of me only as a new and quite uninteresting arrival. Think of
me not as a member of the Prison Reform Commission, nor as the fellow
townsman of you officers, but as plain Tom Brown or Jones or Robinson,
sent by the courts for some breach of the law and who is no more to you
for the present than any other Tom, Dick or Harry. Some day in the future,
after I have done my time, perhaps my experience may be of service to you
and to the State, but of that we will talk later. In the meantime, help me
to learn the truth.

I have already attempted to describe my state of mind at the commencement
of this talk. As I went on, there came the feeling that, keen as they
usually are, the men were having some difficulty in grasping my full
meaning; were in doubt whether I really did intend to carry out in all
sincerity the plan of actually living their life. But as they began to
comprehend the full significance of the idea, their applause increased in
volume and heartiness.[1]

I have spoken of the sensitive quickness of the prison audience; I
experienced an instance. When the next to the last paragraph of my address
was first written, I used the words, "and in the morning looked out at
God's sunlight through the same iron bars." Then there had come into my
mind the picture made by the grated window, and I added three words so as
to read, "looked out at the pieces of God's sunlight." As I spoke those
words a burst of hearty laughter at the touch of irony came so quickly
that I had to wait before finishing the clause; at the close of the
sentence, with its note of brotherhood, all laughter ceased at once; and
the loudest applause of the morning showed me that what I had said had
struck just the right note, and that the help I wanted from the prisoners
would not be lacking.

After my address I leave the Prison and proceed to my office where I am
interviewed by representatives of the press. This is a disagreeable duty
which I had up to this last moment hoped to escape; for even after giving
up the notion of disguise I had still cherished the idea that it was
possible, with the aid of the Warden, to keep my adventure from being made
public until it was all over. But in our talk this morning the Warden very
quickly convinced me that secrecy is impossible.

"Can't you give instructions to all the officers to say nothing about it
outside?" I ask.

"Certainly I can," is the Warden's reply; "and you know as well as I just
how much good it