whispered, "How long are ye doin'?" I told
him. "I'm doin' fifteen months," he confidingly said. Then he added,
with look half positive and half interrogative, "Time's damned long,
ain't it?" I agreed. Forgetting his work, he spliced a bit of rope
badly. "See," I said, "that splice is wrong." "Ah," he replied, his face
brightening, "you're a salt un too, are ye? Hanged if I didn't think
you was a barnacle." He informed me that he had been in the English
and American navies, and all round the world. Where had I been? I was
obliged to explain that I was a journalist. Quill-driving, as he called
it, was evidently, in his opinion, an ignominious employment. However
did I learn splicing! When I explained that I was bred at the seaside,
and passionately loved boating, his sailor's heart warmed towards me
again. "This work ain't hard," he said; "you can make two brushes in an
hour and a half, and I makes a dozen a week." I smiled. It was a fine
illustration of what is called prison labor. Resuming, he said: "I'm
the only one as makes 'em now, and I s'pose they wants more. The chap
as made 'em afore me used to do three dozen a week. Wasn't he a darned
fool? Now, don't you go makin' more than two a day, or you'll put my
nose out of joint." "No," I promised, "I won't make _more_ than two a
day." "Ah," he said, looking at me with a comical twinkle of the eyes,
"I see you ain't a goin' to make brushes."

At this point the warder stepped up, and invited me to try my hand.
"Thank you," I replied; "the Governor told you to let me see how brushes
are made, and I have seen how brushes are made." Then bowing slightly,
I walked straight back to my cell, leaving the officer almost petrified
with astonishment. I heard no more of brush-making.

My objection to the work was simple. It was more interesting than
picking fibre, but it necessitated stooping, the brush being held, like
a shoe, between the knees. As a lecturer, I knew too well the value of a
sound chest to engage in such employment.

I come now to the diet. Third-class fare, to which I was entitled by
the doctor's order, was almost entirely farinaceous, and miserably
monotonous. Breakfast and tea (or supper), served at eight and six
respectively, consisted of six ounces of brown bread and three quarters
of a pint of gruel, or "skilly." The latter was frequently so fluid
that spooning was unnecessary. The dinners, served punctually at twelve
o'clock, were more varied. Brown bread