Perhaps he is taken out to be hanged--the last act that society can do for him, or the convicted man is sent to prison for a long or shorter term. His head is shaved and he is placed in prison garb; he is carefully measured and photographed in his prison clothes, so that if he should ever get back to the world he will forever be under suspicion. Even a change of name cannot help him. While in prison he works and lives under lock and key, like a wild animal, eager to escape. On certain days he is allowed to sit at a long table with other unfortunates like himself, and visit for an hour with mother or father or wife or son or daughter or friend on the other side. Other prisoners, so far as he can associate with them, are as helpless and hopeless and rebellious as he. How they will get out, and when, are their chief concerns. Many of their guards are very humane. Probably no one seeks to torture him, but the system and the psychology are fatal. He sees almost no one who approaches him with friendship and trust and a desire to help, except his family, his closest friends and his companions in misery. He knows that the length of his term is entirely dependent upon officials whom he cannot see or make understand his case. He snatches at the slightest ray of hope. He is in despair from the beginning to the end. No prison has the trained men who, with intelligence and sympathy, should know and watch and help him in his plight. No state would spend the money necessary to employ enough attendants and aids with the learning and skill necessary to build him up. Money is freely spent on the prosecution from the beginning to the end, but no effort is made to help or save. The motto of the state is: "Millions for offense, but not one cent for reclamation."