And now comes a weird episode of this strange night's experience. What the hour is I can only guess; but, having heard the distant sounds of the nine o'clock train going west, and the nine-fifty going east, I think it must be in the neighborhood of half past ten. Lying on the hard floor I am feeling not sleepy, but very tired--drowsy from sheer mental exhaustion. I hear my name called again, asking if I am still awake, but I do not answer, for I hardly know whether I am or not. Suddenly a wail comes from the next cell, "Oh, my God! I've tipped over my water!" For an instant I feel as if I must make an attempt to batter down the iron wall between us. I have been hoarding my own water; let me share it with that poor sick boy. But the next thought brings me to my senses. I am powerless. I can only listen to the poor fellow's groans, while tears of rage and sympathy are wiped from my eyes on the sleeve of my soiled and ragged shirt. "How did it happen?" I hear Joe ask. "Oh, I just turned over and stretched my legs out and kicked the can over. And now--I can't get any water until to-morrow morning! Oh, what in Hell shall I do?" The speaker's voice dies away into inarticulate moaning. Quietly I reach over for my own precious can of water and place it securely in a corner--far removed from any probable activities of my feet. Then presently as I lie quietly, awake and listening, I become aware of a terrible thing. I hear Number Two talking to himself and then calling out to Joe, "When he comes in here to-morrow morning, I'll just--I'll--I'll throw my bucket at his head!" and I realize that he is talking of an assault upon the keeper. Then he begins to mutter wild nothings to himself. Gradually there dawns upon me a hideous thought--the poor lad is going out of his mind. What shall I do? What can I do? What can anyone do? If we could only get some water to him! But the iron cage is solid on all sides. If we could only arouse the keeper! But there is no possible way to make anyone hear. We could all scream our lungs out and no one would come. We might all go mad and die in our cells and no one would come. But if I am helpless, not so Number Four. I soon hear Joe beginning to talk with the boy; and I perceive that Joe also has realized the situation, and with admirable patience and tact is applying the remedy. Never have I witnessed a finer act of Christian charity toward suffering humanity, never more skilful treatment of a sick and nervous fellow-creature. The first thing an intelligent doctor would advise in such a case is that the patient should confide in a sympathetic friend, air his grievance, get it out of his system, let the dangerous gases escape. A more sympathetic friend than Joe one could not find. Bit by bit he draws Number Two's story from him and encourages him to vent his anger at the prison officials and their whole infernal system, and in fact at all things and persons related to his present situation.