Arrived at my place, which is now in the center of one of the long shelves or tables, I find waiting for me a large dish of oatmeal porridge, a bowl one-third full of the thinnest of skimmed milk, two thick slices of bread, and a cup of the dark fluid we had yesterday and which is supposed to be coffee, but which I learn is called "bootleg" by the prisoners--presumably because old boots is the only conceivable source of its taste and smell. Judging by the samples I've had, the hypothesis does not seem untenable. The taste is quite as bad as the smell, as it is drunk without milk or sugar, and there is no escape from drinking some of it, as it is the only liquid on the table. The bread is known as "punk"--a name not so strikingly appropriate as the other. I can see no excuse for bad coffee; for good coffee can be made in large quantities, as some railroad refreshment rooms can testify. Tea is a different matter. I do not believe that good tea can be made except in small quantities. If I were to suggest to the prison authorities, it would be cocoa instead of tea, and coffee should be drinkable at least. George, one of the gallery boys, has presented me this morning with a small package of sugar wrapped in newspaper; but, before I have a chance of deciding whether it is safe to transfer it from my pocket to the oatmeal, my friend in the blue shirt, seated on my left, slides a small yellow envelope toward me. I turn my eyes and head sufficiently to see him. He is staring straight ahead of him, and without moving his lips or a muscle of his face gives a low whisper, "Sugar." I turn back my head and in a voice as low as I can manage and with my lips moving as little as possible mutter, "Thank you." I have had my first introduction to the motionless language of the prisoners. The sugar makes the oatmeal palatable, and I breakfast very well on that and the bread soaked in what milk I have left over from the porridge. I had forgotten the rule about no bread being left on the table until my new friend reminds me of it by pointing to my two slices and then to the approaching waiter. I promptly toss one of my slices into that functionary's bucket as he passes by, and go on with my breakfast. I feel guilty in taking my neighbor's sugar, when I have some of my own in my pocket, but reflect that mine can be saved for another occasion and shared with him. I find myself wondering if the sugar I'm eating has been honestly come by. Not that I suspect my blue-shirted friend of doing anything wrong; but I am quite sure that in my present condition of mind I should enjoy it better if I knew it had been stolen. I feel as though I would gladly annex almost anything from the state of New York that I could lay my hands on, provided I could do so without too much risk of getting caught. I hope it will be considered that I am not now condoning dishonesty; I am merely trying to explain a state of mind.