was looking their way; but after
he passed, yog--yog--what a rubbering he got!

So this was the way of the cell house for one whole week; and, believe me,
it was some week, indeed.

They tell me when he got in the shop Jack Murphy handed him a broom. You
know Jack can be funny when he wants to be. Now the question in mind is,
"Did Jack give him that broom to clean out the shop, or did he mean the
whole place needed a cleaning out?" Well, I guess Jack, himself, will have
to slip us that answer.

CHAPTER V

THE FIRST NIGHT

Still Monday, but later in the evening. The hour is about--but why
attempt to specify the exact time? In this place there seems to be no
time--only eternity.

Having finished in my journal the account of this afternoon's
occurrences, I shall continue to chronicle the events of this evening
as long as the light holds out, or as long as there is anything to
write about. So I begin where I left off in the last chapter, just
after being locked in for the night, as I sat writing and eating my
evening meal of bread and water.

I receive a call from Captain Lamb after he has carefully counted all his
men and locked us in for the night. As he turned the key in my lock, I was
instructed to stand up with both hands on the door and rattle it
violently, to show that it was firmly secured. The Captain is very
pleasant, and grows quite confidential, telling about his experiences in
the regular army in the Philippines. He also explains something of his
ideas in regard to handling convicts. Before going away he says that, if I
should be taken sick in the night, I must rattle the door and the officer
on guard will come and take me to the hospital if necessary.

He goes away and I begin to have that feeling of lonesome desolation I
have already attempted to describe. There are some noises; but they are
the noises of tramping feet above, below, of clanging bars and grating
locks, then of stealthy footfalls and distant doors. Of the many
companions who are living all about me I can see no sight--hear no sound.
If my cell were big enough, I should walk round and round as I have seen
the caged animals do in menageries. As it is, if I get up from writing, I
can only hang at my grated door, looking aimlessly out. It grows dark and
ever darker in the corridor outside; there are few sounds now. Inside my
cell the electric bulb gives barely light enough to read by. It