of prison existence.

He abstained from interfering with me and my studies, until it was
reported in our society, that in the sixth print of my series, Gentleman
Jones, highly caricatured, was to form one of the principal figures. He
then appealed to me personally and publicly, on the racket-ground, in
the following terms:

"Sir," said he, with his usual politeness and his unwavering smile, "you
will greatly oblige me by not caricaturing my personal peculiarities. I
am so unfortunate as not to possess a sense of humor; and if you did my
likeness, I am afraid I should not see the joke of it."

"Sir," I returned, with my customary impudence, "it is not of the
slightest importance whether _you_ see the joke of it or not. The public
will--and that is enough for me."

With that civil speech, I turned on my heel; and the prisoners near
all burst out laughing. Gentleman Jones, not in the least altered or
ruffled, smoothed down his wristbands, smiled, and walked away.

The same evening I was in my room alone, designing the new print, when
there came a knock at the door, and Gentleman Jones walked in. I got up,
and asked what the devil he wanted. He smiled, and turned up his long
wristbands.

"Only to give you a lesson in politeness," said Gentleman Jones.

"What do you mean, sir? How dare you--?"