"At this point in the service," he says, "we are to have something of a departure from the usual order of exercises. Last Sunday you listened to an address which the Honorable Thomas Mott Osborne came here to give you. To-day we are going to invite someone from your midst to speak." The Chaplain pauses, then clears his throat and says, "We have with us here to-day a man who calls himself Thomas Brown." With a startling suddenness that seems to threaten the roof comes a terrific explosion of hand-clapping, sounding, as a visitor afterwards described it, like a million of fire crackers. I feel my backbone tingling from end to end. At the same time I have an almost irresistible desire to get away somewhere and hide myself from all those eyes. The Chaplain continues: "His number is 33,333x." For some reason or other this excites the sense of humor which lies so near the surface here, and loud laughter interrupts the speaker. "I will ask Thomas Brown to come to the platform." With my hands on the back of the bench in front, I pull myself up onto my feet; and when the men see me rise their frantic hand-clapping begins again. As I leave my seat and gain the central aisle, the whole room seems to rock back and forth. I walk to the front and mount the platform. As I do so, the Chaplain, the singers and others sitting there rise and join in the applause. I am absurdly, but momentarily, conscious of my prison clothes--the rough cotton shirt, gray trousers and heavy shoes, as I bow to the people on the stage and then face the audience. The applause subsides and every face turns towards me expectantly. Oh, for the gift of the tongues of men and of angels! What an opportunity lies here before me! And I feel helpless to take advantage of it. As I stand for a moment looking over the large audience, feeling unable to make a start, my attention is arrested by the face of one of my gray brothers. He is an old man, I do not know him, I am not conscious of ever having seen him before, but the tears are rolling down his cheeks as he sits looking up at me. Then as if a cloud were lifted from my spirit, I suddenly understand what it all means. These men are not seeing me, they are looking at Tom Brown--the embodied spirit of the world's sympathy. They have felt the sternness of society--the rigor of its law, the iron hand of its discipline. But now at this moment many of these men are realizing for the first time that outside the walls are those who care.