On the evening of the second day the doctor came and felt the pulse in my temple. He then ordered me taken out for the night. They took the thing off and I collapsed in one corner. There was a wooden cup of water on the cell floor and I took a small mouthful only, because it would make the jacket so much worse when I was put back in it. My fear of snitching was gone now. The very ferocity of the punishment had made me a wild beast. I crawled around the cell looking for something I could use to open a vein or artery; I wanted to die. All I found was my shoes. I tried to dig a nail out of one of the heels, but only broke my finger nails. At last I loosened one of the small metal eyes where the shoe is laced and with the heel of my shoe beat it out flat on the cement floor. After rubbing the metal on the floor for an hour I got an edge on it sharp enough to open the skin but it would not cut the vein. Every time I touched the vein it jumped out from under my crude blade. The sensation was something like touching a live wire, like an electric shock. Finally I gave it up and lay down to wait for morning. I had an opium habit, but suffered so from the jacket that I forgot all about the hop—another proof to me that the habit is mostly mental. Cochrane came at eight o’clock the next morning. I denied having hop and out came the jacket. All that day I was only half conscious, dopey. I don’t think I suffered as much as on the previous day. Some time in the night they released me, and I lay on the floor in a stupor. I don’t know how long. Toward morning my mind cleared and I felt that another day would finish me. I decided I would send for Captain Murphy after they put me back in the jacket and ask him to take me down to the bank of the canal where I worked so I could dig up the hop from its plant and give it to him. I was liked by the “cons” and knew he would go with me personally, so my friends could see him triumphing over me. At the canal, instead of giving him hop I intended to throw my arms around him and drag him to the bottom, where we would both “cease from troubling.” The fourth morning Cochrane said: “You’re a damn fool; better give up your hop. You can’t finish out the day.” I waited for him to put me in. He held up the “bag” in front of me. I was sitting on the floor. “Get up,” he said. I didn’t; I couldn’t; I was too weak. With a gesture of disgust he threw the jacket out the door into the corridor. Motioning to a couple of trusty prisoners, he said: “Take him away.” They helped me to my cell and into my bunk. I lay there half dead, but victorious. My cellmate came at noon and slipped me a jolt of hop. I took it and felt better. He had not even thrown it away as I asked. “I knew you wouldn’t squawk,” he said, “so I held on to it.”