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.