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bravery, as well as to pay for bills incurred while being sick. The relatives of Mr. Heilman also received a small amount. The friends and relatives of all the murdered prison officials will derive comfort from the public consciousness that they died faithful to the service allotted them by their fellow men, and unfalteringly gave their lives to the service of society, as verily as does - the soldier who falls on the field of battle in the service of his country.

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CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
BIRDS OF A FEATHER FLOCK TOGETHER

Those were gloomy days following upon the murder of the warden. The place seemed so strange and empty without him. Everybody looked sad and said but little. It was indeed a sad sight to look at Frank, the warden's janitor and messenger. Every morning the colored man used to come to the office and shine the warden's shoes. He entered the office in silence and left the same way. To Frank, the warden was the greatest man in the world as well as his best friend. On the morning following the murder, Frank came into the office, and looking at the vacant chair wept bitterly. "This place is so lonesome without the warden; I wish I could have gone with him," said the faithful colored man. For over a week he went along with his work grief-stricken and without speaking to anyone, and eating barely enough to sustain life.

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The following week was "letter day" at the prison and nearly every inmate wrote a letter. All deplored the murder of the warden and many spoke bitterly of the murderers and those who instigated the murder. The following letter written by a poor sick boy to his mother in Sioux City, Iowa, is a fair example of the many that went out:

LANCASTER, NEBRASKA, March 25, 1912.

"My DARLING MOTHER: I will write you a few lines to let you know that I am out of the hospital and am feeling better. Mother, I don't know if you will ever get this letter, but I hope you do. I know that you have read in the papers about the awful murder of our good warden. I know that he is up among the angels in heaven now. Mother, I want you to know that I was neither hurt nor mixed up in that awful murder. The warden was on the square and we all liked him. I sat on the hospital steps the other day when he came along. He walked slowly and looked as if he was worried. He asked me how I felt. I told him that I was getting better, but had no appetite, that the only thing I could eat was an orange, but that I had no money to buy one with. He said that he would see that I got some. That same day he brought me a big bag of fine oranges and told me that he would bring some more. Mother, I want you to pray for his mother, she is so good and kind. Colonel Presson preached a fine sermon the other day, for the chaplain got fired. We have anew chaplain now, he has not preached yet, but he has gone from cell to

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cell and visited with us. He is a young man and I know that his heart is not petrified. Mother, pray for me that I may live and get home in August, when my time is up.

Love to all,     

GEORGE."

Letters of sympathy came pouring in from all corners of the world and hundreds of letters came to the inmates deploring the murder. There was grief and sorrow in every place, except in Tecumseh. Never during the life of the warden had the former chaplain gone to him and talked over prison matters. Never had he complained to him, never had he given an interview or explanation to a Lincoln paper - never. But when the warden lay cold in death, he gives out a statement to a little socialist paper way down in Kansas. I am not saying anything against socialism for it has many good features, but I am not in sympathy with those socialists, who, during a spell of over enthusiasm, go too far and become anarchists, and use their sheets to uphold and further bloody murder and many lesser crimes. This paper is supposed to stand for