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!