tters to attend to, bid
farewell to the few friends who are about, and at ten o'clock present
myself at the prison entrance.

The polite guard at the gate unlocks it, I enter, and the first barrier
between me and the world shuts behind me. I mount the steps to the main
building, and turn into the Warden's office. I am dressed in old clothes,
appropriate for the occasion, and have no valuables or money about my
person.

In the Warden's office a few last details are arranged with Grant, the
Prison Superintendent of Industries, who is acting for the Warden; and my
name and certain details of my family history and career of crime are
taken down by the Warden's clerk on a slip of paper, which is handed over
to a good-looking, well-groomed young officer, to whom I am given in
charge.

On Saturday, when writing out yesterday's address, it occurred to me that
it might be useful to take an alias. Such a notion doubtless seems a
trifle foolish at first thought; considering that there is no secret of my
identity, but I reasoned that if officers and prisoners always had my own
name in mind or on tongue every time they looked at or addressed me, it
would really make it more difficult to be accepted on the basis of an
ordinary inmate. I decided, therefore, to take a name which would have no
association whatever with the chairman of the Prison Reform Commission,
yet would be somewhat in character. So on the records I am entered as
Thomas Brown, No. 33,333x.

The young officer in his neat blue uniform, carrying his loaded stick,
says briefly, "Step this way, Brown." I am hazily aware of being a
momentary object of interest to the men in the back office; a heavy iron
door is unlocked at the head of a flight of iron stairs; and as the door
clangs behind me and I hear the key turn in the lock, I begin to realize
that I am a prisoner. I have made a bargain with myself to stay here a
week, and I cannot leave sooner without serious loss of self-respect.

The taciturn young officer takes me downstairs and across the yard. I am
conscious of many pairs of eyes looking out from windows and doors, and
the few prisoners scattered about the yard singly or in groups stare with
interest. My guide accompanies me to one of the buildings about halfway
down on the left, which proves to be the tailor shop. Here in a corner of
the shop, without any screens and in full view of all passers in and out,
are three porcelain-lined iron bathtubs side by side