my back to the door
again. The officer, who has been walking up and down his elevated perch,
keeping close watch of our heads while we bathed, counts us all carefully
when the space in front of every man's door is occupied. We then are
marched back to the shop, are again counted, and then disperse to our
work.

But the excitements of the day are not yet over. As Jack and I are working
hard to make up for lost time, I suddenly see over to the left, out of the
corner of my eye, a familiar figure. It is my nephew. He is followed by
another familiar figure and another and another. The Warden is showing
over the prison a party of visitors, among them several of my intimate
friends.

I fear that the remark with which I explode will not bear repetition.

"What's the matter?" says Jack, looking up from his work.

"Nothing," I reply, "it's only my nephew, confound him, and some other
rubbernecks. For Heaven's sake, Jack, work away as usual and don't attract
any attention if we can help it."

My eyeglasses are in my pocket; and fearing that my ring may catch the
light I hastily drop it also into another pocket. Then I put on my cap and
continue my work as naturally as possible, without looking up.

Certainly, so far as appearances go, the prison system is a success in my
case. In arithmetic, as I recall it, we used to seek for the greatest
common denominator and the least common multiple; but in prison the
apparent object is to find the least common denominator--the lowest common
plane upon which you can treat everyone alike, college graduate and Bowery
tough, sick and well, imbecility and intelligence, vice and virtue.

In appearance, as I started to say, I am apparently all that could be
desired. Just as happened yesterday, the Warden leads this party through
the shop; they are all looking specially for me; they have been spurred on
by the failure of the newspaper men yesterday and are one and all
determined to find me. Yet they one and all pass within twenty feet, look
straight in my direction--and go on their way without recognizing me. I
must have the marks of "the Criminal" unusually developed, or else
criminals must look a good deal like other folks--barring the uniform. If
I had the ordinary theories about prisons and prisoners it might seem
rather mortifying that, in spite of every effort, not one of these
intimate friends can spot me among the toughest bunch of fellows in the
prison.

Certainly something must