But that first glimpse of stir suddenly opened my eyes. I beheld a living tomb, and the horror of it, the hopelessness of it, struck deep, like a knife, into my heart

I tried to hide this horror during my long talk with Bud, but it was no use. Bud even tried to make me see the thing in a different light, and explained that Jackson was one of the best pens in the Union, and that, on the whole, he was lucky to be in a place where he'd get such all-round good treatment and so many chances for a commutation. But Bud had something more than his own troubles to talk about.

"Kid," he asked me, "what's the size of your roll?"

It had slimmed down to a couple of tens, and I told him so.

Then he sat studying my face.

"Well, I've been thinking about this for a long time. I could see there was always a chance of it coming. And I've gathered the gazabos to have you taken care of!"

"But I want you to take care of me," I told him.

He shook his head. "They've got me here—and ten years is a long time!"

The thought of it made me wild.

"But I'll get you out of here. I'll get the best