across my mind. Oh, yes! Roger Landry and his blue shirt. I'll
ask Landry to get word to the Chaplain.

Click! Click! Click! Again the levers start. Still in a sort of a daze I
open my door, fall in line behind Jack Bell, join Landry farther along the
gallery, descend the iron stairs and march to the mess-hall. Here the
regular weekday arrangements are changed. For some reason, instead of
turning to the right as usual, we go to the left and occupy seats in quite
a different part of the hall--on the left of the center aisle and much
farther back. The change makes me feel vaguely uncomfortable.

I don't know what there is for breakfast. I believe that I have eaten
something or other, although I am sure I have not sampled the bootleg. I
wish I could share my breakfast--such as it is--with those poor fellows in
the jail. I wonder if Number Two has any water yet. But I mustn't think of
that.

Returned from breakfast, Landry comes to my cell to express his interest
and sympathy; for he once had his own dose of the jail. I wonder if his
spirit was broken. I forget to ask him to do my errand to the Chaplain. I
fear it is too late now. Perhaps I can find some way to do it after I
reach the assembly room; perhaps I can, when called upon, explain briefly
that I am unable to speak; or perhaps after all it would be better to
bluff it out the best way I can, and let it go at that.

After this decision I feel somewhat better. Turning to the locker, I find
a piece of paper with the few notes I scrawled yesterday noon. I had
expected to revise and arrange them this morning. I may as well try to fix
the thing up somehow. But I can do nothing but stare helplessly at the
paper; my brain refuses to work. My stupidity finally annoys me so much
that I shove the piece of paper into my pocket, and make up my mind not to
bother any more about the matter.

One or two of the trusties, passing along the gallery, stop to chat. They
all seem to look at me as one might at a person who has been restored to
life from the dead. I'm sure I feel so. I have always wondered how Dante
must have felt after he had visited the Inferno. I think I know now.

There are footsteps along the corridors and galleries; it is the noise
made by good Catholics returning from Mass. It seems that I could have
gone myself had I known of the service. I am sorry I did not; perhaps it
would have helped me to forget.

Soon the summons to chapel comes, and in single file we