Marching to breakfast I find myself by the side of a young fellow who is conspicuous among the prisoners by the use of a blue shirt with collar and necktie. He is tall and good-looking, with an air of refinement which is appealing.
I make no breaks upon the march. I shuffle my feet along the stone corridor like the rest, as we move slowly forward; letting other companies who have the right of way go in ahead of us. Then when our turn comes we march more rapidly, changing to single file as we near the mess-room. As the Captain has directed me, I fall in behind my blue-shirted companion and have my right hand on my left breast in ample time to salute the P. K. who, as at yesterday's dinner, stands at the entrance to the mess-hall.
Arrived at my place, which is now in the center of one of the long shelves or tables, I find waiting for me a large dish of oatmeal porridge, a bowl one-third full of the thinnest of skimmed milk, two thick slices of bread, and a cup of the dark fluid we had yesterday and which is supposed to be coffee, but which I learn is called "bootleg" by the prisoners--presumably because old boots is the only conceivable source of its taste and smell. Judging by the samples I've had, the hypothesis does not seem untenable. The taste is quite as bad as the smell, as it is drunk without milk or sugar, and there is no escape from drinking some of it, as it is the only liquid on the table. The bread is known as "punk"--a name not so strikingly appropriate as the other.
I can see no excuse for bad coffee; for good coffee can be made in large quantities, as some railroad refreshment rooms can testify. Tea is a different matter. I do not believe that good tea can be made except in small quantities. If I were to suggest to the prison authorities, it would be cocoa instead of tea, and coffee should be drinkable at least.
George, one of the gallery boys, has presented me this morning with a small package of sugar wrapped in newspaper; but, before I have a chance of deciding whether it is safe to transfer it from my pocket to the oatmeal, my friend in the blue shirt, seated on my left, slides a small yellow envelope toward me. I turn my eyes and head sufficiently to see him. He is staring straight ahead of him, and without moving his lips or a muscle of his face gives a low whisper, "Sugar." I turn back my head and in a voice as low as I can manage and with my lips moving as little as possible mutter, "Thank you." I have had my first introduction to the motionless language of the prisoners.