Like ninety percent of the men arrested for felonies I had given a fictitious name and birthplace. My jailer called me a “damned Yank” because I registered at his jail as an American. At the prison a more complete biographical sketch was demanded of me, with the result that just so much more fiction found its way into the prison statistics. I was bathed, shaved, uniformed, measured, weighed, photographed, questioned at great length, and at last put in a cell by myself. I was notified that I would get fifteen lashes next day and that the remainder would be laid on one week before my sentence expired. I was further told very distinctly that by good conduct I could greatly soften the severity of the last installment, but that the first would be administered as the law provided.

Prisoners passing my cell looked in. Some gave me glances of sympathy, others grinned. One, a big, tough-looking gorilla, out of the British Navy, stopped and taunted me gleefully. “Oh, aye, Yank, I reckon an’ calculate as ’ow you’ll get a fawncy tampin’ in the mornin’.” I abused both him and his native language.