let me tell you
this, Brown: no one can realize what this place really is like,
until--until--well, until there is someone he cares about who is sick and
he can't get away." There is a tremor in his voice. Poor fellow! The
Chaplain told me last night that Murphy had recently lost his mother and
felt her death very deeply.

This talk occurs at the end of the day's work when we are waiting for the
Captain's signal of return, and Murphy is sitting on the edge of the table
talking quietly, turning his head away from the Captain and toward me as I
stand on my regular side of the table.

I place a hand on my partner's broad shoulder. "Yes," I say, "it must
indeed be terrible in such a case."

"Oh, nobody can know how bad it is," he goes on, my evident sympathy
opening up the depths. "My mother was sick in the hospital, very sick, and
I knew that she was going to die; and I--and I couldn't get to her. Oh
God! if they could only have let me go! I'd have come back! I'd have come
back. Honest I would. And now--and now----"

"Yes," I say, "I understand. And I know myself what it means. It's
something we never get over--in prison or out."

For a moment I fear that he is going to break down; but he is strong and
schooled in self-repression, and quickly regains control of himself. To
give him time I tell him something of my own experience; and he grasps my
hand fervently. Whatever may come out of my prison experiment, I have made
at least one warm friend in Jack Murphy. The barriers are down between us
two at least. Death, for all its cruelty, is after all the one great
unifying force; it forges the one great bond of human brotherhood.

As I have said, this last talk takes place toward the end of the
afternoon. Before it occurred Jack had said, "Now it's my turn to sweep up
to-night." And he proceeded to do it, while I took a bit of exercise,
walking up and down the short space permitted by the rules--about ten
steps each way across and back.

The order comes to fall in. "Well, good night, Brown!" "Good night, Jack!"
and off we go; first back to the bucket stands, for the benefit of those
who did their housecleaning this afternoon instead of this morning. Then
we march up through the yard to the main building, where, with the others,
I snatch my slice of bread, mount the iron stairs, traverse the gallery,
and lock myself in my cell for the night.

Captain Lamb comes to bid me good-bye. He is off on his vacation to-morrow
an