“’Gainst rules. Letter day in three weeks. Form ranks. March to your cells. Number 301, no dallying there, or we’ll put you in the solitary.” A moan of anguish parted Dean Mercer’s lips, and then, like one doomed, he followed the prisoners with leaden steps--a convict. CHAPTER XVI. HELPLESS AND HOPELESS. The arm of the law is strong--it crushes hope out of a man’s life sometimes, in the worst class of prisons. In a reform school it deals even more strictly than in a penitentiary, for here boyish shrewdness is feared fully as much as more matured plotting. The institution in which Dean Mercer found himself to be a prisoner was noted for its severe regime. Once its doors closed on a convict the warden claimed that by the legalized act he became dead to the outside world. Until his term expired he was entombed alive, and the four solid granite walls that encompassed the place shut him in to all the world he was to know until released. They were used to protestations, threats, misrepresentations at the place, and even had Dean told his entire story no one would have believed him. “I am innocent,” a prisoner would say. “Ah! indeed?” “Unjustly sent here.” “Sorry; but we are not a court of inquiry. We don’t try your case.” “The judge was bribed to send me here.” “Can’t help it. You’re here. Our duty is to see that you stay here until your term expires.” And that ended it. Or---- “Can I write a letter to friends?” “On letter day.” “It is important.” “On letter day.” And that ended it, too. The first night Dean Mercer slept in the narrow, confined cell to which he was apportioned, he thought he would go mad with anxiety. He had always led a free, roving life. Imprisonment was torture. Worst of all, he was unjustly incarcerated, and he saw that he was unable to send word to friends. He now knew for a certainty that he was the victim of a plot, and the possible object and results tormented him. He chafed and wept, and the grim, silent walls seemed to mock his misery. Toward morning he slept a few brief moments, and, wearied and depressed, he heard the bell ring to announce that a new day of work had begun. “Hold your cell door when locking, push it open at the signal,” sternly ordered a guard to Dean. The convicts, some six hundred of them, were marched to a room with long tables. As they passed them by, each boy would seize a large cup containing coffee, and as much bread as he cared for. Then, returning to their cells, they would dispatch this rude breakfast. Half an hour later they formed in line, and were marched to the different shops. Dean was taken with a gang of seventy to the oakum sheds. Here a guard with a heavy cane kept a cat-like watch over the boys under his charge. Dean did as he saw the others do, and worked as a welcome deviation from monotony, to occupy his mind. Finally some visitors passed by. Dean chanced to glance at them as they passed on. “Number 301,” spoke the guard, sternly.