he Warden came with a quart of whiskey. I presented it to
Murderers Row with my compliments. The Warden, poor man, is afraid, if I
be not drunk, that I shall make a mess of the function and cast
reflection on his management . . .

They have put on me the shirt without a collar. . .

It seems I am a very important man this day. Quite a lot of people are
suddenly interested in me. . . .

The doctor has just gone. He has taken my pulse. I asked him to. It is
normal. . . .

I write these random thoughts, and, a sheet at a time, they start on
their secret way out beyond the walls. . . .

I am the calmest man in the prison. I am like a child about to start on
a journey. I am eager to be gone, curious for the new places I shall
see. This fear of the lesser death is ridiculous to one who has gone
into the dark so often and lived again. . . .

The Warden with a quart of champagne. I have dispatched it down
Murderers Row. Queer, isn't it, that I am so considered this last day.
It must be that these men who are to kill me are themselves afraid of
death. To quote Jake Oppenheimer: I, who am about to die, must seem to
them something God-awful. . . .

Ed Morrell has just sent word in to me. They tell me he has paced up and
down all night outside the prison wall. Being an ex-convict, they have
red-taped him out of seeing me to say good-bye. Savages? I don't know.
Possibly just children. I'll wager most of them will be afraid to be
alone in the dark to-night after stretching my neck.

But Ed Morrell's message: "My hand is in yours, old pal. I know you'll
swing off game." . . .

* * * * *

The reporters have just left. I'll see them next, and last time, from
the scaffold, ere the hangman hides my face in the black cap. They will
be looking curiously sick. Queer young fellows. Some show that they
have been drinking. Two or three look sick with foreknowledge of what
they have to witness. It seems easier to be hanged than to look on. . . .

* * * * *

My last lines. It seems I am delaying the procession. My cell is quite
crowded with officials and dignitaries. They are all nervous. They want
it over. Without a doubt, some of them have dinner engagements. I am
really offending them by writing these few words. The priest has again
preferred his request to be with me to the end. The poor man--why should
I deny him that solace? I have consented, and he now appears quite
cheerful. Such small thin