“I’m sure I don’t know,” answers the Warden.
“Well, neither do I, and I want to find out. Of course,” I add, “I’m not going to be foolish about the thing. If I find I don’t feel well enough for any reason, when Saturday comes, I shall just cut it out. But if my physical condition continues as good as it is now, I mean to try it.”
“All right,” says the Warden. “I wanted to know, so that I can give orders to have one of those jail suits washed. There is no need of your running any unnecessary risk in the matter, and those dirty old clothes I don’t like.”
This is my first knowledge of the custom of giving the prisoners who are sent to the punishment cells clothes especially reserved for the jail; and my thoughts travel at once to the filthy and disreputable garments I had seen on a prisoner the Warden had once interviewed there in my presence.
“Well, I shall appreciate it if I can have a clean suit,” I said. “There’s no reason, I suppose, why I should not accept that exception.”
So it is arranged. The Warden’s visit comes to an end, and another day of my voluntary exile from society is closed.
Now for another long and restless night.
I shall not mind so much the periods of wakefulness to-night. Jack Murphy’s Good Conduct League will give me plenty of food for thought. I believe he has struck the path for which I have been groping.