has presented me this morning with a
small package of sugar wrapped in newspaper; but, before I have a chance
of deciding whether it is safe to transfer it from my pocket to the
oatmeal, my friend in the blue shirt, seated on my left, slides a small
yellow envelope toward me. I turn my eyes and head sufficiently to see
him. He is staring straight ahead of him, and without moving his lips or a
muscle of his face gives a low whisper, "Sugar." I turn back my head and
in a voice as low as I can manage and with my lips moving as little as
possible mutter, "Thank you." I have had my first introduction to the
motionless language of the prisoners.

The sugar makes the oatmeal palatable, and I breakfast very well on that
and the bread soaked in what milk I have left over from the porridge. I
had forgotten the rule about no bread being left on the table until my new
friend reminds me of it by pointing to my two slices and then to the
approaching waiter. I promptly toss one of my slices into that
functionary's bucket as he passes by, and go on with my breakfast. I feel
guilty in taking my neighbor's sugar, when I have some of my own in my
pocket, but reflect that mine can be saved for another occasion and shared
with him. I find myself wondering if the sugar I'm eating has been
honestly come by. Not that I suspect my blue-shirted friend of doing
anything wrong; but I am quite sure that in my present condition of mind I
should enjoy it better if I knew it had been stolen. I feel as though I
would gladly annex almost anything from the state of New York that I could
lay my hands on, provided I could do so without too much risk of getting
caught. I hope it will be considered that I am not now condoning
dishonesty; I am merely trying to explain a state of mind.

The silent meal finished, we return to our cells, where I now have a call
from my friend in the blue shirt. It seems that he is a trusty of the "box
office"; and has charge of the orders for groceries and their
distribution, and his name is Roger Landry. Each convict is allowed to
spend three dollars a month in groceries, tobacco and other luxuries--that
is if he is fortunate enough to have that amount of money to his credit.
As his wages, at one cent and a half a day--the regular rate--could only
amount to thirty-seven and a half cents a month, it is obvious that a
prisoner must have some outside resources to allow him to spend three
dollars. So the prisoners who are better of