I was three years older than my companion, and very, very serious; indeed, he was the only child who ever made me enjoy a game of romps. Pretty, golden-haired, laughing little fellow, no one ever resisted him. He passed through his short life a baby Prince Charming, a little, conquering hero. His father was the Sheriff of the city, and, for the time being, the Sheriff’s family lived in that portion of the jail reserved for home life; and my mother was paying a long visit to the Sheriff’s wife. That’s how it happened that two young children were living within those sullen walls, taking their exercise in its grim corridors and playing their games within the very shadow of the scaffold. In pleasant weather we used to play out in the jail-yard; it was small, but not so closed in as it now is by the Court-house. At that time the court stood over in the Park, or Public Square, as it was called. Out there we played “escaping prisoner.” I, as the Sheriff, had to run down and bring back little Goldy-locks (Charley was his real name) as prisoner. He was very realistic in his struggles for freedom, as certain, big, blue marks on my arms used to testify; but whenever he saw them he would put penitent little lips to them and tell me reassuringly not to mind, “cause he would play Sheriff to-morrow and I cud ’scape,” in which case I knew he would have nearly pounded the life out of me, so I very much preferred to keep my part of Sheriff. In other weather, and it was mostly “other” weather, we sought the corridors of the jail. The dwelling-rooms were small and crowded, and, besides, the big people were all the time “don’ting” us--“Don’t do this” and “don’t do that”--so Charley would rumple his curls with a small, impatient hand, look very cross for a moment, then come and whisper, “Let’s go to jail,” and straight we went in search of the turnkey, who was Charley’s uncle as well as slave, and he would put a key into a great lock and we would push at the big, heavy door. Then in we would tumble, and the door would be closed behind us, unless some of the prisoners’ cells were open. In that case the turnkey remained inside the corridor with us, but that was unusual. The first thing we always did was to run to each cell and peer in to see if anyone was lying down. No one had ever made the suggestion to us, but of our own accord we had made it a point of honor never to make a noise there if we found anyone who remained on his cot after our arrival. Generally every one sprang up and came to the barred doors to greet us, always with nice words, sometimes with very gentle ones. Often they would lay wagers on the result of our games. We used to play “tag” and “blind man’s buff,” and we played “puss-in-the-corner” by counting every other cell door a corner.