Strangely enough, I didn’t will to do it then and there. It seemed enough to know and feel I could do it if I wanted to. No use making resolutions until my sentence of two years was in. I would wait and see what that brought forth. The same train that I was arrested on, in charge of the conductor I gave the bill to, carried me to the prison at New Westminster. My Scotch jailer loaded me with irons and handcuffed me to a seat to make sure of me and he delivered me safely. At the town of New Westminster I looked about me with interest; it was my birthplace. My parents were married in the United States, but spent the first year of their married life in British Columbia, where my father had some small business interests. He was a British subject and never took the trouble to become an American. That left me a subject of Great Britain, which I still am. Like ninety per cent of the men arrested for felonies I had given a fictitious name and birthplace. My jailer called me a “damned Yank” because I registered at his jail as an American. At the prison a more complete biographical sketch was demanded of me, with the result that just so much more fiction found its way into the prison statistics. I was bathed, shaved, uniformed, measured, weighed, photographed, questioned at great length, and at last put in a cell by myself. I was notified that I would get fifteen lashes next day and that the remainder would be “laid on” one week before my sentence expired. I was further told very distinctly that by good conduct I could greatly soften the severity of the last installment, but that the first would be administered as the law provided. Prisoners passing my cell looked in. Some gave me glances of sympathy, others grinned. One, a big, tough-looking gorilla, out of the British Navy, stopped and taunted me gleefully. “Oh, aye, Yank, I reckon an’ calculate as ’ow you’ll get a fawncy tampin’ in the mornin’.” I abused both him and his native language. The convict librarian came along with his catalogue. I selected a book and he got it for me immediately. My cell was furnished with an iron bed, a small table, a bookshelf, a three-legged wooden stool, and a galvanized iron bucket. On the bed, folded, were a heavy, clean pair of blankets and two sheets. On top of the folded blankets was a straw pillow in a clean slip. Later on a trusty brought me a gallon bucket of water, a tin cup, a small wooden vessel to wash in, and a clean towel. Every movable article in the cell had my prison number on it, and I kept them till the day of my discharge. On the wall was a card of “Rules and Regulations for the Guidance of Prisoners.” My first act was to read the rules. This was prompted by curiosity to learn just what I was up against, rather than a desire to learn and obey. I sat on my stool and tried to read, but my mind was on the morning. Every hour of the long night I woke up with the sting of the lash on my back.