The fast did not make me ill at this time, only weak. The second day there was slight nausea and headache; the third day, fever and dizziness; the fever remained, causing very dry, peeling skin and swollen lips. By the third day, I was rather nervous—there were no other manifestations except increasing weakness and aphasia. I could remember no names, and it was quite impossible to read. We were summoned so often and so suddenly from our rooms to see Whittaker, or to have the rooms changed—we were in the same room scarcely two consecutive nights—that one was never sure when she would be searched and when the few remaining treasures would be taken from us, so I hid stubs of pencils in my pillow, ripping the ticking with a hairpin, and one pencil in the hem of the shade. The dimes and nickels for the trusty I placed in a row over the sill of the door, paper behind the steam radiator pipes. It was difficult to find places to secrete anything, for the only furniture in the room was a single iron bed and one chair. Notes to one another are passed by tapping furtively on the steampipe running through the walls; then, when the answer comes, passing the note along the pipe. Everything is conducive to concealment. The second day our writing materials were asked for (I did not give up those I had hidden). Then we were summoned to Whittaker—each of the hunger-strikers. (There were now seventeen of us.) He had a stenographer with him. He asked my name; then, “Are you comfortable?” His manner was quite changed; he was as civil as he could be. I answered him with the little formula, “I demand the right to be treated as a political prisoner. I am now treated as a common criminal.” He: If you have steak and vegetables, will you go to the Workhouse and obey rules? I: I will not. He: If you will promise not to picket any more and to leave Washington soon, I will let you go without paying any fine and I’ll take you to Washington in my own automobile. I: I will not promise this. He: What is it you want? I: The right to keep my own clothes, to have nourishing food permanently, which will not be taken away and given back at your will, the right to send and receive mail, and above all, the right to see counsel and have fresh air exercise. He: If I grant you all these things, will you go to the Workhouse and work? I: I will not. He: Are the matrons and interns kind to you? I: Yes. He: What food is left in your room? I: Chiefly bread and milk, once bouillon and toast. He: Anything else? I: No. He: Have you any request? I: That I receive the rights due me—those of a political prisoner.