Is it imagination, or is there more friendliness than usual in the nods and smiles which greet me from the faces upturned in the corridor below, as I traverse the gallery with my heavy bucket? It was extensively questioned among the convicts, in advance of my coming, whether I would do this particular part of the prison duty. As one of them told me, it was thought I would find some way to escape it; and the fact that I did not try to escape it, but assumed it cheerfully and as a matter of course, has much impressed them. As Joe put it to me three days ago, it was proof that I "meant business," and took the thing seriously, meaning to do exactly what I said--live the actual life of a convict up to the possible limit. Bucket duty performed and while I wait in my cell for the breakfast hour, Dickinson comes running to my door. The good fellow has heard from the Chaplain that his job is ready for him and he can go out to-morrow. "And I can never be grateful enough to you, sir," he says with much feeling. "I shall never forget what you and the Chaplain have done for me; and I assure you you will never regret it, for I intend to go straight and show you that I mean every word I say." "I'm sure you do; and I'm sure you will go straight," is my comment. "But how about your clothes? Have you anything but the prison suit you get on your discharge?" "No, nothing." "Well, but you can't go to work outside in those. People will spot you as an ex-con at once. Don't you want me to fix it so that you can get a decent suit?" "Oh, if you only would!" is his heartfelt exclamation. "And, say, Mr. Osborne--pardon me--I mean Mr. Brown, if you'll please consider them not as a gift, if you'll let me have the money as a loan, I shall be greatly obliged. And I'll pay it back just as soon as I possibly can." So we make arrangements by which he can be aided in this way, and I sit down to write a note relative to the matter, but am interrupted by breakfast. As we march to breakfast I try my hand, or rather my throat, at motionless conversation. Wishing to get word to one of the prisoners to procure a certain definite piece of information about the Wednesday evening incident, I seize upon a favorable moment to communicate with Roger Landry, who is marching ahead of me. In the faintest whisper and without moving my lips, I say: "Cun to ny cell a'ter dreak'ast." The ghost of a nod shows that he has heard and understood, and so we march in to our morning meal. This time it is again hash, with the usual accompaniments--the rather sour bread and nasty coffee. (Whatever else changes, the bootleg remains the same.) The hash is better than that which we had for breakfast on--Wednesday, was it? I place aside only one piece of bone and one of gristle.