I The dying sun grows pale with haze and fog. Slowly the dark-gray line undulates across the shop, and draws its sinuous length along the gloaming yard. The shadowy waves cleave the thickening mist, vibrate ghostlike, and are swallowed in the yawning blackness of the cell-house. "Aleck, Aleck!" I hear an excited whisper behind me, "quick, plant it. The screw's goin' t' frisk me." Something small and hard is thrust into my coat pocket. The guard in front stops short, suspiciously scanning the passing men. "Break ranks!" The overseer approaches me. "You are wanted in the office, Berk." The Warden, blear-eyed and sallow, frowns as I am led in. "What have you got on you?" he demands, abruptly. "I don't understand you." "Yes, you do. Have you money on you?" "I have not." "Who sends clandestine mail for you?" "What mail?" "The letter published in the Anarchist sheet in...