Hundreds of times I dreamed I was again at the "Planter's." I saw the wide corridors, with their mosaic pavement; I entered the grand dining-room, keeping timidly near the friend to whose kindness I owed this wonderful favor; I saw again the mirror-lined walls, the evergreen decked ceilings, the festoons and mottos, the tables gleaming with cutglass and silver, the buffets with wines and fruits, the brigade of sleek, black, white-aproned waiters, headed by one who had presence enough for a major General.

Again I reveled in all the dainties and dishes on the bill-of-fare; calling for everything that I dared to, just to see what each was like, and to be able to say afterwards that I had partaken of it; all these bewildering delights of the first realization of what a boy has read and wondered much over, and longed for, would dance their rout and reel through my somnolent brain.

Then I would awake to find myself a half-naked, half-starved, vermin-eaten wretch, crouching in a hole in the ground, waiting for my keepers to fling me a chunk of corn bread.
Naturally the boys--and especially the country boys and new prisoners -- talked much of victuals--what they had had, and what they would have again, when they got out.

Take this as a sample of the conversation which might be heard in any group of boys, sitting together on the sand, killin lice and talking of exchange: Tom--"Well, Bill, when we get back to God's country, you and Jim and John must all come to my house and take dinner with me.

I want to give you a square meal.