r. "Let's all tell what we would like for
supper. What do you say, boys, to a nice, juicy beefsteak with fried
potatoes?"

At this there is a general howl of jovial protest; loudest of all the poor
lad in Cell Two, who has had nothing but bread and water for thirty-six
hours, and who, to emphasize the fact of his coming from Boston, says
something humorous about beans. The way these prisoners can joke in the
face of their sufferings and privations has been a continual wonder to me.

It is not long before our talk turns in a new direction. The popularity of
the prison officials is discussed. They all agree that the present
Superintendent of Prisons is all right; that Warden Rattigan is square;
and not only tends to his business but is on the level. Joe from Cell Four
expresses his opinion that the treatment by the prisoners of the Warden
when he first took office last summer was inexcusable. "That strike was a
dirty deal," he says. I am glad to hear about this, and Joe goes on to
give me some interesting details. It was not due to the poor food, he
declares, although that was the supposed cause. In reality, he assures me,
the strike was instigated by some of the officers who had no use for
Rattigan. They spread all manner of stories against him before he was
appointed, and after he took office they deliberately egged on the convict
ringleaders to strike and fairly pushed the men into it. This tallies with
certain inside information I had at the time of the strike so I am not
indisposed to believe it.

As we are still discussing these interesting matters, once more the faint
sound of a key turning in a lock is heard and the opening of the outer
door. This surely must be Grant. Steps come along the passage, and Joe
makes a final appeal. "Say, don't go, don't go!" he whispers at the last
moment. "Stick it out, Tom! Stick it out!"

That settles it. I remain. Joe has won the day, or at least the night.

The key turns in the inner lock and we hear the door turn on its hinges.
Then the light is lighted, the grated door of my cell is again thrown
open, and Grant stands there. This time I rise. "Come in here," I say,
"where we can't be heard," and taking him by the arm I lead him back into
the darkness of the cell.

"What's the matter?" asks Grant, with a trace of some anxiety in his tone.

"Nothing's the matter," I answer. "Only I'm learning such a lot down here
that I ought to stay the night. There are four or five fellow