ell, and was fascinated by this
extravagant quantity of pork, which seemed to evidence an unimagined
display of prison hospitality. One of the officers to whom I mentioned
the matter said, "Ah, Mr. Foote, I wish you would show that diet up
when you get out. Untried prisoners have the same fare as condemned
criminals, only they get less of it. There are lusty chaps come in here,
some of them quite innocent, who could eat twice as much, and look
round for the man that cooked it. I'll tell you a story about that
three-quarters of an ounce. A fellow rang his bell one day after the
dinner was served. 'Well,' I said, 'what's the matter?' 'I want's my
bacon,' said he. 'Well, you've got it,' said I. 'No I aint,' said he.
'It's in your tin,' said I. 'Taint in my tin,' said he. Then I fetched
up the cook. We all three searched, and at last we found the bacon in
one of the shucks of the beans."

The worthy fellow laughed, and so did I, as he ended his story. There
might have been some exaggeration in it, but you would not find it so
hard to believe if you had ever sat down to dine on three-quarters of an
ounce of fat bacon.

I was confined in my cell twenty-three hours out of every twenty-four,
and during the first week my one hour's exercise was mostly taken in the
corridor instead of in the open air. The prison authorities are careless
about a man's health being subtly undermined, but they do not like
him to catch cold, which may produce visible and audible consequences.
Whenever it is snowing or raining, or whenever the ground is wet, the
prisoners exercise in the corridors, where the air is scarcely purer
than in their cells. During the first week, the weather being bad,
I only went out once. On Saturday, which was cleaning day, I had no
exercise at all, and on Sunday I was entitled to none--prisoners not
being allowed that privilege on the blessed Sabbath until a month of
their sentence has expired. I was therefore confined to my cell without
exercise or fresh air from Friday morning until Monday morning, or
three clear days. The exercise out of doors is a delightful relief from
solitary confinement in a brick vault. The prisoners walk in Indian file
in circles: a regular thieves' procession, the Rogue's March without
the music. The new comers, who violate the rule of silence, are soon
detected by the vigilant officers, but the old hands, as I have said,
acquire a habit of speaking without moving the lips, and in a tone
whi