At this there is a general howl of jovial protest; loudest of all the poor lad in Cell Two, who has had nothing but bread and water for thirty-six hours, and who, to emphasize the fact of his coming from Boston, says something humorous about beans. The way these prisoners can joke in the face of their sufferings and privations has been a continual wonder to me. It is not long before our talk turns in a new direction. The popularity of the prison officials is discussed. They all agree that the present Superintendent of Prisons is all right; that Warden Rattigan is square; and not only tends to his business but is on the level. Joe from Cell Four expresses his opinion that the treatment by the prisoners of the Warden when he first took office last summer was inexcusable. "That strike was a dirty deal," he says. I am glad to hear about this, and Joe goes on to give me some interesting details. It was not due to the poor food, he declares, although that was the supposed cause. In reality, he assures me, the strike was instigated by some of the officers who had no use for Rattigan. They spread all manner of stories against him before he was appointed, and after he took office they deliberately egged on the convict ringleaders to strike and fairly pushed the men into it. This tallies with certain inside information I had at the time of the strike so I am not indisposed to believe it. As we are still discussing these interesting matters, once more the faint sound of a key turning in a lock is heard and the opening of the outer door. This surely must be Grant. Steps come along the passage, and Joe makes a final appeal. "Say, don't go, don't go!" he whispers at the last moment. "Stick it out, Tom! Stick it out!" That settles it. I remain. Joe has won the day, or at least the night. The key turns in the inner lock and we hear the door turn on its hinges. Then the light is lighted, the grated door of my cell is again thrown open, and Grant stands there. This time I rise. "Come in here," I say, "where we can't be heard," and taking him by the arm I lead him back into the darkness of the cell. "What's the matter?" asks Grant, with a trace of some anxiety in his tone. "Nothing's the matter," I answer. "Only I'm learning such a lot down here that I ought to stay the night. There are four or five fellows in the other cells and I can't afford to miss the opportunity. Just explain to the P. K., will you? I'm afraid I was rather rude to him." Grant explodes in mirth. "Well, you did jar him a little. He telephoned up to my house while I was at supper and said, 'Please hurry down here, for I can't get that fellow out!'" I can not help laughing myself at the poor P. K.--panic-stricken because a man refused to come out of the jail. "Now let me stay the night here," I say to Grant, "and send someone for me at six o'clock to-morrow morning. But for Heaven's sake don't make it any later than six," I add.