nsciousness
that the men were laughing at him and not with him, that wrecked his
life. He had gone from beer to whiskey, and from whiskey to brandy, by
this time, at the suggestion of the men, and was making awkward lunges
with a billiard cue, spurred on by the mocking applause of the others.
One young fellow was particularly hilarious at his expense. His jokes
became insults, or so they seemed to David.

A quarrel followed, half a jest on the part of the other, all serious
as far as David was concerned. And then--Well, who could tell how it
happened? The billiard cue was in David's hand, and the skull of the
jester was split, a horrible gaping thing, revoltingly animal.

David never saw his home again. His mother gave it out in church that
her heart was broken, and she wrote a letter to David begging him to
reform. She said she would never cease to pray for him, that he might
return to grace. He had an attorney, an impecunious and very aged
gentleman, whose life was a venerable failure, and who talked so much
about his personal inconveniences from indigestion that he forgot to
take a very keen interest in the concerns of his client. David's trial
made no sensation. He did not even have the cheap sympathy of the
morbid. The court-room was almost empty the dull spring day when the
east wind beat against the window, jangling the loose panes all through
the reading of the verdict.

Twenty years!

Twenty years in the penitentiary!

David looked up at the judge and smiled. Men have been known to smile
that way when the car-wheel crashes over their legs, or a bullet lets
the air through their lungs.

All that followed would have seemed more terrible if it had not appeared
to be so remote. David had to assure himself over and over that it was
really he who was put in that disgraceful dress, and locked in that
shameful walk from corridor to workroom, from work-room to chapel.
The work was not much more monotonous than that to which he had been
accustomed in the office. Here, as there, one was reproved for not doing
the required amount, but never praised for extraordinary efforts. Here,
as there, the workers regarded each other with dislike and suspicion.
Here, as there, work was a penalty and not a pleasure.

It is the nights that are to be dreaded in a penitentiary. Speech eases
the brain of free men; but the man condemned to eternal silence is
bound to endure torments. Thought, which might be a diversion, becomes
a c