etween the shop and the
mess-hall. As soon as I am back in my cell I remove my cap and coat and
"slick up" for dinner. Then I chat with any of the trusties that happen to
drift along to my cell. One of them brings me a book which a prisoner on
our gallery is sending to me. It is Victor Hugo's "Ninety-Three." Opening
it I find a note. The writer begins by saying that he had found the book
interesting and hoped I would, and then adds, "Some of the guards laughed
at you when you passed this morning. I know it is a hard proposition you
are up against; but say, stick it out! I only wish I could help you, and
I am voicing the sentiments of all the boys who work in the school."

Generous in him to run the risk of punishment in order to send me this
word of encouragement.

We march to dinner in the same order as at breakfast, and I find myself
again next to the blue-shirted Landry. I like his looks and his
personality. It is curious how one can get an effect of that, even under
the rigid and unnatural demeanor which the discipline engenders. There is
a dapper little chap who leads the right line of our company to whose back
I have taken a great liking; some day I hope to get acquainted with his
face.

Our dinner is mutton stew, which is really good. I had been told at the
shop in the morning what the bill of fare would be; for as one week's
dietary is exactly the same as all other weeks, you can calculate with
accuracy upon every meal. I eat my dinner with peculiar relish after our
morning struggle with the coal car.

Arrived back at the cell, Joe, the other gallery boy, stops to chat, after
he has dispensed water along the tier. "Say, Brown," he begins, "do you
know after the talk you give us up in chapel on Sunday there was some of
us didn't believe you really meant to come down and live with us. Then
they thought if you did come you'd manage to get up to the Warden's
quarters for supper and a bed. But, say, when the boys see you marchin'
down with your bucket this mornin'--they knew you meant business!"

Then the youngster puts his face up close to the bars, squints through
them admiringly, looks me all up and down from head to foot, and breaks
out with: "Gee! You're a dead game sport!"

On the whole I think that's by far the finest compliment I ever had in my
life.

CHAPTER VII

TUESDAY AFTERNOON AND EVENING

In my cell, Tuesday evening, September 30.

Laying aside my journal this noon, I don my coat and