It came into my head, however, one day, that I might as well do nothing.  The prison fare was indescribably bad, almost as bad as the jail fare at Easton.  We lived upon the poorest possible salt beef for dinner, varied now and then with plucks and such stuff from the slaughter houses, with nothing but bread and rye coffee for breakfast and supper, and mush and molasses perhaps twice a week.

I was daily abused, too, by the Warden, his Deputy, and his keepers.  They looked upon me as an ugly, insubordinate, refractory, rebellious rascal, who was ready to kill any of them, and, worst of all, who would not work.  I determined to confirm their minds in the latter supposition, and so one day I threw down my tools and refused to do another thing.

They dragged me to the dungeon and thrust me in.  It was a wretched dark hole, with a little dirty straw in one corner to lie upon.  My entire food and drink was bread and water.  The man who brought it never spoke to me.  His face was the only one I saw during the livelong day.  Day and night were alike to me; I lost the run of time; but at long intervals, once in eight or ten days, I suppose, the Deputy came to this hole and asked me if I would come out and work.

“No, no!” I always answered, “never!” Then I paced the stone floor in the dark, or lay on my straw.  I lay there till my hips were worn raw.  No human being can conceive the agony, the suffering endured in this dungeon.  At last I was nearly blind, and was scarcely able to stand up.  I presume that the attendant who brought my daily dole of bread and my cup of water, reported my condition.  One day the door opened and I was ordered out.  They were obliged to bring me out; I was so reduced that I was but the shadow of myself.  They meant to cure my obstinacy or to kill me, and had not quite succeeded in doing either.

There was no use in asking me if I would go to work then; I was just alive.  A few days in my own cell, in the daylight, and with something beside bread and water to eat, partially restored me.  I was then taken into the shop where the snaths were finished by scraping and varnishing, the lightest part of the work, but I would not learn, would not do, would not try to do anything at all.  They gave me up.  The whole struggle nearly killed me, but I beat them.  I was turned into the halls and told to do what I could, which, I knew well enough, meant what I would.

After that I worked about the halls and yard, sometimes sweeping, and again carrying something, or doing errands for the keepers from one part of the prison to another.  I was what theatrical managers call a general utility man, and, not at all strangely, for it is human nature, now that I could do what I pleased, I pleased to do a great deal, and was tolerably useful, and far more agreeable than I had been in the past.