; that I must confess to have had even when I decided to come
here. Exactly the same, I imagine, as one would feel about entering a den
of wild beasts, except that these were capable of being talked to and
reasoned with. I suppose I did have some little, a very little, notion of
personal danger, which now seems wholly absurd. I have at present a sense
of companionship and sympathy with these men, as warm and strong as I have
ever felt anywhere. It is accompanied, of course, by a great feeling of
pity for their mistakes, the bitterness of their expiation, and the
well-nigh hopeless difficulty under present conditions of regaining their
hold upon life.

After the regular period of rest in the cell after dinner, and my usual
calls from the trusties, we march back to the shop. The routine is always
the same. Again I hear the clicking far away to the left around the
corner. Whereupon I rise from my shelf-table, unhook and drop it down, put
away my writing materials in the locker, and don my coat and cap. Again
the Captain passes by, unlocking the levers as he goes. He quickly
finishes the remainder of the cells on this side of the tier, then
repasses, pressing down each lever just long enough to allow the grated
door to be pushed open by the prisoner waiting inside. Again I shove my
door open as quickly as possible and follow immediately after the Captain;
for all the men who belong in front of me in the line lock in farther
along the gallery. When we reach their cells I drop behind enough to give
them their proper places, and thus there is a minimum of disorder when we
have descended the flight of iron stairs to the door and are lining up in
double column for our march down the yard.

The marches too are always the same--day after day--with only slight
variations; as for instance the one after breakfast when, as it is
unnecessary to visit the sewage disposal building, we march directly to
the shop. But this afternoon it is the same as all afternoons; short-step
at first until all the company have reached the walk; then a rap of the
keeper's stick and full-step down the yard; swing around to the left;
through the sewage disposal building for the benefit of the few who bring
down their buckets in the afternoon; a momentary pause at the stands and
then away to the shop. As we go down the half dozen steps into the
building we break ranks and Jack Murphy comes up from his place, somewhere
in the rear, with his usual pleasant gre