At dinner we have pork and beans, the beans not at all bad. We also have tea instead of coffee. I can make out but very little difference in these two beverages. I should say they must both be prepared in some such apparatus as is described by the boy in "Mugby Junction": "A metallic object that's at times the tea-urn and at times the soup-tureen, according to the nature of the last twang imparted to its contents which are the same groundwork." After dinner I have a long talk with Roger Landry. He grows confidential, telling much about himself--completing the story, part of which he gave me yesterday. It interests me greatly. And it is just this vital human element that is making my experiment so much more absorbing than I had expected. At the usual time we march back to the shop, where I have two new experiences. The first is a glimpse of the school. I am working away steadily with Jack when an officer suddenly appears at my elbow. "Is this Thomas Brown?" "Yes, sir." "The Professor wants to see you at the school." Meekly putting on my cap and coat, I follow the keeper out of the shop. At least I prepare to follow--I wait for him to lead the way, but he motions me to go ahead of him. Then I realize that an officer escorting a convict always walks just behind, where he can keep a watchful eye on every move of his charge. The school is only a few steps away, in fact in the second story of the very building of which our shop occupies the ground floor. I ascend the stairs, and passing through a hall find myself in the principal's office. Here I am told to wait until the Professor is at leisure. I wait a long time. When he arrives he gives me a single sheet of paper, and tells me to write a composition on the subject of My Education. I sit down and quickly fill two pages with a succinct account of my stay at different institutions of learning, ending with my graduation from the university. Then I simply add that, while this has been the end of my schooling, I hope my education is still going on. The Professor having left the room again while I am writing, I have another considerable wait. The school appears to be much larger and more important than when I saw it last, some years ago. I should like to see more of it. After a while the Professor returns and reads over my paper. His only comment is one regarding my university degree. The Chaplain has already told me that there are twenty college graduates confined in prison here, but I am pleased to have the Professor add the information that I am the only Harvard graduate in the institution. I repress the inevitable impulse to say, "I suppose the others come from Yale," and simply express gratification at what the Professor has told me. I have already decided to reserve all jokes for my comrades. "That is all, Brown." "Thank you, sir."