It was my third morning in prison. I stood beside the mush boiler with Annie O'Brien, who had been scraping it, and was wiping it out with a dry cloth.
McMullins came along, and demanded the cloth from her. An altercation ensued. I hushed the noise, and asked,—
"To whom does the cloth belong?"
"It is my dish-cloth," said McMullins.
"You might let me have it a moment just to wipe this out!"
"I want it meself, I'm in hurry for it."
"Where is yours?" I asked O'Brien.
"I don't know, ma'am. I left it on the boiler, and some one has taken it."
She still kept on using McMullins'.
"I want my dish-cloth; I'm in hurry," said McMullins, impatiently.