Then a series of measurements from top to toe is taken, and every possible means of identification noted and registered: color of hair and eyes; shape of head; characteristics of eyes, nose, mouth; the scar received at football thirty-four years ago, which I supposed was successfully concealed by my right eyebrow; the minute check on the left ear from a forgotten frostbite; the almost imperceptible bit of smooth skin on the back of my right hand, where a small lump was once removed by electricity; no blemish or defect is over-looked--until I begin to feel like a sort of monstrosity. I derive some satisfaction, however, from the fact that my business-like inquisitor is quite at a loss to account for six peculiar scars upon my upper left arm, familiar to Harvard men of my generation. It is some satisfaction to know that my Alma Mater has not sent many of her sons to take a post-graduate course in this institution. So complete and searching have been the examination and record for identification that I have a sort of discouraged feeling about the future. It occurs to me that I may be cramped in a choice of further activities; and that my chance of ever gaining a good living by honest burglary has been considerably reduced, if not destroyed. I communicate this rather frivolous sentiment to the clerk who receives it grimly, and is more bored than ever. I feel properly snubbed and rebuked. Evidently a prisoner should speak only when spoken to, and certainly should not venture to joke with an official. I shall take warning and not offend again. I wonder how my measurements differ from those of the average criminal, and how much of a rough-neck my photograph will make me look. At last all preliminaries are completed; and now I am free to consider myself a full-fledged convict. The young officer who up to now has been my guide and philosopher, if not exactly a friend, conducts me down the yard once again, duly delivers me over to Captain Lamb at the basket-shop, and takes his final departure. The Captain leads me at once to a rough wooden table, about thirty feet in front of the raised platform on which he sits. Here stands a good-sized, broad-shouldered, black-haired fellow, working with his back to us as we approach. He pauses as we stop before his table. "Jack," says the Captain, "this is Thomas Brown. Thomas, this is John Murphy, who will be your working partner." "Glad to meet you, Mr. Brown," says a pleasant voice. Looking toward my partner and his outstretched hand, I decide to venture another joke. "Captain," I remark, advancing my hand cautiously, "this may be all right; but it's only fair to warn you that if this gentleman is any relative of the Boss of Tammany Hall there may be trouble." A pair of honest gray eyes light up with a smile as the owner says, "No, Mr. Brown, I'm no relation; and what's more I haven't any use for him."