Grant is a little anxious, feeling his responsibility to the Warden. "Are you sure you'd better do this?" he asks. "How do you feel? How are you standing it?" "Oh, it's the most interesting thing I have done yet," I answer, "and my experience would have been a failure without it. Now, don't worry. I shall last until six o'clock in the morning at any rate. But remember--not a minute later than six!" Grant promises to arrange it, and our whispered conference comes to an end. He and the other officer take their departure; again the inner door is shut and locked, the footsteps travel down the corridor, the outer door is shut and locked; and then silence, which is broken once more by the voice of Number Four, an anxious voice this time. "Has he gone?" Silence. Then Number Two's gentle tones, "I think he went with the officer. I don't hear anything in his cell. Yes, he must have gone." A sigh comes from Joe, and I think it unfair to let the matter go any farther. Some remarks might be made which would prove embarrassing. "No, boys, I haven't deserted you!" I shall not attempt to set down the words that follow. Now I truly am a prisoner; I can not possibly get myself out of this iron cage, and there is no one to let me out. There is no one except my fellow prisoners within hearing, no matter how loud I might cry for help. This at any rate is the real thing, whatever can be said of the rest of my bit. And now that all chance of escape is gone I begin to feel more than before the pressure of the horror of this place; the close confinement, the bad air, the terrible darkness, the bodily discomforts, the uncleanness, the lack of water. My throat is parched, but I dare not drink more than a sip at a time, for my one gill--what is left of it--must last until morning. And then there is the constant whirr-whirr-whirring of the dynamo next door, and the death chamber at our backs. For a while after the departure of Grant we are still talkative. There is a proposition to settle down for the night, but Joe scouts the notion. So the conversation is continued; and by way of reviving our drooping spirits Joe asks again, "Say, fellows! What would you say now to a nice, thick, juicy steak with fried potatoes?" As by this time we are all ravenously hungry and some of us well-nigh famished, what is said to Joe will not bear repetition. Then we have music. Joe sings an excellent rag-time ditty. Number Two follows with the Toreador's song from "Carmen," sung in a sweet, true, light tenor voice that shows real love and appreciation of music. I too am pressed to sing, but out of consideration for my fellow prisoners decline, endeavoring in other ways to contribute my share to the sociability of the occasion. I can at any rate be an appreciative listener.