He led the way along a damp and chilly stone corridor, lined with little
iron doors, which I needed no one to tell me belonged to cells, and I
followed him very readily. My previous notions of prison treatment
included the immediate ironing of the culprit to the extent of several
hundredweight, and, finding myself mistaken, my spirits rose
accordingly.

He stopped before one of the little doors near the end of the corridor,
and, opening it with a large key, ushered me into an apartment about
eight feet square.

This was my cell. The walls and ceiling were whitewashed, and the only
furniture was an iron bedstead, covered with two coarse, gray blankets.

Mr. Janks waved his keys around as if to welcome me to this abode, and
then, instead of going out and leaving me to my reflections, he leaned
up against the door and groaned once more.

"The wickedness of these boys!" he said, passing his hand through his
hair, and apparently addressing the ceiling. "Why do they ever come
here? Why did you come here?"

I hastened to explain that I did not come of my own accord, and so far
from wishing to be in jail, if he would only have the kindness to open
the door, I would promise him to make my exit, and never return.

"And so young!" continued Mr. Janks, without paying any attention to my
remarks, and still apostrophizing the ceiling. "But it's allus the way!
The younger they are, the worse they are!"

Then he launched forth into a description of the number of bad boys who
had passed through his hands, and endeavored to draw a parallel between
their case and mine, but, I think, with poor success.

He kept up this monologue for at least ten minutes, while I sat on the
couch and listened with anything but pleasurable emotions.

At the end of that time he came to a sudden stop, and went out slowly,
groaning dismally.

When the sound of his footsteps had died away down the corridor,
I surrendered myself to my thoughts. And how I did think!

What had been all my trouble compared to this? _In prison!_ The thought
was horrifying!

I felt now that I would not dare return home--for who would not shrink
from me as a malefactor?

Besides, I was extremely dubious as to my impending fate. I was not
afraid of being convicted of larceny, unless Mary Jane Robinson perjured
herself; but I was desperately afraid of Mr. Barron.

I knew he took the Lancaster Examiner, and should he see my name in it,
I felt certain he would pounce down