"Six of us, now you've come. That fellow who spoke a while ago is in Two, next to you. There's a fellow in Three, but he's got a bad cold so he can't talk very well. Then there's my partner in Five; and a big fellow in Eight, but he don't say much. Quite a nice party, you see, Tom. Glad you've come to join us. Say! how long are you goin' to be here?" "I don't know. There was some talk of letting me out to-night if I would promise to behave myself." Then the pleasant voice of Number Two breaks in again. "Well, if they don't let you out to-night, you're good till Monday, because they never let us out of here on Sunday." I shall not attempt to reproduce all the conversation of this memorable night. It was about four o'clock in the afternoon when I entered the dark cell. During the next three hours, as I sat on the floor close to the door of my iron cage, our talk covered a wide range of topics from grave to gay. We touched upon almost every subject, from prison fare and the ethics of the jail to the comparative merits of various trans-Atlantic liners. We discussed politics--New York City, state and national; Prison Reform, from various angles; the character and conduct of celebrities we had seen or known--both in and out of prison; and other things too numerous to mention. I must confess that, on the whole, more intelligent, instructive, and entertaining conversation it has seldom been my lot to enjoy. I soon came to the conclusion that under favorable conditions the jail was decidedly the most sociable place in prison. The brunt of the talk fell upon Number Four, Number Two and myself; with occasional remarks from Number Five. Number Three was not in condition to speak, as will be seen later, and he and Number Eight contributed only one remark apiece during the entire night. The leader of the party was Number Four, and I hate to think what we should have done without him. So much for the lighter side of the matter. But all the time our conversation was going on, more and more the influence of the place kept closing in upon me; more and more I found myself getting into a state of helpless anger against the Prison System, the men who have been responsible for its continuance, and the stupid indifference of society at large in permitting it. The handkerchief performance seemed a fair example of the unreasoning, futile, incredible imbecility of the whole theory and practice. The mention of the handkerchief reminds me of one of Number Four's early remarks. "Hey, Tom, did you know a fellow committed suicide in your cell once?"