woman to lead me up the plank to reach the shore. An ambulance was standing there, and in it were the four other patients.
“What is this place?” I asked of the man, who had his fingers sunk into the flesh of my arm.
“Blackwell’s Island, an insane place, where you’ll never get out of.”
With this I was shoved into the ambulance, the springboard was put up, an officer and a mail-carrier jumped on behind, and I was swiftly driven to the Insane Asylum on Blackwell’s Island.
CHAPTER VIII.
INSIDE THE MADHOUSE.
As the wagon was rapidly driven through
the beautiful lawns up to the asylum my
feelings of satisfaction at having attained
the object of my work were greatly dampened
by the look of distress on the faces
of my companions. Poor women, they
had no hopes of a speedy delivery. They
were being driven to a prison, through
no fault of their own, in all probability
for life. In comparison, how much
easier it would be to walk to the gallows
than to this tomb of living horrors! On the wagon sped,
and I, as well as my comrades, gave a despairing farewell
glance at freedom as we came in sight of the long stone
buildings. We passed one low building, and the stench
was so horrible that I was compelled to hold my breath,
and I mentally decided that it was the kitchen. I afterward
found I was correct in my surmise, and smiled at
the signboard at the end of the walk: “Visitors are not
allowed on this road.” I don’t think the sign would be
