not
offend again.

I wonder how my measurements differ from those of the average criminal,
and how much of a rough-neck my photograph will make me look.

At last all preliminaries are completed; and now I am free to consider
myself a full-fledged convict.

The young officer who up to now has been my guide and philosopher, if not
exactly a friend, conducts me down the yard once again, duly delivers me
over to Captain Lamb at the basket-shop, and takes his final departure.
The Captain leads me at once to a rough wooden table, about thirty feet in
front of the raised platform on which he sits. Here stands a good-sized,
broad-shouldered, black-haired fellow, working with his back to us as we
approach. He pauses as we stop before his table.

"Jack," says the Captain, "this is Thomas Brown. Thomas, this is John
Murphy, who will be your working partner."

"Glad to meet you, Mr. Brown," says a pleasant voice.

Looking toward my partner and his outstretched hand, I decide to venture
another joke. "Captain," I remark, advancing my hand cautiously, "this
may be all right; but it's only fair to warn you that if this gentleman is
any relative of the Boss of Tammany Hall there may be trouble."

A pair of honest gray eyes light up with a smile as the owner says, "No,
Mr. Brown, I'm no relation; and what's more I haven't any use for him."

Upon this we shake hands cordially. "Excuse me, Captain," I remark to that
officer, "but you see I want to be careful and not run into difficulties
of any kind."

The Captain smiles gravely in his turn, and introduces me to another of
the prisoners who has approached at a sign from the officer. He is a
slightly built, pleasantly smiling young man who is to be my boss in the
shop, Harley Stuhlmiller. By him I am to be initiated into the art of
making basket bottoms; and Murphy is to have me as his partner or
apprentice, and see that I make no mistakes in following the boss's
instructions.

So I take off my cap and coat and start to work. I do not find it very
difficult; for, curiously enough, over forty years ago I learned something
of the art of weaving baskets. When I was a young lad my family spent a
summer at a place on the New England seacoast. On the beach was the tent
of an old Indian, who made and sold baskets; and, having much time on my
hands, I persuaded the old fellow to teach me basket-making. One
certainly never knows when an odd bit of knowledge or information may come
hand