me that we have been
singularly fortunate so far, in the working out of our plans, and that it
might be a mistake to change. Jack Murphy, when I talked with him about it
to-day, said, "What good would it do you, to go and work in a shop where
you can't talk? You can learn everything there is to know about such a
shop by spending ten minutes there, any time." Then he added, with a
smile, "You know, Brown, we don't want to lose you here." I hope this last
is true, and I think it is; but, aside from that, his reasoning impresses
me as good.

So the Warden and I agree that I am to stay in the basket-shop at least
another day, and he leaves me to my thoughts and my fears.

I shall now put away this journal, and prepare my bed for the night. I
fear that my sleep will be haunted by echoes of those dreadful sounds.

* * * * *

It may be well to interrupt my journal here, and explain the noises of
Wednesday evening. As will be seen in Thursday's journal, I heard many of
the details the next day, but it was some time before I learned the whole
story. I have examined personally several eye-witnesses of the occurrences
and am convinced that the following statement is accurate.

There had lately been sent up from Sing Sing a young prisoner named
Lavinsky. He is physically a weak youth; pale, thin, and undersized. His
weight is about one hundred and twenty pounds; his age, twenty-one. On the
charge of being impertinent to the officer of his shop, he was sent down
to the jail, as the punishment cells are called, and kept there for five
days in the dark on bread and water. Then he was allowed to go back to
work. He did so, but was of course utterly unfit for work. The next day he
was ill and remained in his cell, which was on the fourth tier on the
south side of the north wing. This was on the opposite side of the
cell-block from where I locked in, and a considerable distance down toward
the western end of the wing; which accounts for my not hearing more
distinctly the sounds which aroused in me such feelings of terror.

The day that Lavinsky returned to work was Tuesday, my second day in
prison. On Wednesday he was afflicted with severe diarrhea all day, but
for some reason, in spite of his repeated requests, the doctor was not
summoned. The reason probably was that Lavinsky was in the state known in
prison as bughouse--that is to say, at least flighty if not temporarily
out of his mind. He himself,