f outside the prison have the
luxuries when they get inside; and the poor fellow who has nothing can get
nothing. It seems to be a rather literal rendering of the Scripture, "To
him who hath shall be given." Certainly from him who hath not is taken
away about everything possible--his liberty, his capacity to earn money,
his family, friends, and incidentally his self-respect.

The way in which a man's family and friends are taken away seems
superlatively cruel. A prisoner gets no wages for his work except his
board, lodging, clothes, and the ridiculous cent and a half a day. In the
meantime his wife and children may be starving on the streets outside; he
is powerless to help them, and can write only one letter a month. In other
words, as a prisoner once said to me bitterly, "At just the time we need
our friends the most, they are taken away from us. We must write our one
letter a month to a wife, a mother, or some member of the family having
special claim. Our friends do not hear from us; they think we are hard and
do not care--we are criminals; so they drop us and we are forgotten."[7]

All this Landry explains or suggests; and as we grow confidential he tells
me quite frankly of his own troubles and how he comes to be here; the
mistakes he had made, his keen desire and strong intention to do better
when he goes out and to make good. "My father has stuck by me," he says;
"and now I intend to stick by him."

After about half an hour spent in the cells, from eight to eight-thirty,
we are off to work. Again the keys are turned in the locks, again the
clicking of the levers, again the hurried march along the gallery, again
my heavy shoes clump down the iron stairs, again we form in the sunny
doorway, again we march down the yard to the basket shop.

As we break ranks my partner, Murphy, comes forward with a cheerful smile.
"Well, Mr. Brown, how do you feel to-day?"

"Fine," I respond briefly, and we step to our working table.

"How did you sleep?"

"Not very well; I kept waking up all night."

"Well, don't worry. It's always like that the first night; you'll sleep
better to-night."

And with this comforting assurance we hang up our coats and caps and start
to work.

The convict instructor, Stuhlmiller, comes to our table. "Well, Brown, how
did you like bucket duty?"

"Oh, I've had to do worse things than that," I reply. "I don't know that I
should select that particular job from preference; but somebody has to d