Having finished their duties, the trusty departs and the Captain follows; after extinguishing the electric light. The iron door turns on its hinges and is slammed shut; the key grates in the lock. Standing up, with my hands and face close to the iron bars of the grated door, I can catch a glimpse of daylight at either end of the dungeon where the windows let in a small portion of the bright sunlight I left outside. I hear the Captain's heavy footfalls retreating along the stone passage toward his office; then, muffled by the distance and the heavy iron door already closed, the outer door clangs faintly to, and is more faintly locked. Then a moment of deepest quiet. Only the incessant whirr, whirr, whirr, of the dynamo through the opposite wall; and that seems not so much like a noise as like a throbbing of the blood at my temples. The rest is silence. The sound of a voice breaks the stillness. "Number One! Hello, Number One!" As my cell is nearest the door, doubtless I am Number One. "Hello!" I rejoin. "Where do you come from?" "From the basket-shop." "Say! Is that guy, Tom Osborne, workin' there yet?" Gathering my wits together so as not to be taken unawares, I answer slowly, "Yes, he's working yet." Then there comes a hearty, "Well, say! He's all right, ain't he? What's he doin' now?" I hesitate for an instant as to how to answer this, but determine that frankness is the best course. "He's talking to you." "What!" "He's talking to you." "Gee! You don't mean to say that you're the guy?" "Well, I'm Tom Brown; it's pretty much the same thing, you know." "Well, say, Tom! You're a corker! I can't believe it's you!" Here a gentle voice breaks in. "Yes, I guess it is all right. I thought I recognized his voice." "Yes, I'm the fellow you mean," is my reassuring statement. I feel that things are opening well. "Well, Tom! I'm Number Four, and that other fellow's Number Two. But, say, what're you in for?" "I refused to work." "Gee! Did you? How did you do it?" So I tell the story again, of my complaint regarding our bad working material and the condition of my hands. Regarding the latter my statements, although somewhat exaggerated, are not so very far from the truth. As I mention my hands it occurs to me that they feel very disagreeably sticky. They must continue in that condition, however, for some time, for I can't wash them until I am out of this place. My invisible audience listens apparently with interest to my story; and Number Four sums up his impressions with another enthusiastic, "Well, Tom, you're all right!" which seems to be his highest form of encomium. Presently I take up some questioning on my own account. "Hello, Number Four!" I begin. A voice from the dim and fading daylight of the vault outside answers, "Hello, Tom!" "How many fellows are there in here?"