Our Saturday breakfast is rice; which I eat with relish. My appetite is in excellent working order this morning, after a good night’s rest; and I am feeling in fine physical condition. There can be no question about the punishment cell; no one who feels as well as I do has any excuse for not misbehaving himself. In dressing this morning I took up my belt another notch. My youngest was quite right when he asserted that I should not be so fat when I came out; I must have lost several pounds.
I carefully avoid the coffee this morning; no more bootleg for me! I reserve my thirst for a good drink of water when I get back to the cell.
Already, while we are stowing away our breakfast, the companies in our rear are departing; and now our turn comes. One rap; and we rise and set back our stools. A second rap; and spoons in hand (no use for knives and forks at this breakfast) we march in double file down the middle aisle,—holding our spoons high for the officers to see and dropping them into the proper receptacles at the door. Then back through the stone corridor, up the iron stairs and along the gallery to the cells. In these, as there is the wait of half an hour or more before shop-time, we are double-locked.
And now comes Dickinson, to wish me a final good-bye. He is in his citizen’s clothes, and can hardly wait to have the gate shut behind him.
He assures me again of his desire and intention to go straight and make good; and I put through the bars two fingers which he grasps as fervently as he would my whole hand, if he could get it. Another moment, and the brave, well-meaning fellow is gone. If a man like this does not succeed, it is not his fault; but the fault of the System which fails to strengthen his power of self-control and ability to bear responsibility.
After Dickinson’s departure comes one of the trusties, bringing the information which I passed the word along yesterday to get for me. Then I write in my journal and read some of the kites which have reached me. The latest one I find under the blankets,—tucked into the strap which holds up my mattress—a most ingenious hiding place.
Then comes work-time. Again the captain unlocks the levers; and again I follow along the gallery to the iron stairway and the yard door. After a much shorter period of waiting than at our earlier march, we start off and go directly down the yard and around the corner to the basket-shop.
“Good morning, Tom!” “Good morning, Jack!” and we are off to work in good time.
“Well, old pal, how are you feeling to-day?”
I look up and catch an anxious look in my partner’s eyes. I laugh as I answer: “Oh, I’m all right; and in fine fighting trim.”