At about half past four my partner proposes that we knock off work and clean up. By this time there is a general cessation of labor about the shop, and most of the men are sweeping up around their tables and benches. Murphy produces a broom, and informs me that when two men work together it is customary to take turns in cleaning up after work-hours. So at this hint I take the broom and soon have the work done. Then we wash up; my partner sharing with me his soap and towel. I put on my coat and cap and await further developments. Murphy, after replacing the soap and towel in his locker, comes around to my side of our workbench or table. "Say, Brown," he remarks, "I hope you won't think me imposing on you in any way, but while we work together I intend to treat you as if I had never seen or known of you before." "Thank you, Murphy," I reply, pleased at his frankness, "that is exactly the way I want to be treated." Certainly nothing could be better than the attitude of the two men with whom my work has brought me in contact. There has been not the slightest tinge of self-consciousness; no trace of servility or currying favor, absolutely nothing except Murphy's frank explanation to make me feel that they are not treating me exactly as I asked them yesterday to do--as a new man and one of themselves. After we have sat around patiently and wearily for a considerable time, the hour for return to the cell-house arrives. The Captain gives the signal to fall in. "Good night, Brown!" "Good night, Murphy!" and I take my place in the line. The Captain counts us with care while we stand rigidly before him. Then the cripples, invalids and poor old broken-down men start ahead of the main body to hobble wearily back to their cells. Meanwhile we able-bodied men of the company march over to the stands where the buckets are drying, pause for an instant, then swing up through the yard, with a tramp, tramp, tramp, that is quite exhilarating after an afternoon's work in the shop. We march straight up the yard and into the basement door of the main building where, just within the entrance, are placed some tables laden with slices of bread. Following the example of the other men, I grab a slice--some take two slices, there is apparently no restriction as to amount--and then climb the slippery iron stairs in my heavy shoes. As we go along the gallery the man just behind me whispers, "Well, Tom, how do you like it?" I turn and whisper laughingly, "All right, no kick coming," and turn into my cell. On the iron shelf outside stands my tin cup filled with a hot black liquid--whether tea or coffee I don't know. What I do know is that the odor is vicious. I hesitate about taking it into the cell. The gallery boy arriving says, "Brown, I didn't know whether you wanted tea or water, so I gave you tea."