“Yes, sir.” “You looked up just now?” Dean looked guilty. “Next offence--the solitary.” That was dreadful. All that day, when not working, the convicts were required to fold their arms and sit with eyes cast down on the ground. That night Dean was glad to get to his cell. He was tired, and slept well, and he began to count the days intervening before letter day. Then he would write to his friends and tell them of his strange imprisonment. Ah! they would soon come to the rescue. He would be free, and his enemies discovered and punished, as soon as Judge Oglesby or Lawyer Montague knew of his whereabouts. The next day Dean was removed to a new field of usefulness. He welcomed the change gladly, for the occupation was more varied and congenial. There was a large garden fenced in near the warden’s house, and here he and four other boys were set at work weeding, pruning and transplanting. There was no guard here. Only the sentinel on the wall above kept an occasional watch over them. Dean thrilled, as about noon the first friendly voice he had heard since entering those gloomy walls fell on his ears. A boy near him, while pretending to be tying up a rose-bush, spoke in a low tone to Dean. “You’re the new one!” he whispered. “Yes.” “Thought so. 301?” “That’s my number.” “What are you in for?” “I don’t know.” “Oh! pshaw.” “I don’t; they call it larceny or burglary, but I didn’t steal anything, or break into anybody’s house.” “Didn’t larce?” chuckled the boy. “No, I didn’t!” “Nor burgle?” “I don’t know how.” “Come off the perch! What are you giving me? You look a regular tough one.” This conversation, slangy and careless, disheartened Dean. His next prison acquaintance struck him more favorably. He proved to be a pale-faced, sad-looking boy, who whispered to Dean as the guard walked down the wall, and they were unobserved. “Ain’t you cell 44?” “I think so,” responded Dean. “I thought so. Are you onto the ventilator?” “The ventilator?” asked Dean in surprise. “What about the ventilator?” “It’s up in the corner. You can take it out and talk to the boy in the next cell. I used to have that cell, and I tell you it was mighty fine to be able to say a word or two without being sent to solitary.” “Who’s in the next cell?” asked Dean. “Don’t know. He’s a new one. Escaped from some institution, and was caught and brought here.” “How do you work the ventilator?” “It lifts out. Hist! The guard is watching us.” After supper that night Dean sat on his bunk until the guard had passed. Then he carefully lifted out the ventilator and peered into the tin aperture. “Hist!” he whispered. There was no response, and again he called, this time a trifle louder. Then he heard a slight sound in the next cell, and a low voice asked: “What is it? Who calls?” “Take out your ventilator,” said Dean, “and then we can talk.”