The unpleasantness at wearing the formless garments of these unfortunates made us all wince. But the government’s calculation aroused our hot indignation. We were not convicted until Tuesday and our prison garments were ready Monday! “You must not speak against the President,” said the servile wardress, when she discovered we were telling our story to the inmates. “You know you will be thrashed if you say anything more about the President; and don’t forget you’re on Government property and may be arrested for treason if it happens again.” We doubted the seriousness of this threat of thrashing until one of the girls confided to us that such outrages happened often. We afterward obtained proof of these brutalities.[1] [1] See affidavit of Mrs. Bovee, page 144. “Old Whittaker beat up that girl over there just last week and put her in the ‘booby’ house on bread and water for five days.” “What did she do?” I asked. “Oh, she an’ another girl got to scrapping in the blackberry patch and she didn’t pick enough berries. .” “All put up your work, girls, and get in line.” This from the wardress, who sped up the work in the sewing room. It was lunch time, and though we were all hungry we dreaded going to the silence and the food in that gray dining room with the vile odors. We were counted again as we filed out, carrying our heavy chairs with us as is the workhouse custom. “Do they do this all the time?” I asked. It seemed as though needless energy was being spent counting and recounting our little group. “Wouldn’t do anybody any good to try to get away from here,” said one of the white girls. “Too many bloodhounds!” “Bloodhounds!” I asked in amazement, for after all these women were not criminals but merely misdemeanants. “Oh, yes. Just a little while ago, three men tried to get away and they turned bloodhounds after them and shot them dead-and they weren’t bad men either.” When our untasted supper was over that night we were ordered into the square, bare-walled “recreation” room, where we and the other prisoners sat, and sat, and sat, our chairs against the walls, a dreary sight indeed, waiting for the fortyfive minutes before bedtime to pass. The sight of two negro girl prisoners combing out each other’s lice and dressing their kinky hair in such a way as to discourage permanently a return of the vermin did not produce in us exactly a feeling of “recreation.” But we tried to sing. The negroes joined in, too, and soon outsang us, with their plaintive melodies and hymns. Then back to our cells and another attempt to sleep. A new ordeal the next morning! Another of the numberless “pedigrees” is to be taken. One by one we were called to the warden’s office. “Were your father or mother ever insane?” “Are you a confirmed drunkard, chronic or moderate drinker?” “Do you smoke or chew or use tobacco in any form?” “Married or single?” “Single.” “How many children?” “None.” “What religion do you profess?” “Christian.”