The man began to cut his hair close to his head. That done, he touched a bell, a man appeared, led Dean to another room, and here were a row of bath tubs. Dean chafed under the terrible silence of the place. Everywhere that menacing printed order was displayed. When he emerged from the bath, to his surprise his own clothes had been replaced by a striped suit--the convict’s garb, such as the prisoners he had seen had worn. “I won’t put them on!” he almost shrieked. “I must talk, if you kill me. I am no convict--no prisoner!” His companion was as implacable as stone. He pointed once again to the clothes. There was a terrible shadow of severity in his face that awed Dean. He shuddered as at last he donned the coarse garments. “For pity’s sake!” he gasped, “let me see the warden--anybody I can talk to. I shall go crazy if you don’t. It is all a mistake--I am no prisoner!” The man handed Dean the iron check and pointed to a door. Dean hastened to it, opened it and came face to face with a man whose bearing and garb pronounced him to be some well-fed, indifferent official of the place. “Are you the warden?” queried Dean, trembling with the emotions of the moment. The portly man scowled at Dean, glanced at the iron check, wrote something in a book, and said: “Stand erect, eyes down. You are here to listen, not to speak. Pay attention!” Poor Dean was nearly crying. He dared not speak. He decided to wait until the man had spoken. Then, he would appeal to him. The warden read several pages from a well-thumbed book. They were the rules and regulations of the reform school. Dean scarcely comprehended their import. “That’s your guide,” spoke the man finally as he closed the book. “You will find a copy in your cell. Behave yourself and you may win good-conduct time and privileges.” “One word, sir!” The warden had tapped a bell. “Well, what is it?” “I don’t understand it all, sir. I don’t know how I came here. I’m an honest, respectable boy----” “Lower tier, north gallery!” That was all the warden said. To him the frantic, incoherent words of Dean Mercer were but a repetition of those of every new, frightened inmate of the place. “Oh, sir, please listen to me!” “Boy, if you want the dark cell again, keep on breaking the rules,” interrupted the warden sternly. Blinded with tears, staggering, anguished, Dean Mercer followed the convict the warden had summoned. They went out into a large yard. Crossing it to a sombre-looking cell house, a man with a cane, who was watching a band of about twenty boys picking oakum, halted the convict. “New prisoner?” he asked shortly. “Yes, sir.” “Let him work here then. We’re two short from sickness.” Just then the prison noon bell rang. Dean Mercer looked up at the man with the cane. “Can I speak to you, sir?” “What do you want?” “I wish to send word----” “Impossible.” “Or write a letter----”