (a very nice-looking prisoner named Dickinson, whose acquaintance I made yesterday) inquire as to what books I should like to read, and I am shown a typewritten list from which to choose. I am hardly in a mental state to do so, but manage to make a selection. Unfortunately nothing I want seems available; but Dickinson promises to get one of the books later, and in the meantime I am presented with a Bible. Then I am taken upstairs and left with the Doctor.

The Doctor puts me through another series of questions, the fourth; many of them duplicates of the others. Then he starts on a careful physical examination which he does not finish as it is getting too near dinner time. The officer returns for me, and laden with my complete prison baggage—one towel, a cake of soap and a Bible—I am conducted to the north wing, up a short flight of iron stairs and along a narrow wooden gallery with an iron bar for a rail, to my cell on the second tier, Number 15. It has already been described. I remain here while the officer goes to get the small handbag left at the Warden’s office, containing a few things which I am to be allowed to have in my cell—writing paper, toothbrush, towels, sponges, toilet paper, and a razor. Most of the men are shaved twice a week by convict barbers in the different shops, and not even the barbers are allowed razors in their cells. As a new man I ought not to be allowed any of these luxuries, but this is exception number two.

The officer first returns with the wrong bag, but soon after with the right one, and I am then locked in until dinner time. Soon my keeper turns up, Captain Lamb, the head of the basket-shop. He introduces himself and then gives me instructions as to my immediate conduct; explains the marching signals, the seating at meals, et cetera. In obedience to his instructions, I take off my cap and coat to leave them in the cell; and when he soon passes along the gallery outside, unlocking the cells by pressing down the levers, I push open the grated door and follow close behind him. At the foot of the iron stairs he allots me a place toward the end of the line; and at the word of command we first shuffle and then march in double file along the stone corridors, and in single file into the mess-hall. As we enter, the Principal Keeper stands at the door. I had been warned to place my right hand on my left breast, by way of salute; but the prisoner behind me, fearing I have forgotten, gives me a friendly poke, and I assume the proper attitude of respect. Our line swings around to the right and marches past row after row of men in gray, all facing in the same direction and bending silently over their food.

Well beyond the center of the room I have a place at the end of a long wooden shelf which forms the table. At a sharp rap of the Keeper’s iron-shod stick on the floor, we pull out our stools, and stand again erect; a second rap, we seat ourselves and immediately fall to, as our dinner has been waiting for us. I am pleased and rather surprised to find it, if not hot, at least sufficiently warm. Our bill of fare includes a cup of something presumably meant for coffee; a bowl of a thick liquid (I could not decide whether it was soup or gravy, so I waited to see what the others did with it; some used it for one, some for the other; but it turned out to be very palatable bean soup); a slice or two of very good ham; excellent boiled potatoes; two or three pickles I did not try; and two large thick slices of bread. It was not a bad meal, and had I been hungry I should have done more justice to it.

One of the rules the Captain mentioned is that no bread must be left on the table; so, noticing what the other men do, I watch for the passing of the waiter with a large pail of bread, from which he gives an extra slice to those who want it, and shy my second slice into his pail as he goes by. Of course no conversation is allowed at meals; and anything less appetizing than the rows of gray shoulders and backs of heads in front of one I cannot imagine. The watching keepers, standing sternly and silently by, certainly do not add to the hilarity of the occasion. I am reminded of what my convict friend once said to me, “You know we don’t really eat here; we just stoke up.”

During the beginning of our meal other companies are continually arriving and taking their places in front of us; and during the latter part others are departing from behind us, accompanied by a curious noise which sounds like the rattling of castanets. I soon make out that it is the disposal of the spoons, forks, and knives. I have been cautioned by the Captain that upon leaving the table the three implements must be held in full view; in my left hand if I march on that side, otherwise in my right. These implements are jealously watched so that a prisoner shall not carry them to his cell and turn them into means of attack, escape, or self-destruction.

At the end of the meal the officer’s stick again strikes the stone pavement sharply; we rise, shove our stools back under the table shelf, then fall in line behind another departing company, each man holding aloft his knife, fork, and spoon which he drops into the proper receptacles near the door where a watchful officer keeps careful tally. We march back along the stone corridors, break ranks at the foot of the iron stairs, traverse the narrow gallery, and are soon in our cells where we are locked in; and I begin to write this journal.

It is curious what a resentful feeling overtakes one as that iron grated door swings to and is double locked. I can perfectly imagine a high-strung man battering himself against it from sheer nervousness.

Captain Lamb has just been to the door of my cell again. He begins with a reprimand. “Brown, I noticed you turning around at dinner; that is not allowed. I will let it pass this time, but don’t let it happen again. The rule is always, ‘Eyes front.’”

“Thank you, sir.”

The Captain then gives instructions regarding my next moves. It seems that I am soon to put on coat and cap and march to the shop, taking my bucket if I desire to empty it. The Captain explains that he will first pass along the gallery, unlocking the levers; then almost immediately return, pushing them down, and that when he pushes down my lever I must be ready to press heavily against the door so as to get it open quickly; then follow after the others, and take my place in line. He also gives instructions as to my conduct in the shop. “I call all my men by their first names, so I shall call you Thomas. I allow my company to have some talk in the shop. It is not strictly according to rule; but my men have the reputation of being a little hard to manage, and I find they get along better if I give them some leeway. So you may converse about your work; but you must be careful not to talk loud or create any disorder, and you must shut up at once in case another officer or a visitor comes into the shop. Also you must not leave your place of work without permission.”

I again thank the Captain, and say that I will try to mind my own business and not make any more trouble than I can help. He smiles rather a grim smile, and replies dryly that he doesn’t think there will be any trouble, and goes away. My time for writing must be nearly up for the present.

Yes! I hear a clicking, beginning at the far-distant end of the gallery around the corner to my left. It draws rapidly nearer and I can hear the key turning in the locks. I have put on my coat and cap. The Captain unlocks my lever and passes along the gallery to the right. He will soon be back, so this writing must be put away in the locker; then I can stand ready and waiting at the door. It would be as well not to expose myself to another reprimand.

There is of course another side to the foregoing story, and that is the advent of Thomas Brown as viewed, not by himself, but by his new companions—the regular inmates of the prison. What did the convicts think of it all?

As it happens, two of them were moved to record their impressions, and their accounts have come to my hands in a roundabout way. I can not do better than supplement my own story by extracts from these papers. I do not know the writers, I do not even know their names, and the stories were written entirely without hint or solicitation from me. It is natural that I should think them interesting; I hope that others may find them so.

Here is A’s account:

On Monday, a little after 10 A. M., a man passed through the front gate, and without any ceremony was registered on the book of entries as Tom Brown and recorded as No. 33,333x. After a brief examination he was conducted to the tailor-shop where the cutaway was changed for a suit of prison gray.

The funds of Mr. Brown being at low ebb, the state graciously presented him with a towel, a pair of working shoes, and a red bandanna handkerchief.[4]

With these meager possessions Tom again emerged into the large yard; and the old adage, “What a difference just a few clothes make,” became very evident, for in every appearance he looked just like the brotherhood he was about to join.

When a new man enters, a general whisper is always heard throughout the various shops. “Well, here’s a new boarder!” This was applied to him as he passed through the yard accompanied by Captain D.

We all knew who Tom was, but on the Sunday previous when he outlined his intentions a silent compact had been made—to consider him as an ordinary inmate; and the promise was fulfilled to the letter. What our thoughts were—is an entirely different story.

B’s account is somewhat more racy and intimate, and contains some very characteristic touches:

A few comments in the cell house on the day of Tom Brown’s arrival at Auburn Prison to start his self-imposed bit.

“Hello, Bill! There he goes. And say, he just walks with the confidence of an old timer! Well, old pals, you will have to take your hats off to him as a game one, all right!”

By this time all the keepers in the cell house looking through the windows. But not with that same old smile they usually carry. Someone sung in a low tone that old time melody,

“O what has changed them?”

and the gang had to take to cover; a look from some of the sore keepers made it plain we better move.

While he was down getting dolled up in his new suit of gray, someone asked where the P. K. was; and Jack replied, “Why, he just passed me over in the alley; and say, fellows, he has got so thin I didn’t know him; I guess you’ll find him over in the jail office hiding behind a broom.”

Someone gave us the wire that Tom was coming up the yard again, and we made a bee line for a rubber. Sure enough there is Tom, coming up the line in his new college makeup and a prison towel in his hand. All the boys stood quiet and watched. In fact nine out of ten had a lump in his throat too big to swallow. I must confess I got a cold chill that ran down my back, and it jumped from limb to limb like a cobblestone. Well, after we all came to, “our brave Tom” was locked in his cell, 15-2-N.N.W.; and then the stoolpigeons was put to work to watch who went to speak with him.

These extracts, which are given verbatim, throw interesting sidelights upon the attitude and state of mind of the prisoners—their extreme sensitiveness, their instant response to kindness, real or fancied, their relations to their keepers, their ready cheerfulness and sense of humor. As one can see, there was arising among them at the very outset something quite unexpected—a deep sense of gratitude for what they persisted in thinking a great sacrifice on my part; an eager answer to the sympathy from the outer world which my coming among them typified. The lump in the throat at the first sight of Tom Brown clad as a convict is significant of many things. The fact that they all greatly exaggerated my personal discomfort and in so many ways gave me credit where none was due, is only an evidence of their hunger for the human relationship, for that sympathy from our fellowmen which we all crave so intensely, and from which convicts are very far from exempt. There is no need to comment further upon these interesting extracts.

It is a real pity that we can not have as well the views of the third party in the affair—the keepers. Frank comment from them would be also most valuable. I only hope that the one who, on a certain occasion, invited and came very near receiving, personal violence by ejaculating, “Damn fool!” behind my back, represented an exception. Unquestionably, however, he did voice a considerable amount of official sentiment within the prison, as well as much unofficial sentiment outside. That was so natural as to be inevitable. There are always those who will misunderstand one’s motives and actions, no matter how plain the explanation may be.

CHAPTER IV

This has certainly been one of the most interesting days of my life, and the afternoon more interesting than the morning. I wish I could describe it adequately.

The interval between dinner and the march to the shop is occupied chiefly by writing this journal; but I also have a pleasant call from the Chaplain’s assistant, Dickinson. He does not bring me the book I selected this morning, but in its place another book and some magazines, for none of which do I care. What I do care about is the pleasant chat we have. Not many words have been exchanged before he drops the books he is engaged in distributing along the cells and dashes off; soon returning with photographs of his wife and three charming children. He himself is a clean-cut, fine-looking fellow, with honest blue eyes and a good face—not a single trace of the “Criminal” about him. He tells me some of the details of his story, and it is a sad one. But his imprisonment is now over; he expects to go out on Saturday. Some time ago he was granted his parole on condition of obtaining a job, and that he has now secured. He says this prison experience has been a “good lesson” to him. I have no doubt it has, nor that his hopes will be fulfilled; but the pity of it! Why should not a man like this, guilty of only a lesser crime, guiltless of criminal intent, be allowed to go on parole under suspended sentence, and not have to come to prison at all? Why should not he and his wife and children have been spared these long years of separation, this bitter degrading experience, this almost irreparable stain upon his name?

At about half past one o’clock the cells are unlocked, as I have already described. The Captain returns, pressing down the levers; I push open my door, place my tin cup on a small shelf at the left on leaving the cell and follow the other men rapidly along the narrow gallery and down a short flight of narrow, slippery iron stairs, coming to a halt at the door opening into the yard. Here the Captain places me third in line on the left, for we march in double file. I am flattered by the promotion, but possibly the man in front of me feels differently about it. I hope he’ll bear no grudge; but, if he had turned about and landed me one between the eyes that last time I trod on his heel, it would not have been surprising. The shoes presented me by the state of New York are so stiff and clumsy that I find it quite a task to manage my feet; it is difficult to steer them properly; and of course this marching in close order is something quite new to me.

First at half speed—then at a good round pace—we march out of the north wing, wheel to the right on reaching the center walk, swing down the length of the yard; then turn to the left, pass through the building where the buckets are emptied and washed, and halt where they are placed to dry and be disinfected. After a pause here of only a moment we march on again to the basket-shop.

Just as we reach there and break ranks, the young officer who served as guide this morning presents himself; and in silence I am conducted back up the yard and again to the Doctor’s office, where my very thorough medical examination is completed.

After the Doctor is through with me I go to the hallway outside his office where a number of other prisoners are awaiting their turns. As my officer has not come back, and does not do so for some time, there is an opportunity to practice what is apparently the most necessary virtue of prison life—patience. I take my place along the wall with the other convicts and watch for a chance to open a whispered conversation. From where I stand I can look up a short flight of steps into the front room of the hospital, where there are a number of men moving about; among them one of the city undertakers. Then I remember having heard at the front office, as I came in this morning, of the sudden death of a young prisoner last night from pneumonia. Four convicts come up the stairs, bringing a large, ominous looking, oblong receptacle, which they take to a door on my left. It does not look quite like a coffin, but there is little doubt as to its purpose. As the door is opened, I glance in; and there, covered with a white sheet, is all that remains of the poor lad—the disgraced and discarded human tenement of one divine spark of life.

A death in prison. Tears fill my eyes as I turn away thinking of that lonely, friendless deathbed; thinking that perhaps some loving mother or young wife in the world outside, bearing bravely her own share of shame and punishment, has been struggling to keep body and soul together until her prisoner could come back home; perhaps at this very moment wondering why she has not received from him the last monthly letter. And now—— Can the world hold any tragedy more terrible than this?

A young negro prisoner standing by, who has also looked into the chamber of death, breathes a low sigh and whispers, “God! That’s where I wish I was!”

The convict next him, a broad-shouldered young chap, who whispers to me that he comes from Brooklyn and gets out in January, goes in to ask some special favor of the Doctor. He gives me on the side a most humorous and quite indescribable wink and grin as his request is granted. His attitude suggests that he has “slipped one over” on somebody. He mounts the steps to the hospital and the young negro takes his turn with the Doctor as the coffin, heavy now with its mournful load, is brought out from the room on the left. At the same moment the officer returns to my rescue; and I follow him downstairs and out into the fresh air and the sunlight.

Comedy and tragedy seem to jostle each other in prison even as in the world outside. But the comedy itself is tragic; while the tragedy lies beyond the realm of tears—in the gray twilight region of a suffering too deep for speech, where sympathy seems helpless.

As I now sit writing in my cell, from out the darkness, loneliness, and stillness about me comes the sweet voice of a violin. Someone is playing the melody of Mendelssohn’s Spring Song, and playing well. I wonder if he knows that I am near him, and is trying to send me his message of good will. One peculiarity of this place is that sounds reach the heavily recessed door of a cell mainly by reflection from the outer wall, and my ear is not sufficiently trained to know from what direction the sounds come. The invisible violinist, wherever he is, has an unusually good tone and plays with genuine feeling. Unfortunately he has not played many bars before more instruments join in—jewsharps, harmonicas, and other things. It is an extraordinary jumble of sounds—a wild pandemonium after the deadly quiet of a few moments ago. A train blowing off steam at the New York Central station, immediately opposite our front windows, is also contributing its quota of noise.

The gallery boy has just passed along, filled my tin cup with water for the night, and exchanged a few words. He says that for twenty minutes each evening, from six-forty to seven, each man may “do what he likes” in his cell. A cornet is the latest addition to the noise. The whole episode impresses me as being such a mingling of the pathetic and the humorous that I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. Consider the conditions which make twenty minutes of such a performance a boon to man!

The gallery boy evinces a desire to strike up friendly relations; he brings me a box of matches in case I want to smoke, and offers to do anything for me he can. I am not a smoker, but I don’t like to decline his good offices; so I stow away the matches for future reference.

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.

CHAPTER V