It was about midnight when he awoke. Not a ray of light permeated the place, and the confused boy had no idea of his whereabouts. He called aloud for aid, for a light. The cold stone walls gave back a derisive echo, and no one came to his aid. Then he felt his way around the place. He knew that he was shut up in a strong barred cell, but had no idea that it was a prison. Dean tried to think, to theorize as to his situation, but life was a blank for the past seventy-four hours. He was anxious, worried about the new steamboat; he wondered who his enemies could be, for the two men in the wagon were certainly enemies. “What does it all mean--what does it all mean?” he murmured agonizedly time and time again, and then, parched with fever, he fell to sleep again. The click of a lock awakened him. The door of the cell, a massive iron gate, swung open. Dean groped his way to the threshold. Outside was a stone-paved corridor. A man in striped convict’s garb--the same who had unlocked the cell door--was the only occupant of the place. At him Dean stared eagerly. “Where am I? Is this a jail?” he cried. For reply, the man placed his fingers to his lips to indicate silence. “But I want to know!” gasped Dean. The man pointed to a framed circular. His finger rested on a certain line. Gazing at it, Dean read that it comprised the rules and regulations for the conduct of the prisoners in the State Reform School. One line read: “Any prisoner found conversing or signaling to others will be punished.” And then were enumerated the various penalties for the offense and its repetition. “The State Reform School?” gasped Dean, white with dread and suspense. “I am fifty miles away from Springfield!” The convict interrupted his excited soliloquy by touching his shoulder and making a gesture that said: “Follow me!” Dean, thrilling with vague perturbation, accompanied him down the corridor. At its end the man unlocked the door and urged Dean over the threshold. At a desk sat a man writing, but not in prison uniform. A second man caught Dean’s arm. “New prisoner,” he said. “What number?” “No. 301.” “Prisoner?” gasped Dean. “I am not----” “Silence!” ordered the man at the desk, “or we’ll put you back in the dark cell.” “But, sir----” “You’ll have a chance to talk all you want to when you see the warden.” “Better keep quiet!” spoke Dean’s companion in a low tone of warning. Dean acted like a person in a dream. The truth had flashed over his mind with a rude shock. Prisoner! Prisoner, for what? The man measured his height, weighed him, took a careful description of his personal appearance, and received from the man at the desk an iron check bearing the figures, in bronze: “301.” Then he led Dean to another door, opened it, pushed him though and handed the iron check to a man in the room. The latter pointed to a barber’s chair. Dean groaned in anguish of spirit.