I presume you are wondering if I have been to the bungaloo since your departure. No, sir! My promise will hold good. In the past I have formed good resolutions, not one but many. Most of them died in their infancy; others lived long enough to make me unhappy. This time, though, circumstances are different, and I sincerely hope that confidence placed in me will not have been wasted. Number One, did you ever have the blues--real, dark, deep indigo, bluey blues? I do frequently, and the cause I attribute to my ear. There is a continual buzzing, with short, shooting pains; and the doctors have informed me there is no cure. I receive a syringe of twenty-five per cent. alcohol daily, that gives relief for the time being. Well, Thanksgiving is near at hand; so I ought to be thankful that my other ear is not performing like a motor in need of oil. Believe me, I am. Mr. Peacock called Sunday (8th) and we had an agreeable talk. He seemed a very pleasant gentleman, and warned me to walk a chalk line, so you see I dare not go to jail. As you once upon a time were in prison, to a certain extent, you realize what pleasures a visit brings. I appreciate yours, Mr. P.'s, and Mr. Rattigan's kindness very much. * * * * * I know all the boys would wish to be remembered if they knew I were writing. I didn't tell them for that would mean fifty sheets of paper, and I hadn't the nerve to ask Mr. R. for that. But I will say this: that we all want to hear, see, and talk to our own Tom Brown, even if he is an ex-convict. Don't let our English cousins keep you over there too long. Wishing you the best of everything, I am, anxiously awaiting a letter, your Jail Friend Number Two--or EDWARD R. DAVIS, No. 32--. Is it merely prejudice that makes me think that letter an exceptionally charming one? Has that boy no good in him worth developing? These letters are enough, I believe, to prove my point. I could give many more, including those from Dickinson who, united with his wife and children, is working honestly and happily at his trade, earning money to pay his obligations and justifying the Chaplain's faith in his character. But there is not space for all the letters, so I have selected only those which seem to show most clearly what they all show--the good that is in the hearts of all men, even those who have seemed to be most evil; the wonderful possibilities which lie stored up, five tiers high, in our prisons. Room must be made, however, for one short missive which I found on my desk the Sunday I came out of prison. It was anonymous and came from New York City. It reads as follows. Damn Fool! Pity you are not in for twenty years. The postmark is that of the substation in the city which is nearest to a certain political headquarters on Fourteenth Street.