of the levers begins
again in the distance. Every time we march to meals the clicking begins
around the corner to my left and we march to the right; every time we go
to the shop the clicking begins on my right and we march to the left. I am
beginning to catch on to these various complications. Also to learn the
etiquette of dress. When we go to breakfast we wear coats but no caps; to
the shop, both caps and coats; to dinner, neither. Waistcoats seem to
depend upon the taste and fancy of the wearer. I have worn mine, so far,
only in the evening--for warmth.

Marching to breakfast I find myself by the side of a young fellow who is
conspicuous among the prisoners by the use of a blue shirt with collar and
necktie. He is tall and good-looking, with an air of refinement which is
appealing.

I make no breaks upon the march. I shuffle my feet along the stone
corridor like the rest, as we move slowly forward; letting other companies
who have the right of way go in ahead of us. Then when our turn comes we
march more rapidly, changing to single file as we near the mess-room. As
the Captain has directed me, I fall in behind my blue-shirted companion
and have my right hand on my left breast in ample time to salute the P. K.
who, as at yesterday's dinner, stands at the entrance to the mess-hall.

Arrived at my place, which is now in the center of one of the long
shelves or tables, I find waiting for me a large dish of oatmeal porridge,
a bowl one-third full of the thinnest of skimmed milk, two thick slices of
bread, and a cup of the dark fluid we had yesterday and which is supposed
to be coffee, but which I learn is called "bootleg" by the
prisoners--presumably because old boots is the only conceivable source of
its taste and smell. Judging by the samples I've had, the hypothesis does
not seem untenable. The taste is quite as bad as the smell, as it is drunk
without milk or sugar, and there is no escape from drinking some of it, as
it is the only liquid on the table. The bread is known as "punk"--a name
not so strikingly appropriate as the other.

I can see no excuse for bad coffee; for good coffee can be made in large
quantities, as some railroad refreshment rooms can testify. Tea is a
different matter. I do not believe that good tea can be made except in
small quantities. If I were to suggest to the prison authorities, it would
be cocoa instead of tea, and coffee should be drinkable at least.

George, one of the gallery boys,