"Well, Judge Mullowny gave her thirty days for her first offense, and when he sentenced her, she cried out desperately, `Don't send me down there, Judge! If you do, I'll kill myself!' What do you think he said to that? `I'll give you six months in which to change your mind!"'

I reflected. The judge that broke this pale-faced, silent girl was the appointee of the President. It was the task of such a man to sentence American women to the workhouse for demanding liberty.

Conversing with the "regulars" was forbidden by the wardress, but we managed, from time to time, to talk to our fellow prisoners with stealthiness.

"We knew somethin' was goin' to happen," said one negro girl, "because Monday the close we had on wer' took off us an' we were giv' these old patched ones. We wuz told they wanted to take `stock,’ but we heard they wuz bein' washed fo' you-all suff'agettes."

The unpleasantness at wearing the formless garments of these unfortunates made us all wince. But the government's calculation aroused our hot indignation. We were not convicted until Tuesday and our prison garments were ready Monday!

"You must not speak against the President," said the servile wardress, when she discovered we were telling our story to the inmates. "You know you will be thrashed if you say anything more about the President; and don't forget you're on Government property and may be arrested for treason if it happens again."

We doubted the seriousness of this threat of thrashing until one of the girls confided to us that such outrages happened often. We afterward obtained proof of these brutalities.[1]

"Old Whittaker beat up that girl over there just last week and put her in the `booby' house on bread and water for five days."

"What did she do?" I asked.

"Oh, she an' another girl got to scrapping in the blackberry patch and she didn't pick enough berries. ."

"All put up your work, girls, and get in line." This from the wardress, who sped up the work in the sewing room. It was lunch time, and though we were all hungry we dreaded going to the silence and the food in that gray dining room with the vile odors. We were counted again as we filed out, carrying our heavy chairs with us as is the workhouse custom.

[1]See affidavit of Mrs. Bovee, page 144.

"Do they do this all the time?" I asked. It seemed as though needless energy was being spent counting and recounting our little group.

"Wouldn't do anybody any good to try to get away from here," said one of the white girls. "Too many bloodhounds!"

"Bloodhounds!" I asked in amazement, for after all these women were not criminals but merely misdemeanants.

"Oh, yes. Just a little while ago, three men tried to get away and they turned bloodhounds after them and shot them dead-and they weren't bad men either."