I receive a call from Captain Lamb after he has carefully counted all his men and locked us in for the night. As he turned the key in my lock, I was instructed to stand up with both hands on the door and rattle it violently, to show that it was firmly secured. The Captain is very pleasant, and grows quite confidential, telling about his experiences in the regular army in the Philippines. He also explains something of his ideas in regard to handling convicts. Before going away he says that, if I should be taken sick in the night, I must rattle the door and the officer on guard will come and take me to the hospital if necessary.

He goes away and I begin to have that feeling of lonesome desolation I have already attempted to describe. There are some noises; but they are the noises of tramping feet above, below, of clanging bars and grating locks, then of stealthy footfalls and distant doors. Of the many companions who are living all about me I can see no sight—hear no sound. If my cell were big enough, I should walk round and round as I have seen the caged animals do in menageries. As it is, if I get up from writing, I can only hang at my grated door, looking aimlessly out. It grows dark and ever darker in the corridor outside; there are few sounds now. Inside my cell the electric bulb gives barely light enough to read by. It is horribly lonesome.

Looking up from writing, I give a start at the sight of a white face and the figure of a man just outside the grated door. Peering out through the bars, so that I can get the light on his face, I recognize the Chaplain. He puts two fingers through the door, the nearest possible approach to a handshake, and I feel really grateful for a kindly touch and the sound of a friendly voice. I am conscious of an almost insane desire to talk, to pour forth words, as if the bars of my cell were damming back the powers of speech.

The Chaplain is anxious to know how I am getting along, and cheers me by saying that all the men are greatly interested and pleased. “They understand what you are trying to do for them, and appreciate it,” he says. Then he tells of one prisoner he has just left in his cell on one of the upper tiers, whom he found reading Schopenhauer. “He said he did not know you, has nothing at all to ask of you, and will probably never see you to speak to; but your action in coming here has somehow made him feel that the pessimistic view he has had of the world must be wrong.”

After some further talk, the Chaplain says “Good night,” and goes away. I sincerely hope that he is right in his belief; that the men do care; that, besides gaining the information I came here for, my visit may be of some interest and comfort to these poor fellows. Murphy said to me to-day, “Say, you’ve got the boys all right.” If he and the Chaplain are correct, I may get from my experience much more than I expected.

I have already told how, not very long after the Chaplain leaves me and as I sit writing, the lovely sound of a violin floats into the cell. Then come the sounds of many other instruments, and the noise of the train at the railway station, over the wall and across the street. I have also described the ensuing pandemonium. After twenty minutes of these evidences of the human life existing all around, the noise ceases as suddenly as it began, and there comes a silence more profound than that which preceded the musical explosion. Only an occasional cough, the sound of a stealthy footfall, the jar of some iron door or the clank of distant bolt or bar. Yet I am conscious of one curious sound which I am unable to place or explain. It is like a very delicate clicking upon iron and is almost continuous. I wonder whether it is the tapping of prisoners’ messages from cell to cell, of which I have heard. It would be convenient to know the telegraphic code, so as to take part in any such conversation. I listen with interest to the clicking, but it seems not to change its direction and to have but little regularity. I wonder what it is.

The night officer has just stopped for a moment at the grating of my cell. I ask him the time. Seven-twenty. Good Lord! I thought it must be nearly nine. I am usually very good at guessing time, but in this place I am utterly unable to make any accurate calculation. Just for the experience, I’m going to stop writing and lock up my writing materials, to see how it feels to have nothing to do.

I take down my paper and pencil again to record a most thrilling discovery. I have found—a pocket in my prison coat! All day I have worried at the absence of one; now I find it—left, on the inside. Imagine the state of mind when such a thing really produces almost a feeling of nervous excitement.

I simply must keep on writing out of sheer desperation. I have tried to use up some minutes by rearranging my clothes, pulling up my socks, and tightening my belt; I have not yet investigated the workings of my bed, as I wish to leave that for a later excitement.

From the distance I catch the single stroke of the City Hall bell, which marks eight o’clock. Another hour yet before the lights go out; and then ten hours more before I can leave this cell!

How in the world do they bear it—the men who look forward to long years of imprisonment? My working partner, Murphy, has a life term. For what, I wonder? He seems like such a good fellow; and the Chaplain has just spoken of him most highly.

What a mystery it all is! And what a commentary on our civilization that we can do nothing better with such men than to throw away their lives and ruin them, body and soul. The old ones arouse one’s pity; but the young men—many of those in chapel yesterday were mere boys.

God! What a miserable, shameful waste of human life—of human energy! Must we not find some way in which the good there is in these broken lives can be repaired and made useful to society?

At last a bell, the first signal for the night. I think it is twenty minutes before nine. As the kindly gallery boy has brought me a glass tumbler, I brush my teeth with a minimum of inconvenience, wash my face, and then investigate the workings of the bed. It is loosely fastened to two iron hooks in the wall, on the inside; and the outside rests on two legs which dangle in the air vaguely, and will probably let me down in the night if they do not rest firmly on the floor to begin with. After manipulating the bed successfully, I let down the mattress on top of it and arrange the blankets as well as possible.

About a quarter of an hour more before lights out. It is all very well to look forward to that landmark, but what after that? What of the ten-hour night ahead of me? And this is only the first night of six. Suppose it were the first night of six thousand.

I hastily take a sheet of paper, mark off a space for each day and each night I expect to be here, and scratch off Monday. One-twelfth of my penance gone at any rate. I don’t count Sunday, because that will be only half a day; or I will write in Sunday at the bottom, as a sort of separate affair. I hang this rough calendar upon the wall; and then it suddenly occurs to me that it is exactly what I have always read of prisoners doing.

Oh! Will these lights never go out!

I shall put away this writing, and just wait.

Merciful God! How do they ever stand it?

Tuesday morning: after breakfast.

The first night is over. They all say it is the worst. It could hardly be called a success—considered as a period of rest and refreshment; at least it did not “knit up the raveled sleeve of care” to any very great extent. At nine o’clock the lights at last went out. I was already in bed and waiting, but I was not at all prepared for the shock I received. While there is light in the cell, the bars of the door look gray against the darkness outside—and that is bad enough; but when the lights go out, there is just enough brightness from the corridor below to change the door into a grating of most terrible, unearthly blackness. The bars are so black that they seem to close in upon you—to come nearer and nearer, until they press upon your very forehead. It is of no use to shut your eyes for you know they are still there; you can feel the blackness of those iron bars across your closed eyelids; they seem to sear themselves into your very soul. It is the most terrible sensation I ever experienced. I understand now the prison pallor; I understand the sensitiveness of this prison audience; I understand the high nervous tension which makes anything possible. How does any man remain sane, I wonder, caged in this stone grave day after day, night after night?

And always there come the sound of keys turning and the grating of iron hinges and bolts and bars. And as if the double-locked levers were not enough, I noticed for the first time last night a triple lock. A long iron bar drops down in front of all the cells on the tier; and against that iron bar rest the ends of iron brackets projecting from the iron doors. So that by merely unlocking and pressing down the levers you cannot be set free; the long bar must be raised at the end of the gallery, where it is fastened by another lock and special key. This discovery seems to put the crowning touch to that desperate sensation of confinement. I already hate the levers; I doubly hate the lock and big key; but no words can express my detestation of that iron bar.

However, just before ten o’clock I did manage to lose consciousness; I recall the time by the sounds of the nine-fifty New York Central train. Even in the midst of my discomfort I had to smile at the plight of one who has to tell time by trains on the Auburn branch of the New York Central. I do not know how much I slept through the night, but I was greatly disturbed by the frequent and pathetic coughing, sighing, and groaning from other cells. It was only too evident that many others were sleeping no better than I. Possibly the delicate attentions of the night keeper going his rounds and flashing his electric bull’s-eye through the bars straight in our faces, may have had something to do with it. Certainly that custom is hardly conducive to unbroken slumbers. Apparently, it is considered necessary to do this in order to prevent suicides. One poor fellow had tried to make away with himself on the previous night; such attempts are not uncommon, I’m told.

Again—what a commentary!

As I had not yet quite reached the point of self-destruction, the flashlight was distinctly annoying; it seemed always to come just after I had succeeded in dropping off to sleep.

And ever, as I started awake again, the blackness of those horrible bars against the faintly lighted corridor!

At last, through one of the upper windows in the outer wall, I detect the faint gray light of the coming dawn. Each time I open my eyes and sit up in bed the small piece of sky to be seen through the grated door of my cell seems a shade less dark; and at last I begin to feel that, after all, perhaps God has not forsaken the world. As the sky grows still brighter, I can distinguish the green of the trees outside; and within, the blackness and the shadows gradually fade away, and the terrible oppression of the night gives place to the confidence of a new day. I listen with a relief that is almost pleasure to the familiar sounds of the six-o’clock factory whistles; and the faithful old bell which has rung for fifty years at the Osborne Works, and which I think I should recognize if I were to hear it in Central Africa.

I partially dress, and then fold up my bed and arrange the mattress and blankets over it, so as to get more room for further evolutions. The night ache in my head is rather bad at first, but cold water on my face and the back of my neck revives me greatly; and by the time my toilet is completed and I am ready for the fray, I feel more nearly like myself. Before I am fully dressed and ready, the lights are switched on, about six-thirty, I judge; and soon the sounds of keys and iron hinges and bars and bolts are heard again; and the noise of shuffling feet in the corridor below tells that the day’s routine has begun.[6]

The first night has been worse than I expected; and I dare say it will be the worst of all, unless I find the punishment cells——However, I am not yet quite certain that I shall try those.

Sufficient unto the day is the evil of the night before. I must throw off the shadows and get a fresh hold. After all, in some ways it might have been worse: the air in my cell was good; I had more blankets than I needed; my bed was not very uncomfortable; and there were no vermin. This last was really what I dreaded most. My cell is clean and well ventilated; surely those are blessings which ought to counterbalance much else.

So I start the new day with courage and undiminished interest in my great experiment.

One of my fellow prisoners, whose comment I quoted in Chapter II, makes the following statement about the condition of the cells at Auburn. “The cells on the second and basement tiers smell fairly well; but in summer the stench from some of the cells is terrible.” Due, of course, to long use, no sewage, and no proper system of ventilation. In most of the cells the small square hole which opens into some crude sort of ventilating flue has long ago been plugged to prevent the inroads of vermin.

I seem to have been very fortunate in having a cell where discomfort was reduced to a minimum.

The condition of some of the cells I have seen in Sing Sing Prison is unspeakably bad. They are close, dark, damp, foul. To call them unfit for human habitation is to give them undeserved dignity; they are unfit for pigs.

CHAPTER VI

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!

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

“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.

I place a hand on my partner’s broad shoulder. “Yes,” I say, “it must indeed be terrible in such a case.”

“Oh, nobody can know how bad it is,” he goes on, my evident sympathy opening up the depths. “My mother was sick in the hospital, very sick, and I knew that she was going to die; and I—and I couldn’t get to her. Oh God! if they could only have let me go! I’d have come back! I’d have come back. Honest I would. And now—and now——”

“Yes,” I say, “I understand. And I know myself what it means. It’s something we never get over—in prison or out.”

For a moment I fear that he is going to break down; but he is strong and schooled in self-repression, and quickly regains control of himself. To give him time I tell him something of my own experience; and he grasps my hand fervently. Whatever may come out of my prison experiment, I have made at least one warm friend in Jack Murphy. The barriers are down between us two at least. Death, for all its cruelty, is after all the one great unifying force; it forges the one great bond of human brotherhood.

As I have said, this last talk takes place toward the end of the afternoon. Before it occurred Jack had said, “Now it’s my turn to sweep up to-night.” And he proceeded to do it, while I took a bit of exercise, walking up and down the short space permitted by the rules—about ten steps each way across and back.

The order comes to fall in. “Well, good night, Brown!” “Good night, Jack!” and off we go; first back to the bucket stands, for the benefit of those who did their housecleaning this afternoon instead of this morning. Then we march up through the yard to the main building, where, with the others, I snatch my slice of bread, mount the iron stairs, traverse the gallery, and lock myself in my cell for the night.

Captain Lamb comes to bid me good-bye. He is off on his vacation to-morrow and his place is to be filled temporarily by one of the night officers. I am sorry to have him go as I have taken a liking to him and wanted to discuss with him further his views on the Prison Problem. However, I shall be interested to find out how we get along with his successor.

The armchair, which George has secured for me in place of the stool, is unfortunately much too large for the cell. When my shelf table is hooked up there is not room enough for the chair to be placed anywhere conveniently. When I sit back in it my head bumps against the locker; and how I’m going to manage when the bed is let down I don’t know. The chair is not my only acquisition; when I came in to-night I found three tempting apples on the shelf above my door. I suspect my friend in the blue shirt, who asked me this noon if I didn’t want an apple, as his Captain had given him some. I shall save them for to-morrow, although I find my bread and water rather tasteless and unsatisfactory to-night.

The evening wears along. I do not know now just what time it is, but somewhere between seven and eight. We have had the twenty minutes of music, beginning again with the sweet strains of the Mendelssohn Spring Song, into which the other instruments rudely break. My unknown musician plays other good selections, all with equal skill and feeling, so far as I can tell through the din. At the present moment everything is quiet along the corridors, except the inexplicable clicking or tapping I heard last evening and wondered whether it was telegraphic in character. One of the night officers, who has just paid me a friendly call and chatted at some length, tells me that it is caused by the endeavors of the men in the cells to strike sparks with flint and steel—owing to their monthly supply of matches having given out. As the monthly supply of each man is only one box, I am not surprised at the number of clicks that I hear. A cigarette smoker might easily use up one box in a day—let alone a month.[8]

It is very curious the difference between last evening and this in my feelings. Then I was so excited that each noise got on my nerves. To-night I am quiet; and I think sleep will come more easily and stay longer. Perhaps I can even slumber through the visits of the watchman with his electric bull’s-eye.

At this point I was interrupted by the Warden and Grant, who have just paid me a long call. As I feel even more possessed with the desire to talk than I did last night, I could hardly bear to let them go. They came up to the entrance of my cell very quietly so as not to attract attention, and I was taken almost by surprise when I heard their voices. I had rather expected a visit from the Warden this evening, but knew nothing for certain.

“Well, how are you coming on?” is the first question.

“Fine!”

“How are you feeling?”

“First rate!”

“How do you like your job?”

“Couldn’t ask anything better.”

“How do the men treat you?”

“As fine a lot of fellows as I was ever thrown with.”

The Warden and Grant stifle their laughter.

“Well,” I remark, “I suppose it does sound rather funny, but I mean it. I wouldn’t ask for any better treatment than I’m getting. The men are certainly acting like gentlemen. They are doing just what I asked of them—treating me exactly like one of themselves; and as for my partner, Murphy, we’re the very best of friends. He’s a fine fellow. But look here,” I continue, “I’m making no kick, and I’m perfectly satisfied where I am; but what was the reason for the change of plan? Why didn’t the P. K. put me where we had decided? When shall I be placed with that tough bunch?”

This time my two visitors cannot control their amusement; they laugh loudly.

“Why,” says the Warden, as soon as he can catch his breath, “you are with the tough bunch!”

“Oh, come off! you know what I mean, the Idle Company that I was to be placed with for the first day or two.”

“You’re with the Idle Company,” explains the Warden; “only they’re not idle any longer, they’ve been put to work. It is the same one where we planned for you to begin.”

I was never more surprised; but in order to turn the joke on them I assume the toughest manner at my disposal and say, “Gee! Did you think I wasn’t wise? I was only kiddin’ youse guys! But take this from me—straight. If we’re the toughest bunch in this stir the other guys must be skypilots, all right!”

“Well, he seems to be getting some of the lingo down pretty fine,” is Grant’s quiet comment; and then we turn seriously to the events of the day, to my health and other matters. The Warden describes his visit to the shop with the newspaper men, and the failure of all concerned, including himself, to recognize me.

I tell him that it is quite evident that the prison atmosphere has been successful in disguising my individuality, at least so far as appearance is concerned. Then, after some more serious talk, we reach an agreement of opinion that I am probably getting as much experience as possible where I am now working; and so it would be better to continue in the basket-shop for the present. The Warden makes me a promise to come again to-morrow evening, and they take their departure. I wish they’d come back, I haven’t talked half enough.

The Warden told me that one of the convicts who works in his household quarters locks in (to use the prison expression denoting temporary residence) next to me—Number 14 on this tier; and that he had felt rather hurt that I did not answer his taps. It seems that after finishing his evening’s work he gets back to his cell at ten o’clock, and that he tapped me a greeting last night. That was just about the time I fell asleep. I remember getting the impression in a vague way of some noises on the gallery near by, just as I was dropping off; that must have been the night officer letting him into his cell. To-night I shall stay awake and answer his message.

So the company I am in is the one I have been dreading, is it? “The toughest bunch of fellows in the prison”—Murphy and Stuhlmiller and “Blackie,” the good-natured fellow who gave away his tobacco and brings us the material for our baskets; and the other pleasant men whose acquaintance I have been making these last two days in the shop. It is incredible, inconceivable. What can be the explanation of it all?

Is it possible that I am being made the victim of a clever system of deception? This is naturally my first thought. I can well imagine that Jack Murphy enjoys the novel sensation of having as his partner a man who is for the moment an object of peculiar interest to this community, that is simply human nature. No doubt Harley Stuhlmiller enjoys giving directions to the member of a state commission, that again is human nature. But that these men could assume virtues which they have not, and carry out a wholesale system of deceit—that is not possible. I have been on my guard every moment I have been here, and I have observed some few attempts to get into my good graces, with a possible expectation of future benefits; but on the other hand there has been a remarkable and most successful effort to carry out my request—to treat me as plain Tom Brown.

No, that explanation doesn’t explain; the truth must lie in another direction. And here is my idea. I am not seeing the worse side of these men because there is no occasion for them to show me their worse side; but I have no intention of overlooking or denying that side. They wouldn’t be in prison if they did not have it. But, although they may form the toughest bunch in prison, they evidently have their better side also, and is that not just as real as the worse side? And is it not the better side that is the more important for us to consider? Important—whether we approach the matter from the side of philanthropy or from that of political economy. In either case we must consider it important that men should not leave prison in such condition, mental, moral or physical, that they will almost certainly commit more crimes and be returned to prison.

To which side, the better or the worse, does the Prison System now appeal? Which does it encourage and develop? These are pretty vital questions.

At any rate it seems to me to have been great good luck that I was placed in the basket-shop where I should associate with just these men; for if these fellows are really among the more difficult cases in the prison, then I think——

Wednesday morning, October 1.

At that interesting moment, while still writing my journal, the lights suddenly went out on me; so I am finishing this next morning. The Warden and Grant arrived soon after eight and must have stayed longer than I thought; and somehow I seem to have missed the warning bell. I had not begun to prepare for bed, when suddenly I was left in darkness. I had to get my writing materials into the locker and make my evening toilet the best way I could, with the help of the dim light from the corridor coming through the grated door. There was one good thing about it, however; I was too busy for a while to notice the blackness of the bars which had given me such a shock the night before. It did not take so very long to make my preparations, for the state of New York allows its boarders neither night shirts nor pajamas. We have to sleep in the underclothes in which we have worked all day. An arrangement which strikes one as being almost more medieval than the sewage disposal system.

On Monday night, according to Jack Murphy, the men in my corridor all waited to hear if I had the usual difficulties with my bed; and as some other fellow’s bed went down with him during the evening they thought they had the laugh on me. This Tuesday night they certainly had. That infernal armchair could not be placed where it did not catch the edge of the bed when I let it down, so as to leave one leg dangling loose, as only one could touch the floor at a time. In the course of my struggles with the bed, the whole miserable contrivance came off the hooks and fell down with a metallic rattle and bang that could be heard all over the corridor. Then came snickers from various distances, and my frantic effort to straighten things out only made more noise than ever. Bursts of smothered laughter came through the bars; and I laughed, myself, until I was almost in hysterics. Finally I got the bed hitched on to the back hooks, folded it up against the wall and started all over again. I began by putting the chair on its back as far away from the bed as possible, which wasn’t very far, and this time I just managed to get the legs of the bed to the floor. After that it was short work to get ready for the night.

I have not yet described my bed covering. I have one double and one single blanket and a thin blanket sheet—no cotton or linen of any sort. I do not need, in this weather, more than one of the three blankets; but if I were to be here long I know I should like some cotton bedclothes and pillow cases. These can be secured, apparently, only by buying them, and many prisoners have not the money to buy them. It seems as if the State should furnish them to all prisoners; certainly the present arrangement leaves much to be desired from a sanitary point of view.

Having thus at last got into bed, I found myself not so sleepy as when I started; moreover, now that I was in bed, that black grating began again to have its nervous effect upon me. If I thought it would be any better I should turn, facing the other way; but that would bring my head so close to the grating that anyone from outside could poke me with his fingers. Moreover, it wouldn’t help matters, for as long as I know that grating is there I might as well look at it; I should certainly feel it even worse if I turned my back.

I heard the nine-fifty train drawing into the station. I wondered who, if any, of my friends were boarding the train for New York. How often have I done so without ever thinking of the poor fellows over here, lying restless in their cells and marking the time by the arrival and departure of trains. After a suitable interval I heard the train draw away. Then I knew that in a few moments my neighbor from the Warden’s rooms would be down.

Soon I heard the opening and closing of a distant door, then stealthy footfalls along the corridor, the faint sound of a lock, and I saw the long iron bar slowly and noiselessly raise itself from the top of the cell opening. Then more stealthy footfalls, the sound of the great key turning in a lock close at hand, the click of a lever, and a few faint sounds through the wall at my right. Then the lever clicked again as the door closed, the key turned in the lock, soft footfalls died away along the gallery, the long bar dropped down, and all was so quiet for a moment that it seemed as if the very building were holding its breath.

Then through the wall I heard the very faintest possible sound: tap-ta-tap-tap; tap-ta-tap-tap. Then silence. It was so faint that if I had not been waiting for some sound I might not have heard it at all. Tap-ta-tap-tap. It said quite plainly, “How do you do?” I stretched out my left hand to the wall on my right and with my ring gave an answering signal: Tap-tap; tap-tap; tap-tap; which was the nearest I could come to, “All right; all right.” Then I waited to see if I was answered; and sure enough in a few seconds the answer came.