going up and down outside my cage, the man's suspicious eyes ever
peering in on me, almost I weary of eternal recurrence. I have

lived so many lives. I weary of the endless struggle and pain and
catastrophe that come to those who sit in the high places, tread the

shining ways, and wander among the stars.
Almost I hope, when next I reinhabit form, that it shall be that of

a peaceful farmer. There is my dream-farm. I should like to engage
just for one whole life in that. Oh, my dream-farm! My alfalfa

meadows, my efficient Jersey cattle, my upland pastures, my brush-
covered slopes melting into tilled fields, while ever higher up the

slopes my angora goats eat away brush to tillage!
There is a basin there, a natural basin high up the slopes, with a

generous watershed on three sides. I should like to throw a dam
across the fourth side, which is surprisingly narrow. At a paltry

price of labour I could impound twenty million gallons of water.
For, see: one great drawback to farming in California is our long

dry summer. This prevents the growing of cover crops, and the
sensitive soil, naked, a mere surface dust-mulch, has its humus

burned out of it by the sun. Now with that dam I could grow three
crops a year, observing due rotation, and be able to turn under a

wealth of green manure. . . .
I have just endured a visit from the Warden. I say "endured"

advisedly. He is quite different from the Warden of San Quentin.
He was very nervous, and perforce I had to entertain him. This is

his first hanging. He told me so. And I, with a clumsy attempt at
wit, did not reassure him when I explained that it was also my first

hanging. He was unable to laugh. He has a girl in high school, and
his boy is a freshman at Stanford. He has no income outside his

salary, his wife is an invalid, and he is worried in that he has
been rejected by the life insurance doctors as an undesirable risk.

Really, the man told me almost all his troubles. Had I not
diplomatically terminated the interview he would still be here

telling me the remainder of them.
My last two years in San Quentin were very gloomy and depressing.

Ed Morrell, by one of the wildest freaks of chance, was taken out of
solitary and made head trusty of the whole prison. This was Al

Hutchins' old job, and it carried a graft of three thousand dollars
a year. To my misfortune, Jake Oppenheimer, who had rotted in

solitary for so many years, turned sour on the world, on everything.
For eight months he refused to talk even to me.

In prison, news will travel. Give it time and it will reach dungeon
and solitary cell. It reached me, at last, that Cecil Winwood, the

poet-forger, the snitcher, the coward, and the stool, was returned
for a fresh forgery. It will be remembered that it was this Cecil

Winwood who concocted the fairy story that I had changed the plant
of the non-existent dynamite and who was responsible for the five

years I had then spent in solitary.
I decided to kill Cecil Winwood. You see, Morrell was gone, and

Oppenheimer, until the outbreak that finished him, had remained in
the silence. Solitary had grown monotonous for me. I had to do

something. So I remembered back to the time when I was Adam Strang
and patiently nursed revenge for forty years. What he had done I

could do if once I locked my hands on Cecil Winwood's throat.
It cannot be expected of me to divulge how I came into possession of

the four needles. They were small cambric needles. Emaciated as my
body was, I had to saw four bars, each in two places, in order to

make an aperture through which I could squirm. I did it. I used up
one needle to each bar. This meant two cuts to a bar, and it took a

month to a cut. Thus I should have been eight months in cutting my
way out. Unfortunately, I broke my last needle on the last bar, and

I had to wait three months before I could get another needle. But I
got it, and I got out.

I regret greatly that I did not get Cecil Winwood. I had calculated
well on everything save one thing. The certain chance to find

Winwood would be in the dining-room at dinner hour. So I waited
until Pie-Face Jones, the sleepy guard, should be on shift at the

noon hour. At that time I was the only inmate of solitary, so that
Pie-Face Jones was quickly snoring. I removed my bars, squeezed

out, stole past him along the ward, opened the door and was free . .
. to a portion of the inside of the prison.

And here was the one thing I had not calculated on--myself. I had
been five years in solitary. I was hideously weak. I weighed

eighty-seven pounds. I was half blind. And I was immediately
stricken with agoraphobia. I was affrighted by spaciousness. Five

years in narrow walls had unfitted me for the enormous declivity of
the stairway, for the vastitude of the prison yard.

The descent of that stairway I consider the most heroicexploit I
ever accomplished. The yard was deserted. The blinding sun blazed

down on it. Thrice I essayed to cross it. But my senses reeled and
I shrank back to the wall for protection. Again, summoning all my

courage, I attempted it. But my poor blear eyes, like a bat's,
startled me at my shadow on the flagstones. I attempted to avoid my

own shadow, tripped, fell over it, and like a drowning man
struggling for shore crawled back on hands and knees to the wall.

I leaned against the wall and cried. It was the first time in many
years that I had cried. I remember noting, even in my extremity,

the warmth of the tears on my cheeks and the salt taste when they
reached my lips. Then I had a chill, and for a time shook as with

an ague. Abandoning the openness of the yard as too impossible a
feat for one in my condition, still shaking with the chill,

crouching close to the protecting wall, my hands touching it, I
started to skirt the yard.

Then it was, somewhere along, that the guard Thurston espied me. I
saw him, distorted by my bleared eyes, a huge, well-fed monster,

rushing upon me with incredible speed out of the remote distance.
Possibly, at that moment, he was twenty feet away. He weighed one

hundred and seventy pounds. The struggle between us can be easily
imagined, but somewhere in that brief struggle it was claimed that I

struck him on the nose with my fist to such purpose as to make that
organ bleed.

At any rate, being a lifer, and the penalty in California for
battery by a lifer being death, I was so found guilty by a jury

which could not ignore the asseverations of the guard Thurston and
the rest of the prison hangdogs that testified, and I was so

sentenced by a judge who could not ignore the law as spread plainly
on the statute book.

I was well pummelled by Thurston, and all the way back up that
prodigious stairway I was roundly kicked, punched, and cuffed by the

horde of trusties and guards who got in one another's way in their
zeal to assist him. Heavens, if his nose did bleed, the probability

is that some of his own kind were guilty of causing it in the
confusion of the scuffle. I shouldn't care if I were responsible

for it myself, save that it is so pitiful a thing for which to hang
a man. . . .

I have just had a talk with the man on shift of my death-watch. A
little less than a year ago, Jake Oppenheimer occupied this same

death-cell on the road to the gallows which I will tread to-morrow.
This man was one of the death-watch on Jake. He is an old soldier.

He chews tobaccoconstantly, and untidily, for his gray beard and
moustache are stained yellow. He is a widower, with fourteen living

children, all married, and is the grandfather of thirty-one living
grandchildren, and the great-grandfather of four younglings, all

girls. It was like pulling teeth to extract such information. He
is a queer old codger, of a low order of intelligence. That is why,

I fancy, he has lived so long and fathered so numerous a progeny.
His mind must have crystallized thirty years ago. His ideas are

none of them later than that vintage. He rarely says more than yes
and no to me. It is not because he is surly. He has no ideas to

utter. I don't know, when I live again, but what one incarnation
such as his would be a nice vegetative existence in which to rest up

ere I go star-roving again. . . .
But to go back. I must take a line in which to tell, after I was

hustled and bustled, kicked and punched, up that terrible stairway
by Thurston and the rest of the prison-dogs, of the infinite relief

of my narrow cell when I found myself back in solitary. It was all
so safe, so secure. I felt like a lost child returned home again.

I loved those very walls that I had so hated for five years. All