Fred Starratt rested surprisingly well that first night. But two weeks in the detention hospital had taken the sting out of institutional preliminaries. The officials at Fairview put him through precisely the same paces, except upon a somewhat larger scale. There was the selfsame questioning, the same yielding up of personal effects, the same inevitable bath. And almost the same solitary room, except that this one peered out upon the free world through a heavily barred window instead of through a skylight, and boasted a kitchen chair. He was to be alone then!... He thanked God for this solitude and slept.

He awoke at six o’clock to the clipped shriek of a whistle. Shortly after, a key turned in his door. There followed the sound of scores of bare feet pattering up and down the hall. Was it imagination or did these muffled footfalls have an inhuman softness?... Suddenly his door flew open. He shrank beneath the bedclothes, peering out with one unscreened eye.

A knot of gesticulating and innocent madmen were gazing at him with all the simplicity of children. After a few moments, their curiosity satisfied, they pattered on their ghostly way again.

This, he afterward learned, was the daily morning inspection of newcomers.

Presently the whistle blew again and a bell sounded through the corridors. A rush of answering feet swept past; a great silence fell.

A half hour later a monstrous man with glittering eyes and clawlike fingers came in, carrying breakfast a large dishpan filled with a slimy mush, two slices of dry bread, and a mound of greasy hash. Fred turned away with a movement of supreme disgust. The gigantic attendant laughed.

There came a call of, “All outside!” echoing through the halls; a rush of feet again, a hushed succeeding silence. The half-mad ogre went to the window and slyly beckoned Fred to follow. He crawled out of bed and took his place before the iron bars. The man pointed a skinny finger; Fred’s gaze followed. He found himself looking down upon a stone-paved yard filled with loathsome human wreckage gibbering cripples, drooling monsters, vacant-eyed corpses with only the motions of life. Some had their hands strapped to their sides, others were almost naked. They sang, shouted, and laughed, prayed or were silent, according to their mental infirmities. It was an inferno all the more horrible because of its reality, a relentless nightmare from which there was no awakening.

Fred heard the man at his side chuckling ferociously.

His tormentor was laughing with insane cruelty. “The bull pen! Ha, ha, ha!”

Fred made his way back to his bed. Midway he stopped.

“Does everybody ...” he began to stammer “does everybody ... or only those who ...”

He broke off in despair. What could this mad giant tell him? But almost before the thought had escaped him his companion read his thought with uncanny precision.

“You think I don’t know!” the man said, tapping his head significantly. “But everybody ... they all ask me the same question. Yes ... you’ll take your turn, my friend. Don’t be afraid. They’ll give you the air in the bull pen, all right! Ha, ha, ha!” And with that he picked up the dishpan of untasted breakfast and hurried from the room.

Fred Starratt sank down upon the bed. His temples were throbbing and his body wet with an icy sweat.

He was roused by a vigorous but not ungentle tap upon the shoulder. He stumbled to his feet, shaking himself into a semblance of courage. But instead of the malevolent giant of the breakfast hour, a genial man of imposing bulk stood before him. “My name is Harrison,” his visitor began, kindly; “I’m an assistant to the superintendent... Perhaps you’d like to tell me something about yourself?”

Fred drew back a trifle. “Must I?...”

Harrison smiled as he seated himself in the chair.

“No ... but they usually do ... after the first night... It helps, sometimes, to talk.”

“I am afraid there’s nothing to tell... I’m here, and I’ll make the best of it...”

Fred wiped the clammy sweat from his forehead with a gesture of despair.

Harrison leaned forward. “Don’t you feel well?” he inquired.

“It’s nothing... I looked out into the yard this morning... I dare say one gets used to it but for the moment... You have other yards, I suppose... That is, I sha’n’t have to take the air there ... shall I ... in the bull pen?”

“It’s usual ... for the first day or two. But perhaps in your case ” Harrison broke off. “However, I can’t promise anything... If you’ll come to the office I’ll give you back your clothes.”

They went into the office together and Fred received his clothing duly marked with his name and ward. But his shoes were withheld and in their place he was given a pair of mismated slippers which proved too large. Harrison handed him two rag strips with which he tied them on. Looking down at the shapeless, flapping footgear, Fred Starratt felt his humiliation to be complete. He walked slowly back to his room.

The noise from the bull pen was deafening. He went to the window and steeled himself against the sight below... At first he shuddered, but gradually his hands became clenched, in answer to a rising determination. Why should he flinch from anything God himself could look upon?... He was still standing by the window when the gong for the midday meal sounded. The bull pen had long since been deserted and, with the foreground swept clean of its human excrescence, his purposeless gaze had wandered instinctively toward the promise of the forest-green hills in the distance.

He heard the familiar rush of feet toward the dining room and he was vaguely conscious that some one had halted before his door. He turned about. A young man, not over twenty-five, with a delicately chiseled face, was stepping into the room. As he drew closer Fred received the wistful impression of changing-blue eyes and a skin clear to the point of transparency. Fred met his visitor halfway.

“You came last night, didn’t you?” the youth began, offering a shy hand. “I saw you this morning. I was in the crowd that looked you over just before breakfast... What are you here for?”

Fred lifted his hand and let it fall again. “I made a mess of things... And you?”

“Booze,” the other replied, laconically. “I’ve been in three times... Let’s go down to lunch.” He slipped a friendly arm into Fred’s and together they walked with the rushing throng into the dining room.

It was a small room, everything considered, with tables built around the four walls and one large table in the center that seated about twenty-five people. Starratt and his new-found friend discovered two vacant seats upon the rude bench in front of the center table and sat down. They were each given a plate upon which was a potato and a small piece of cold beef and the inevitable hunk of dry bread. A large pitcher of tea stood within reach. There was neither milk nor sugar nor butter in evidence. A tablespoon and a tin cup were next handed them. Fred felt a sudden nausea. He closed his eyes for a moment, and when he looked up his plate had been swept clean of food.

“You’ve got to watch sharp,” the youth was saying. “They steal everything in sight if you let them... Here, have some of mine.”

Fred made a gesture of refusal. “It doesn’t matter,” he explained. “I’m not hungry.”

“You’d better eat something... Have some hot tea!”

It was a black, hair-raising brew, but Fred managed to force down a draught of it. About him on all sides men were tearing their meat with clawlike hands, digging their fangs into it in wolfish ferocity... A dishpan of rice was circulated. Fred took a few spoonfuls. Within fifteen minutes the meal was over and the dishpan, emptied of its rice, was passed again. Fred saw his companions flinging their spoons into it. He did likewise.

The youth arose. “Let’s get out of this and have a smoke... I’ve got the makings.”

A great surge of relief swept over Fred. A smoke! Somehow, he had forgotten that such a solace existed in this new world of terror and pain.

It appeared that the only place indoors where smoking was permitted was the lavatory, but when they reached the corridor they found a line forming ready to march out to take the air. They decided to wait and have their smoke in the open. Fred and his companion exchanged names. The youth was Felix Monet.

“I’m not sure whether you go out with us,” Monet admitted, as they swung into place. “This crowd is bound for the front parade ground. It’s not usual for newcomers to have that privilege.”

Fred made no reply. The line of men shuffled forward.

“We go downstairs first for our shoes,” the youth finished.

Presently they found themselves upon the ground floor, in a small room where an attendant distributed shoes and hats. It appeared that Fred’s shoes were there, duly labeled. The man in charge made no objection to yielding them up.

“You must have a pull,” Monet remarked, as Fred sat down upon a stool to draw on his shoes.

Fred shook his head in silence. Evidently the assistant superintendent had said a word for him. ... He was not to be put to the torture of the bull pen, then!

Outside, the air was warm and the sunlight dazzling. Fred felt a surge of red-blooded life sweep him as his quivering nostrils drank in the pungent odors from the midsummer foliage. Waves of heat floated wraithlike from the yellow stubble, bathing the distant hills in an arid-blue haze. At convenient intervals clumps of dark-green trees threw contrasting patches of shade upon the tawny, sun-bleached sod. But Fred ignored their cool invitation. He always had hated hot weather with all his coast-bred soul, but to-day a hunger for warmth possessed him completely.

Monet and he took a broad path which circled for about a quarter of a mile about the grounds. As they progressed, several joined them. Fred was introduced to each in turn, but he responded listlessly. Almost at once the newcomers hurled questions at him... Why was he there? ... How long was he in for? ... What did he think were the chances of escape? Inevitably, every conversation turned upon this last absorbing topic. These men seemed eager for confidences, they wanted to share their experiences, their grievances, their hopes. But Fred Starratt recoiled. He had not yet reached the stage when a thin trickle of words fell gratefully upon his ears. He had no desire to either hear or speak. All he craved was the healing silence of open spaces. But he was soon to learn that this new life held no such soul-cleansing solace. Gradually he fell a bit apart from his chattering comrades.

They passed an ill-kept croquet ground and some patches of garden where those who were so disposed could raise vegetables or flowers. There was something pathetic about the figures bending with childlike faith over their labor of love attempting to make nature smile upon them. Without the vision of the bull pen Fred Starratt would have found much that afternoon that was revolting. But one glimpse into the horrible inferno of the morning had made him less sensitive to milder impressions.

After a while Monet detached himself from the rest of the walking throng and fell back with Starratt. He seemed to have an instinctive gift for sensing moods, and Fred was grateful for his silence.

They were passing by a two-story concrete building in the Colonial style when Monet touched Fred’s arm.

“That’s the famous Ward Six,” Monet explained, softly. “You’ll get there finally if you work it right... It’s not heaven ... but alongside the other wards it comes pretty near being.”

They turned about shortly after this and began to retrace their steps. Presently a man came in sight, pulling a cardboard box mounted upon four spools.

“An inventor,” Monet said, as Fred threw out a questioning glance. “He has an idea that he’s perfected a wonderful automobile... You’ll get used to them after a while.”

A little farther on they met a haughty-looking Japanese coming toward them. Monet plucked at Fred’s sleeve. “Better step to one side,” he cautioned; “that fellow thinks he is the Emperor of Japan!”

Fred did as he was bidden and the Japanese swept past gloomily.

“Well, at least he’s happy, in his own way!” Monet commented, with a tinge of irony.

Soon after that another man passed, weeping bitterly.

“They call him the Weeping Willow,” Monet explained. “He weeps because he can find no one who will kill him.”

Fred shuddered.

By this time they had reached their starting point. Fred felt suddenly tired. “Let’s rest a bit under the trees,” he proposed.

Monet assented, and the two threw themselves into the first shade. Fred closed his eyes. He had a sense that he was dreaming that all the scenes that he had witnessed these many days were unreal. Presently he would wake up to the old familiar ring of his alarm clock, and gradually all the outlines of his bedroom would shape themselves to his recovered senses... There would stand Helen by her dressing table, stooping down to the mirror’s level as she popped her thick braids under her pink boudoir cap... In a few minutes the first whiffs of coffee would come floating in from the kitchenette. Then he would crawl slowly out from the warm bedclothes and stretch himself comfortably and give a sudden dash for the bathroom and his cold plunge. There would follow breakfast and the walk over the hill down to the office of Ford, Wetherbee & Co. in a mist-golden morning. And he would hear again the exchange of greetings, and find himself replying to the inevitable question:

“Well, what’s new?”

With the equally inevitable answer:

“Not a thing in the world!”

Some one was shaking him. He gave a quick gasp that ended in a groan as he opened his eyes. Monet was bending over him.

“You’ve been asleep,” his companion said. “Come, it’s time to go in... The bell for supper has rung... And you were dreaming, too ... I knew that because you smiled!”

Fred Starratt grasped Monet’s hand fervently.

“It was good of you to keep watch,” he murmured.

Monet answered with a warm pressure. And at that moment something deep and indefinable passed between them ... a silent covenant too precious for words.

Fred Starratt rose to his feet.

“Let us go in!” he said.

At supper Fred Starratt nibbled at some dry bread and drank another strong draught of tea. But he had to force himself to even this scant compromise with expediency. There followed smoking in the lavatory and at seven o’clock the call to turn in. Fred scurried confidently to his cell-like room ... he was quite ready for solitude.

An attendant was moving about. “You sleep in the first dormitory to-night,” he explained to Fred. “It’s at the end of the hall.”

Fred turned away in fresh despair.

Before the door of the first dormitory a number of men were undressing. Monet was in the group and a newspaper man named Clancy that Fred had met that afternoon. Fred stood a moment in indecision.

“You’ll have to strip out here,” Monet said, in a matter-of-fact tone. “Just leave your clothes in a pile close against the wall.”

Fred obeyed. The rest of the company regarded him with sinister curiosity. Except for Monet and Clancy all seemed obviously insane. One by one they filed into the room. Fred followed. Twelve spotlessly clean cots gleamed in the twilight.

The twelve men crawled into bed; the door was shut with a bang. Fred heard a key turn... They were locked in!

The ghostly day faded and night settled in. Fitful snorings and groans and incoherent mutterings broke the stillness. At intervals a man near the door would jump to his feet, proclaiming the end of the world. Sometimes his paroxysm was brief, but again he would keep up his leaping and solemn chanting until he fell to the floor in sheer exhaustion... Gradually even he became quiet, and nothing was audible except heavy breathing and the sound of the watchman in the corridor as he passed by regularly, flashing his light into the room through the slits in the door.

Fred Starratt did not close his eyes.