There is such a thing as anaesthesia of pain, engendered by pain too exquisite to be borne.

And I have known that anaesthesia.
By evening I was able to crawl about my cell, but not yet could I stand up.

I drank much water, and cleansed myself as well as I could; but not until next day could I bring myself to eat, and then only by deliberate force of my will.
The program me, as given me by Warden Atherton, was that I was to rest up and recuperate for a few days, and then, if in the meantime I had not confessed to the hiding-place of the dynamite, I should be given another ten days in the jacket.
"Sorry to cause you so much trouble, Warden," I had said in reply.

"It's a pity I don't die in the jacket and so put you out of your misery." At this time I doubt that I weighed an ounce over ninety pounds.

Yet, two years before, when the doors of San Quentin first closed on me, I had weighed one hundred and sixty-five pounds.