After I had regained strength I entered into an agreement with half a dozen others to attempt an escape. Our plan was to get into a ditch which was west of the dead house, crawl down that past the guard into a ravine, and then strike for the Blue Ridge Mountains, thence following some stream to the Ohio River. But the moon was at the full at the time and we were compelled to wait for a dark night. There is an old saying that a “watched pot never boils,” so it was in our case; before a dark night came we were sent back to prison. Exchange rumors were current at this time. We talked over the good times we would have when we got back into “God’s country.” We swore eternal abstinence from bug soup and corn bread, and promised ourselves a continual feast of roast turkey, oysters, beefsteak, mince pies, warm biscuit and honey, but here came a difference of opinion, some voted for mashed potatoes and butter, others for baked potatoes and gravy. There were many strong advocates of each dish. The mashed potatoe men affirmed that a man had no more taste than an ostrich who did not think that mashed potatoes and butter were ahead of anything else in that line; while the baked potatoe men sneeringly insinuated that the mashed potatoe men’s mothers or wives did not know how to bake potatoes just to the proper yellow tint, nor make gravy of just the right consistency and richness. The question was never settled until it was settled by each man selecting his own particular dish after months more of starvation. There was restiveness among the men all the time, hunger and nakedness were telling upon their spirits as well as their health. I lay it down as a maxim that if you want to find a contented and good natured man, you must select a well fed and comfortably clothed man. Philosophize as much as you will upon the subject of diet but the fact remains that we are all more or less slaves:—to appetite.