"Thank you," I rejoin, "but I think I'll take water." So he brings back my tin cup filled with a liquid which if mild is comparatively harmless, and at least does not smell to heaven. I enter my cell, which is shut and locked. After a light breakfast, a lighter dinner, and the afternoon's work, I feel ravenously hungry--so hungry that the bread and water actually taste rather good, even if the bread is sour. To my surprise I make away with the whole slice, dipping each mouthful into the water and eating as I write; for I have at once taken up this journal to chronicle the events of the afternoon while they are still in mind. I wonder what those greedy children at home will have for dinner to-night. Or whether they will think of this poor, hungry prisoner, eating his lonely bread and water. This morning my eldest remarked cheerfully, "Well, of course we can telephone you any time." How little does he realize the reality. We used to laugh when in "Pinafore" they sang: "He'll hear no tone Of the maiden he loves so well; No telephone Communicates with his cell." I reminded the young man of those lines this morning. No, I fear there are few of us who reflect very much upon what is remote from our direct line of vision. But there will be at least one of us who will do considerable reflecting--after this experience. I certainly do feel hungry! * * * * * As a supplement to the foregoing, our friends, A and B, have some further interesting passages: A: About the first thing an apprentice learns here is the military step; so a few of us watched the company to which Tom was assigned as they passed through the yard from the mess-hall to the shop. As Tom marched by, it became evident from his brisk step that he either learned it at a military academy or had served time in another "institution."[5] The routine of prison life, which possesses its good, bad and indifferent parts, can hardly be described here. Suffice to say Tom adhered to it for an entire week. This is what B has to say: Tom Brown's bed was brought upon the third gallery, cell 55, N.W.; and then in less than fifteen minutes it was changed again, taken down to cell 15, N.N.W. Well, this made the gallery man on the third feel a little blue, for he thought he would like to have Tom on his gallery; and we began to kid him regarding his tough luck. Well, to make this long story short, the gallery men had their own troubles. Every second man wanted us to drop a note in Tom Brown's cell. But the stools watched; and me, for one, would take no chance. If he got all the notes that was meant for him he would have no room for his bed in his cell. Well, when he left the cell house that day, after dinner, when he got in line with the rest of the cons he marched down the yard like a major. And make out the cons didn't feel good! And make out the keepers didn't feel blue!