It must be at about half-past eleven that a certain air of restlessness pervading the shop shows that dinner time is approaching. Murphy goes for his soap and towel. "Come on, Brown, and wash up." "I'm sorry, I forgot and left my soap and towel in my cell." "Well, never mind, come and use mine." So, raising my hand for the Captain's permission to leave my place, I join Murphy at the sink, and again we use his soap and towel in common. My partner's treatment of me is certainly very satisfactory; there is just enough of an air of protection suitable for a man who knows the ropes to show toward his partner who does not, combined with an open-hearted deference to an older man of wider experience that somehow is extraordinarily pleasant. Before going back to the cell-house we march first to the place where we left the buckets this morning before breakfast. Each man secures his own bucket, which is marked with the number of his cell; then we go swinging up the yard, break ranks at the side door of the north wing, up the stairs, traverse the long gallery, and so to my cell around the corner. It begins to have a certain homelike association; but I do dislike having to close the grated door and lock myself in every time. The gallery boy has been most attentive. I find a rack for my towels and a mirror added to the cell equipment; also he has promised me a better electric light bulb. There are two gallery boys, I find; one is George, the other is Joe. George is Captain Lamb's trusty, and serves in the shop as well as the gallery. He has been the one who has added my new furnishings. Joe I see only when I am in my cell; and I do not know where he works. He brings me water and has been most genial. There seems to be about half an hour at noon between the shop and the mess-hall. As soon as I am back in my cell I remove my cap and coat and "slick up" for dinner. Then I chat with any of the trusties that happen to drift along to my cell. One of them brings me a book which a prisoner on our gallery is sending to me. It is Victor Hugo's "Ninety-Three." Opening it I find a note. The writer begins by saying that he had found the book interesting and hoped I would, and then adds, "Some of the guards laughed at you when you passed this morning. I know it is a hard proposition you are up against; but say, stick it out! I only wish I could help you, and I am voicing the sentiments of all the boys who work in the school." Generous in him to run the risk of punishment in order to send me this word of encouragement. We march to dinner in the same order as at breakfast, and I find myself again next to the blue-shirted Landry. I like his looks and his personality. It is curious how one can get an effect of that, even under the rigid and unnatural demeanor which the discipline engenders. There is a dapper little chap who leads the right line of our company to whose back I have taken a great liking; some day I hope to get acquainted with his face.