he north wing; it is only
at night that we march directly into the main building in order to secure
our bread for supper. The men quickly catch the humor of the situation,
and there is a deal of quiet enjoyment of the photographer's
disappointment. He hastens down toward us, but only succeeds in snapping
our rear ranks as we enter the building. Tom Brown has escaped him.

It is certainly wonderful how news gets about in this prison. From what
the Warden tells me this evening, it could not have been more than half an
hour after the man with his kodak entered the front gate before the
warning of his camera was received by me, over at the farther end of the
yard. The Marconi system hasn't very much advantage in speed over the
wireless telegraphy of the prison.

My first action upon getting back to the cell is to get my own telegraphic
system in working order, so as to get word to that trusty who has
threatened to go to the Warden about last night's occurrence. I want him
told not to attempt to go over the head of the P. K., but to leave the
whole matter to me. I send two messages through the secret channels and
then get ready for dinner.

That meal, when we reach the mess-hall, turns out to be corned beef,
potatoes, an excellent pickled beet, and the usual bread and coffee. I
eat with more relish than usual, and find the time allotted for the meal
altogether too short for a proper enjoyment of it. Or perhaps the word
enjoyment is a little too strong--let us say, for a proper disposal of it.

Upon returning to my cell I find a piece of paper folded up to its
smallest capacity lying on the floor. It is a note from one of my fellow
prisoners--a kite, to use the proper term. I have been receiving such
documents ever since I came. They reach me in all sorts of ways; all of
which ways are of course forbidden. Some of the notes are business-like,
some are rambling and incoherent, some are sad, some are humorous, all are
characteristic and good tempered. The majority contain requests to see the
writers, after I get through my bit. Some go into long accounts of
themselves and their experiences. One has written a good-sized pamphlet,
telling his life-story in considerable detail. All of them are filled with
a pathetic sense of gratitude toward Tom Brown, their new pal. They seem
to think that I am making an unheard-of sacrifice for their sakes.

It is curious how far away is the feeling of dread of this place that I
used to have