In the meantime, the members of the coal gang, returning from work to their cells in the south wing, pass by the door and, looking in, see me awaiting my doom. There is deep surprise on the faces of most of them. The young negro who offered me his mittens, the day we moved the coal cars--Tuesday morning, I think it was, but it seems a long time ago--gives me a cheering nod as he begins to climb the stairs. Then Captain Martin, noticing the attention I am attracting, shuts the door. But it is too late. Undoubtedly the wireless has flashed the message, "Tom Brown's pinched," into every nook and corner of the prison by this time. At last the P. K. makes his appearance. He takes his seat with an assumption of great dignity in an arm chair; and I rise and stand silently before him. He examines at leisure the yellow slip of paper which Captain Martin has handed to him, and clears his throat. "Thomas Brown," he begins, "you are reported for refusing to work"; and he looks up interrogatively. "Yes, sir." "What have you to say for yourself?" "Well, sir, the rattan has been so stiff and rotten that we couldn't do good work, sir; and you can see for yourself that my fingers are getting swollen and blistered." "You should have made a complaint to the Captain." "So we did, sir; but it didn't make any difference. So I just told him that I wouldn't work any more." There is a moment's pause. "Well, Brown, this is a very serious offense--refusing to work; and, if you persist in it, I fear you will have to be punished." "I can't help that, sir." "Do you still refuse to work?" "Yes, sir. I shall not work under existing conditions in the shop." "Well, Brown; I'm very sorry to punish you; but I have to obey the orders laid down in such cases by those in higher authority than I am. Captain Martin, you will take charge of this man." The P. K. takes his departure. Captain Martin leisurely unhooks a large key from a locker behind his chair and saying briefly: "In here, Brown," opens a solid iron door in the wall. We are in the passage which leads to the death chamber; that terrible spot where those who are adjudged guilty by Society of coldly calculated and brutal murder are by coldly calculated and brutal murder put to death by Society. As if one crime of such nature done by a single man, acting individually, can be expiated by a similar crime done by all men, acting collectively! We traverse the passage, up to the very door of the death chamber. Here is another iron door on the right. This is unlocked and opened; and we enter the jail. * * * * * It may be well, before beginning the next chapter, to explain just what the jail is like.