ack's
remedy, the Doctor's medicine, and the Greek boy's hot water, to say
nothing of the League discussion.

One incident of the afternoon touches me extremely. Working not far from
us is a young lad from Brooklyn. He can't be more than eighteen or
nineteen years of age--a good-looking youth, having no special friends
apparently and speaking but little to any one. Every moment when he is not
working he is either vigorously walking, or poring over some book, a lurid
dime novel I should judge from its appearance. I have tried to make
friends with him, but without much success. My advances are received
pleasantly enough, but awaken apparently very little response. To be sure
we do not have a chance to enjoy much real conversation, but his face does
not light up as do those of most of the prisoners with whom I get the
chance to exchange even a word or two.

This afternoon, while I am working away at the bench, I suddenly see a
hand outstretched in front of me, and in its palm a small bunch of about
two dozen green, dyspeptic-looking grapes. A more forlorn attempt at fruit
I have never seen.

I turn, and it is my young friend of the dime novel. The lad has somehow
or other come into possession of these sickly grapes, and is making to me
the best offering he can. I dare say it sounds like a very commonplace
occurrence, but in reality there is something infinitely pathetic in this
poor imprisoned boy's attempt to express friendliness. I wish I could give
him in return some of the real fruit that is at this moment wasting on the
vines at home. As it is, I can only tell him that I do not dare eat fruit
while my stomach is out of order, but that I appreciate his kindness none
the less. So he goes back to his exercise; and I am left wondering how in
the world--or rather, how away from the world--did the boy come by those
grapes.[13]

Thus I close my last full day's work in the shop. Where shall I be at this
time to-morrow, I wonder? It occurs to me that this was the same question
I was asking myself only five nights ago, before I came to prison.

We march back up the yard without incident; and in due time I regain my
cell, after getting my bread for supper.

Here Dickinson comes again, to express his gratitude and have me share in
his joy at deliverance. I say, "And now I suppose it's good-bye."

"Oh, no," he replies; "I shall come and see you again to-morrow morning
before I go." Then he tells me all his plans, and how he