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If you are not located in the United States, you -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this eBook. - -Title: You can't win - -Author: Jack Black - -Contributor: Robert Herrick - -Release Date: November 21, 2022 [eBook #69404] - -Language: English - -Produced by: Joshua Lund (This file was produced from images generously - made available by The Internet Archive) - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK YOU CAN'T WIN *** - -YOU CAN’T WIN - - - - - You Can’t Win - BY - JACK BLACK - - With a foreword by - ROBERT HERRICK - - New York - THE MACMILLAN COMPANY - 1926 - *All rights reserved* - - - - - Copyright 1925, - By Jack Black. - - Copyright 1926, - By The Macmillan Company. - --- - Set up and electrotyped. - Published September, 1926. - - Reprinted October, 1926. - Reprinted December, 1926. - - Printed in the United States of America - By The Cornwall Press - - - - -ACKNOWLEDGMENT - - -This book is dedicated to Fremont Older, to Judge Frank H. Dunne, to the -unnamed friend who sawed me out of the San Francisco jail and to that -dirty, drunken, disreputable, crippled beggar, “Sticks” Sullivan, who -picked the buckshot out of my back—under the bridge—at Baraboo, -Wisconsin. - - The Author. - - - - -FOREWORD - - -The revelations of a thief or of a prostitute are rightfully suspected -by the normal citizen of having been dressed for publicity, either -sensational or sentimental or both. An unstable emotionalism in the -subject, perhaps psychopathic, induces a melodramatic and unreal -treatment of past experience. The tale is told not as it happened but -rather as the subject likes, in reverie, to think it happened or as he -believes the reader would like to have had it happen. There is nothing -of that sort in Jack Black’s story of his life as a professional thief. -The honesty of the “confession” is self-evident. With a few lapses into -the conventional, the expected, he displays the rare literary power of -letting the facts speak for themselves, without any window-dressing, -either lachrymose or hilarious. He has an instinct for realities. - -Indeed it is that mental grip, enabling him to perceive and apply -realities, that obviously brought him out in the end so that he could -break the shackles of his criminal habits and reinstate himself -completely in accord with society. It was almost purely a mental feat. -At the end, to be sure, he dwells upon the helpfulness of kind friends, -especially of Mr. Older, of the “square deal” he got from Judge Dunne, -and recognizes fully the impulse of gratitude to a friend who helped him -escape from prison by “cutting out the hop”—the hardest single bond he -had to break. Those were emotional responses. But if it had not been -for his own good mind which he had slowly disciplined by reason, that -resolve “to go straight” would have been but another feeble human -aspiration for amendment with which the human hell is paved. The chief -interest I find in Black’s rapid survey of his life as a thief is this -progress of mental awakening and a corresponding growth of character -as a man, without which all the help of kind and enlightened friends -would have availed naught. It is what Black did for himself, what he -was, that counted most. - -Jack Black was an experimental psychologist: he discovered slowly and -painfully, as most do, the psychological character of himself and of the -world in which he was placed. Thus he explored the law of habit and the -purely mental quality of self-control long before he attempted to apply -his knowledge to his own case. Any habit, he maintains, apropos of the -opium habit, can be broken provided the victim *wants* sufficiently to -change, and he notes the power of substitution, welcoming even his -worries as distractions, mentally, from the obsession of opium. His -emphasis on the necessity of a subjective desire for change is an -unerring diagnosis of self. He wanted another kind of life enough to -make it come true. That is the great distinction of Jack Black as -professional lawbreaker and person. - -His case is so common in our restless, mobile civilization that it may -be called typical or standard. An active, intelligent, likable boy with -no stable ties, he adventured on the open road, almost by accident, the -wide world tempting him on, took what he wanted, learned the habits and -the resources of vagrancy, of criminality, of vice. But he did not sink -to the dregs per formula. He went to the top of his society. Stirred by -emulation with the only companions he had—hoboes, thieves, gamblers, -yeggs—he distinguished himself not only by success in individual -exploits but by a superiority of character that would not break, -“snitch,” or play the other fellow’s game—and by loyalty to his mates. - -Then came as he was emerging from youth the chance that landed him in a -well-run Canadian prison and fertilized the seed of intellectual -interest by giving him access to a good library. For the first time he -discovered consciously his own mind—the interest of it—and from this -period it is evident that the habit of reading, of thinking, gained on -him until with relentless logic his mind, thus freed and fed, convinced -him that his boy’s life of defiance and lawlessness was wrong. After he -was convinced, it took years to free himself from all the implications -of twenty years of crime. But once convinced, with a mind of that -quality, the result was inevitable. Strange irony that the mental life -so essential to Black’s salvation should have been further fostered by -the gift of a library which Abe Ruef gave to the prison where he and -Black happened to be fellow prisoners. Ruef had taken the money which he -bestowed in this form on his fellow criminals from the public of San -Francisco. Mr. Fremont Older, as a powerful newspaper editor, was -largely responsible for putting Ruef into the prison (and later in -freeing him!) where Ruef was indirectly an instrument in freeing Jack -Black from his bonds. - -There was an aspect of the Canadian-prison experience less commendable -than its order and its providing the prisoners with a good library, -its wholesome and on the whole human management so glaringly in -contrast with the American prisons pictured in this story—and that -was flogging. In these days of a return to medieval punishments -for criminals, advocated by many leading citizens, it is well to -realize how devastating to Black were his two experiences of brutal -force—flogging in Canada, the strait-jacket in Folsom. They made -him—and many others—inhuman wild beasts ready for murder or suicide. -They left Black not cowed, but mutinous, hating and hateful. The -experience was wholly bad and futile, except possibly as a test of his -own growing self-control. It does not need Jack Black’s corroborative -evidence to know that brutality does not pay, even when applied to the -dangerous and to the outcast. In spite of the talk about reviving the -whipping post, we know that the use of physical brutality—floggings, -strait-jackets, and third-degree methods—will disappear: they are -failures in getting results from human beings. It is only a crude -society, as ours still is largely, that would tolerate what goes on -often in our larger prisons, where the application of “justice” is left -to a class little removed from the criminals on whom they operate. To -maim and mutilate human beings, to terrify and brutalize them in order -to correct them, is so obviously foolish and wicked that it hardly -needs statement. - -In some cases like Black’s the victim is not broken, but tempered and -hardened in will, in evil. And that brings me to the most depressing -fact in criminology that the present book illustrates: the criminal is -almost always of an inferior mentality. It is only a superior mentality -such as Black’s that can survive and ultimately win freedom. Probably -Jack Black would admit that among his wide acquaintance in the criminal -class only a few, a very few, had the mental quality, the character, to -break their chains. The mass were condemned to remain criminals because -of defective mentality. That suggests inevitably the confused subject of -eugenics and birth control, in society’s relation to the criminal class, -which it so much fears and detests, but before which it so often seems, -as at the present moment, hopeless, like an ignorant, half well-meaning -parent angry over a troublesome child whose troublesomeness is in large -part the fruit of the parent’s own defective character. Many of these -aberrant specimens might be deflected from crime by feeding their minds. -Few ever can do it for themselves as Black almost wholly did it for -himself. Does modern life offer youth sufficient mental stimulus? The -motor car, the movie, bootleg liquor, and sex—these are the raw stimuli -with which youth tries to infuse some color and movement into the -tyrannous drabness of a standardized industrial life. In drawing his -moral at the end Black forgets, as the middle-aged are wont to forget, -the glamour and the lure of the “hangout” and the open road, which in -his boyhood seemed to be the only way out of a cheerless drudgery. -There are, of course, many other ways, which Black discovered later for -himself. And that is why I think his story is so well worth while -reading and pondering upon. Besides it is entertaining, because -unvarnished and unpretentious. - - Robert Herrick. - - - - -YOU CAN’T WIN - - - - -CHAPTER I - - -I am now librarian of the *San Francisco Call*. - -Do I look like one? I turn my chair so I can look in the mirror. I don’t -see the face of a librarian. There is no smooth, high, white forehead. -I do not see the calm, placid, composed countenance of the student. The -forehead I see is high enough, but it is lined with furrows that look -like knife scars. There are two vertical furrows between my eyes that -make me appear to be wearing a continual scowl. My eyes are wide enough -apart and not small, but they are hard, cold, calculating. They are -blue, but of that shade of blue farthest removed from the violet. - -My nose is not long, not sharp. Nevertheless it is an inquisitive nose. -My mouth is large—one corner of it is higher than the other and I appear -to be continually sneering. I do not scowl, I do not sneer; yet there is -something in my face that causes a man or woman to hesitate before -asking to be directed to Dr. Gordon’s church. I can’t remember a time -that any woman, young or old, ever stopped me on the street and asked to -be directed. Once in a great while a drunk will roll over to where I am -standing and ask how he can get to “Tw’ninth ’n’ Mission.” - -If I gaze into the mirror long enough and think hard enough I can -conjure up another face. The old one seems to dissolve and in its place -I see the face of a schoolboy—a bright, shining, innocent face. I see a -mop of white hair, a pair of blue eyes, and an inquisitive nose. I see -myself standing on the broad steps of the Sisters’ Convent School. At -the age of fourteen, after three years’ “board and tuition,” I am -leaving to go home to my father and then to another school for “big -boys.” - -My teacher, a sweet, gentle Sister, a madonna, is holding my hand. She -is crying. I must hurry away or I will be crying, too. The Mother -Superior says good-by. Her thin lips are pressed so tightly together -that I can barely see the line where they meet. She is looking into my -eyes intently and I am wondering what she is going to say to me when the -crunching of gravel warns us that the old coach is ready and I must be -off. The Mother takes my teacher gently by the hand. I see them go -through the wide door and disappear silently down the long, dark hall. - -All the boys in the school, and there were fifty of them, lined up and -gave me a noisy send-off. The old coachman clucked to his horses, and I -was off for the train—and the world. - -Any reader with a spoonful of imagination can picture me going home, -then to other schools in turn, then to some sort of an office job; -advancement here and there, always leading a well-ordered, quiet, -studious life, until he finally places me in the respectable and -responsible position of librarian of a metropolitan newspaper. That’s -the way it should have been, but wasn’t. - -The course I followed from that convent school to this library desk, if -charted on a piece of paper, would look like the zigzag line that -statisticians use to denote the rise and fall of temperature or rainfall -or fluctuations of business. Every turn I made was a sharp one, a sudden -one. In years I cannot remember making one easy, graceful, rounded turn. - -It has often been a question with me just how much the best of it a boy -has, who has his mother with him until his feet are well planted under -him; who has a home and its influences until he gathers some kind of a -working philosophy that helps him to face the world. There is no -substitute for the home and the mother. - -It may not mean much to the average chap to have a friend say: “John, I -want you to meet my mother.” To me it means more than I can put on -paper. It seems to explain to me why the man who so proudly says, “This -is my mother,” is so many things that I am not and never can be. The -insurance people have not yet got to the stage of insuring a man against -a lifetime of failure, but if they ever do, I imagine the chap who can -guarantee them that he will keep his mother with him until he is twenty -will have a shade the best of it when he pays his premium. - -I am not lugging in the fact that I was left motherless at the age of -ten to alibi myself away from anything. Nevertheless I think a fellow -has the right to ask himself if things might not have been different. My -mother died before I got very well acquainted with her—I doubt if any -child gives its parents much thought before the age of twelve or -thirteen. - -I probably thought that my mother was a person put into the world to -scrub my face and neck and to be screamed and kicked at; to put -scratchy, flannel rags around my neck with smelly grease on them when I -had the croup; and to stand by the bed and keep me in it when I had the -measles. I can remember distinctly how angry I became when she brought -me a nice, new toothbrush and showed me what to do with it. - -This was the greatest indignity of all—the last straw. I threw the thing -away and refused to use it; told her up and down that I was “no girl” -and wouldn’t have any “girl things.” She did not get angry and scold; -she just went on with her work, smiling. She may have been pleased with -my manly outburst. I don’t know. - -I don’t remember that I was shocked or pained when she was buried. I -cried, because it was expected of me. Mother’s relatives, a couple of -sisters, whom I never saw before or since, were crying. I saw tears in -my father’s eyes. So I tried to cry, and did. I know my father realized -what we had lost and his grief was genuine, but I could not feel it -then. - -A few days later father sold our little cottage home and furnishings and -we moved into the only hotel in the little town. Schools were few and -far between for poor children then. I played around the hotel all day, -running wild, till father came home from work. He would have his dinner, -read a paper, and then put me to bed. After that he would read a book -for an hour and go to bed himself. We lived this way for almost a year. -Some nights he would put down his book and look at me strangely for -minutes at a time. I was a problem, undoubtedly, and he was trying to -decide what to do with me. A ten-year-old boy without a mother is a -fit problem for any father’s mind, and my father was a thoughtful man. - -Looking back at it, it seems to me that I was blown here and there like -a dead leaf whipped about by the autumn winds till at last it finds -lodgment in some cozy fence corner. When I left school at fourteen I was -as unsophisticated as a boy could be. I knew no more of the world and -its strange way than the gentle, saintly woman who taught me my prayers -in the convent. - -Before my twentieth birthday, I was in the dock of a criminal court, on -trial for burglary. I was acquitted, but that is another story. In six -years I had deserted my father and home, gone “on the road.” I had -become a snapper-up of small things, a tapper of tills, a street-door -sneak thief, a prowler of cheap lodging houses, and at last a promising -burglar in a small way. - -At twenty-five I was an expert house burglar, a nighttime prowler, -carefully choosing only the best homes—homes of the wealthy, careless, -insured people. I “made” them in the small hours of the night, always -under arms. - -At thirty I was a respected member of the “yegg” brotherhood, a thief of -which little is known. He is silent, secretive, wary; forever traveling, -always a night “worker.” He shuns the bright lights, seldom straying far -from his kind, never coming to the surface. Circulating through space -with his always-ready automatic, the yegg rules the underworld of -criminals. At forty I found myself a solitary, capable journeyman -highwayman; an escaped convict, a fugitive, with a background of -twenty-five years in the underworld. - -A bleak background! Crowded with robberies, burglaries, and thefts too -numerous to recall. All manner of crimes against property. Arrests, -trials, acquittals, convictions, escapes. Penitentiaries! I see in the -background four of them. County jails, workhouses, city prisons, Mounted -Police barracks, dungeons, solitary confinement, bread and water, -hanging up, brutal floggings, and the murderous straitjacket. - -I see hop joints, wine dumps, thieves’ resorts, and beggars’ hangouts. - -Crime followed by swift retribution in one form or another. - -I had very few glasses of wine as I traveled this route. I rarely saw a -woman smile and seldom heard a song. - -In those twenty-five years I took all these things, and I am going to -write about them. - -And I am going to write about them as I took them —with a smile. - - - - -CHAPTER II - - -I was a problem to my father, running loose about the hotel while he was -at work, and finally he took me to a Catholic school one hundred miles -away. On that short trip my father and I got to be good friends, and I -think I was closer to him that day than on any other of our lives. -Father left that evening and told me to be good, mind the Sisters, and -study hard. - -I fell into my groove in the school with other boys of my age. Our days -were passed pleasantly with our small studies, many prayers, and daily -attendance at mass. The food was coarse but wholesome. - -I never went home at vacation time. I spent those days in exploring -near-by orchards, gardens, and fields, picking up fruit, vegetables, and -berries, and other things that help to take the edge off a small boy’s -appetite. - -I spent much time about the barns and stables with Thomas, the coachman. -I was an expert listener, a rare talent, inherited from my father, no -doubt. Thomas was a ready talker. This is a combination that never -fails to make firm and lasting friendships, and we became friends. He -was a veteran of our Civil War, had been on the losing side, and came -out of it full of hatred, lead, and rheumatism. His heroes were not Lee -or Stonewall Jackson, but Quantrell, the guerrilla, Jesse and Frank -James, Cole and Bob Younger. - -I never tired of listening to his war stories, and often found myself -piecing them together in the schoolroom when I should have been active -with my studies. - -I believe I was the only boy at the school who never went away on -holidays and vacations to visit parents or relatives. The Sister -Superior, probably realizing that my life was a bit too drab, often gave -me the privilege of going to the village for mail and papers. This was -a rare treat, and much sought by all the boys. It meant a long walk, a -stroll down the village street, a chance to see people, maybe to buy a -fat sandwich, a bag of peanuts, or a bottle of pop—no small things in a -boy’s life. It also meant authority and responsibility, good things for -a boy. I looked forward to these journeys. I always had a little small -silver, for spending, from my father. - -The time passed quickly and pleasantly enough. I learned many prayers, -practiced for singing in the church choir, and became an altar boy, -serving the priest at mass. I liked learning the prayers and the Latin -responses to the priest, but did not make much headway with my other -studies. - -I liked the dear, simple old priest to whom I made my first confession, -and at times thought I would like some day to be a priest myself. -Between my admiration for old Thomas, the coachman, with his stormy -stories of the war, and my love for the quiet old priest, my mind was -always pulling me this way and that—whether I should become a priest, -or a soldier like Tommy, limping around with his short leg and his -rheumatism. - -One day when I was waiting for the mail I heard a nice old lady ask the -postmaster whose boy I was. - -He said, “That’s one of the boys from the convent. You can tell them a -block away. They are all perfect little gentlemen. They say ‘Please’ and -‘Thank you.’ I do not know how the Sisters do it, but they can surely -bring boys up. I wish I could do it with mine.” - -When I returned with the mail I told the Superior what I heard the -postmaster say about her and her boys. She seemed very much pleased, -smiled, and said: “Boys are good when they are taught to say their -prayers and to fear God.” Shortly after, I was appointed “mailman.” I -went to the village every day after school. When the weather was fine I -walked; if it was bad, I rode in or on the coach with Tommy. This was -the first and only “appointment” of my life. I did not think it over -then, but I know now I was not given it because I said “please” or my -prayers—I got it because I had told the Superior the nice things the -postmaster said. “Please” is a good word in its place; but it does not -get one appointed to anything. It has a proper place in a small boy’s -vocabulary. And it is also much used by a certain class of prisoners and -supplicants who are always “pleasing” somebody and are never pleasant to -anybody. - -Your capable beggar on the street does not say “please.” He rips off his -spiel in such exact and precise language that he gets your dime without -it. You so admire his “art” that you do not miss the “please.” His is an -art. He omits the “please” because he knows you do not use it except -when you want the mustard. - -Looking back, it seems to me that our life in the convent was not -properly balanced. We had none of the rough, boisterous times so dear to -the small boy, no swimming, baseball, football. We were a little too -cloistered, too quiet, too subdued. There was no wrestling, no boxing, -no running and jumping and squabbling and shuffling and shouldering -about. Of course I learned all those later. But I learned them quickly, -too quickly—all in a bunch. That put me out of balance again. Those -exercises should have been mixed in with my studies and prayers. - -One stormy day I came out of the post office and as usual handed up the -paper to Tommy, whose habit it was to glance at the headlines and return -it to me. This day, however, he found something that interested him. He -put the horses’ lines between his legs and crossed his knees on them. I -sat beside him on the box and shivered in the wind. He read on and on, -column after column, then turned to an inner page, fighting the paper in -the wind. - -At last, and it seemed an hour, he folded it up carefully and returned -it to me. “Good news to-day, Tommy?” “No, boy, no good news. Bad news, -awful news, terrible news.” He spoke in an awed voice, a voice that -carried reverence. “Terrible news —Jesse James has been murdered, -murdered in cold blood and by a traitor.” - -He fell silent and spoke to me no more that day. Later he told me many -things about Jesse James. He worshiped him, and like many other good -people of Missouri firmly believed that neither of the James boys ever -fired a shot except in defense of their rights. - -I delivered the mail and hastened to tell the other boys that Jesse -James was dead, “murdered.” Many of the older boys knew all about him—he -was their hero, too—and the things they told me made me decide to get -the paper and read his story myself. The next day, strangely enough, I -passed the Superior’s office when she was out to lunch. The paper was -folded neatly, lying on some older papers on the corner of her neat -desk. I walked in and took it. I put it away carefully, but many days -passed before I got to the reading of it. I was so occupied with my -duties as altar boy, and so busy with preparing for my first communion -and learning new prayers, that the James boys and all other worldly -things had no place in my mind. - -Those were intense days. I lived in another world. - -At last I found time to read my paper. On my way for the mail I slowly -dug out the story of Jesse James’ life and death, word by word. How I -studied the picture of this bearded and be-pistoled hero! And the -sketches of his shooting and the house in which it was done. Then came -the story of his bereaved mother. How my boyish sympathy went out to -her, as she wept for her loss and told the story of the lifelong -persecution of her boys, Jesse and Frank, and how she feared that the -hunted fugitive, Frank James, would also be dealt with in the same -traitorous fashion. How I loathed the traitor, Bob Ford, one of the -James boys gang, who shot Jesse when his back was turned, for a reward! -How I rejoiced to read that Ford was almost lynched by friends and -admirers of Jesse, and had to be locked in the strongest jail in the -state to protect him from a mobbing. I finished the story entirely and -wholly in sympathy with the James boys, and all other hunted, outlawed, -and outraged men. - -When I had done with the paper I passed it along to the other boys, who -read it and handed it about till it was finally captured by the -Superior. It was limp and ragged from usage. The Superior promptly -traced it back to me. When asked where I got it, I told her I had taken -it from her desk. I was lectured severely on the wrong of taking things -without asking for them. I told her I did not ask for it because I was -afraid she might refuse me. She said nothing, and did not offer to give -me any, from which I understood that we were not to have papers. I was -also relieved of my job as mailman. I was no longer to be trusted. - -My teacher heard of my disgrace. She took me into her study, and we -talked the thing over. The loss of my job was nothing; I would be going -home soon, anyway. I must not feel bad about the lecture, I had done -nothing wrong. I would have returned the paper, only the other boys -wanted to read it. I discovered that she looked at it the same way I -did. - -She asked me if I wanted more papers. I was on fire for papers and told -her so. She promised to get me one every day, and did. When I read it I -returned it to her. - -The James boys’ story ran on for days and I followed it word for word, -sympathizing with the hunted fugitive, Frank, wishing I were old enough -and strong enough to find him and help him escape his pursuers and -avenge his brother’s death. - -When that story was over I turned to other crime stories and read -nothing else in the papers. Burglaries, robberies, murders—I devoured -them all, always in sympathy with the adventurous and chance-taking -criminals. I reconstructed their crimes in my boyish mind and often -pictured myself taking part in them. I neglected my studies and prayers -to rove about in fancy with such heroes as Jimmy Hope, Max Shinburn, and -“Piano Charlie,” famous “gopher men,” who tunneled under banks like -gophers and carried away their plunder after months of dangerous -endeavor. - -Looking back now I can plainly see the influence the James boys and -similar characters had in turning my thoughts to adventure and later to -crime. - - - - -CHAPTER III - - -At last the day came for me to go home, for I had passed my fourteenth -birthday and was too old to stay at the Sisters’ School. - -I wanted to kiss my favorite teacher good-by, but didn’t quite dare do -it. So I rode down to the station with Tommy, who bought me a fifty-cent -knife, out of his salary, only twelve dollars a month, and went away to -join my father. - -Father took me back to the same hotel, to the same room. He had occupied -it during the three years I had been away, and the only change was that -he put a small bed in it for me. Everything was new and strange to me. -Men coming and going all day, eating and drinking. Everything was noise -and bustle, and it took me a few days to get used to this new life. - -I found lots of papers lying around—some cheap novels, Police Gazettes, -etc.—and I read them all, everything I could get hold of. I saw my -father only at night, and occasionally we would take a walk then for an -hour. - -One evening as we were returning from our walk, we came upon a man whose -team of horses was stalled in a mud hole. He was beating the horses, and -cursing them with the most fearful oaths. I stopped still in my tracks -and began praying for him. Father looked back, saw me standing still, -and said: “What are you doing, John, listening to that mule skinner -swear?” - -I finished my prayer and caught up with him. - -“You will learn to swear soon enough, John, without stopping to listen -to these teamsters,” he said a little severely. - -In self-defense I told him I was not listening to the man, but praying -for him. “The Sisters taught us to do that,” I said. “They taught us to -pray for all sinners.” - -Father wore a long beard, the custom of his day. When he was very -thoughtful or vexed with some problem, he had a habit of twisting up the -end of his beard into a pigtail. He would then put the pigtail between -his teeth and chew on it. - -After I explained what I had been doing, he looked at me strangely, -twisted up his beard, put the end in his mouth, and began chewing. He -took my hand, something he never did before, and we walked home in -silence. He went straight upstairs, and I found some fresh papers, which -I read downstairs. When I went up to go to bed he was sitting in his -chair, staring at the wall and still chewing his beard. My coming -aroused him. He said, “Good night, John,” and we went to bed. - -The next evening he came in as usual. He read his paper and I read -whatever came to my hand. When we went upstairs, he said: “John, the -Sisters taught you many prayers, did they?” “Yes, sir, all the prayers. -I know them all,” I said proudly. - -“How about reading?” he asked. I read him a piece from a newspaper -fairly well. - -“And writing, John? Yes, I know you learned to write and spell. Your -letters to me were very good. How’s your arithmetic, John? How many are -eight times nine, John?” - -I was stuck. I hesitated and blushed. He saw my confusion and gave me an -easier one. “Seven times six, John?” - -I was stuck again and got more confused. “Start at the beginning, John, -maybe you can get it that way.” - -I started at seven times one, got as far as seven times four, and fell -down. This was torture. I think he saw it, too, for he said, “Oh, well, -John, that will come to you later. Don’t worry about it; just keep on -trying.” - -He was a sharp at mathematics, and I think my failure to learn -multiplication hurt him more than if he had caught me spelling bird with -a “u,” or sugar with two “gs.” After a month of idleness it was decided -that I should go to the district school, which had been built in our -town while I was at the Sisters’. I got a new set of books and started -bravely off. - -We had a woman teacher, very strict, but fair to us all. I learned -rapidly everything but arithmetic, which did not seem to agree with me, -nor does it yet, for that matter. I also learned to play ball, football, -marbles, and, I must admit, hooky, the most fascinating of all small-boy -games. These new games, and so many other interesting new things, soon -crowded the prayers into the background of my mind, but not entirely out -of it. I said them no more at night and morning, nor any other time. But -I still remember them, and I believe now, after forty prayerless years, -I could muster a passable prayer if the occasion required it and there -were not so many people about who could do it so much better. - -After school, having no chores to do, I loitered around the hotel -office. One day I found a dime novel entitled, “The James Boys.” I -seized upon it and devoured it. After that I was always on the lookout -for dime novels. I found a place where they were sold. I would buy one -and trade with some other boy when it was read. If I could not trade -it, I took it back to the store and the woman gave me a five-cent one -for it. The nickel one was just as thrilling, but shorter. I read them -all. “Old Sleuth,” “Cap Collier,” “Frank Reade,” “Kit Carson.” -Father saw me with them, but never bothered me. One day he brought -me one of Fenimore Cooper’s Leatherstocking tales. I read it and -was cured of the five- and ten-cent novels. - -Between going to school and to the depot in the evening to see the train -come in, and hanging around the hotel bar watching the town’s celebrated -ones, especially the “bad men” who had killed or shot somebody somewhere -some time, I put in fairly busy days. The time flew. - -I got to be quite looked up to by the other boys of my age. I “lived at -the hotel,” had “nobody to boss me around,” didn’t have to “run errands -and chop kindling and go after the groceries and carry milk.” When a new -boy showed up, I was the one to show him around. I remember distinctly, -now, that in less than a year after I left the Sisters, I was going down -the street with a new boy when we came upon one of the town drunkards -and bad men. I pointed him out with pride. “See that old fellow? That’s -old Beverly Shannon. He’s been out to Leadville. He killed a man out -there and nearly got hung. You ought to hear him swear when he gets -drunk and falls down and nobody will help him up.” - -There was admiration in my voice. Our town was full of bad men. All had -been in the war on one side or the other. Everybody had a pistol or two, -and a shotgun or a rifle. Everybody knew how to use them. No small -boy’s outfit was complete without a pistol. Usually it was a rusty old -“horse pistol,” a cap-and-ball affair, some old relic of the Civil War. -By a great stroke of fortune I got two of them. I was helping an old -lady to move some things out of her cellar when we ran across them in a -trunk. - -“Lord, Lord,” she said, “are those awful things here yet? I thought they -had been thrown away years ago. Johnnie, take them out and bury them -somewhere. Throw them away so I will never see them again.” - -These two old pistols made me feel important, established. I began to -look about me. It was time I began to be somebody. My latest hero was -the man that kept the bar in the hotel. He owned the building, leased -the hotel, and ran the bar himself. He was a fat man, and he wore a -fancy striped vest with a heavy gold watch chain across it and a -twenty-dollar gold piece dangled from the chain for a charm. He had -been out to California. It was the only twenty-dollar piece in the town. -He was a small politician, the town fixer. When anybody got into any -trouble and had to go before the justice of the peace, he went down to -the hotel and saw “Cy” Near. Cy would say, “Leave it to me, that’s all, -leave it to me.” When it was all over the fellow would come down to -“Cy’s” and order drinks for everybody in sight, several times. Then he -would say, “What do I owe you, Cy?” - -“Owe me? Owe me for what?” - -“Why, you know, Cy, for fixing up that little trouble.” - -“Oh, that’s what you mean. Say, you don’t owe me a thin dime, not a -greasy nickel.” Cy would wave a fat arm in the air. “I don’t take money -for helping my friends. I sell licker, good licker; that’s my business.” - -The chap would buy a few more rounds of drinks, thank Cy again, and -start for the door. Cy would shout, “Hey, George, I forgot to tell you. -I’m rafflin’ off a hoss an’ buggy and you’d better take a half dozen -tickets. You stand to win a good rig.” - -Around election time Cy would round up all the fellows he could, remind -them that he had befriended them, and say, “What do we care who’s -President of the United States? What we want is a decent justice of the -peace and town marshal.” - -I decided to pattern my life after Cy’s. He was a popular, successful -man. I began swinging my arms about, talking in a loud, hoarse voice, -wearing my hat on the back of my head. Cy smoked big cigars. I tried -one, and gave up the notion of smoking, at least for a while. - -It was not long till my fancy for the saloon keeper changed. One evening -when the train came in a single traveler got off. He was a tall, lean -man, who walked like a soldier, erect and with a confident step. He had -a short, stubby, gray mustache. He wore a gray suit, a gray hat, and -held a pair of gloves in his hand. He walked quickly toward the front of -the train and waited by the baggage car till a trunk was tossed out. An -express man near by was told to take the trunk over to the hotel. - -I followed the gray man to the hotel. Presently the trunk was left in -front and I went to inspect it. It was a leather trunk, with brass -fittings, plastered over with stickers from many hotels and steamship -lines. It was scratched and battered and travel-stained. The thing -fascinated me. I stood around and felt it, read the stickers, some of -them from foreign parts of the world, and wondered what kind of man he -could be that possessed such a wonderful trunk. - -I was restless and disturbed when the porter took it upstairs out of my -sight. It had roused strange thoughts and longings in my mind that I did -not understand then. I know now that it suggested travel, adventure by -land and sea—the world. - -I now pulled my hat down from the back of my head and wore it properly. -I straightened up, kept my hands out of my pockets, walked with a quick -step, and assumed a confident, positive manner. I even began to think -about a mustache, bristly, cut down like the gray man’s. I must have a -gray suit, gray hat, gloves, and a leather trunk. A big problem for a -boy with no income. - -I determined to earn some money and looked about for after-school work. -After my father, I thought the saloon man, Cy, was the wisest man in our -town. For some reason which I never could figure out, I did not submit -the matter to my father, but went to the saloon man. Maybe it was -because he was easier to talk to. We went over the situation carefully. -There was no job in sight that either of us could think of. At last Cy -said, “Well, if you’re so crazy about a job, I’ll make one for you.” - -Cy was a bachelor, and lived in a single room in the hotel. He opened -and closed his bar, did all the work, was always drinking, but no one -ever saw him drunk. - -“You can come in here in the morning before school and clean the place -up. Sweeping out ain’t no man’s job, anyway, and I’m tired of it. You -can wash up the glasses and dust up around the bar. In the afternoon -when you come home from school, you can be around in case there’s any -errands. At night you can look after the pool table, collect for the -games, and see that they don’t steal the balls. You can serve the drinks -when there’s a card game, and bring a new deck when some sore loser -tears the old one up.” - -I was so grateful to Cy that I gave him my very best “thank you.” Here -was a chance to get on in life, to have my own money, and be independent -and mix around with men—to learn something of the world. I was so taken -with this notion that I hunted up the broom, which was worn down to the -strings, and began sweeping out the barroom. There were no customers in -the place. Cy stood by, his hat on one side of his head, a big cigar in -the opposite side of his mouth, hands in pockets, and eyed me -thoughtfully. When I had the place about half swept out, Cy came over -and took the broom out of my hands. He turned it about, examined it -carefully. “Johnnie, I think you’re on the square with me, and I’m going -to be on the up and up with you. You go to the store and get yourself a -new broom.” - -I did that, and swept the place all over again. Having started to work -without my father’s permission I decided to say nothing till I got well -settled in my job. I had a feeling that he might veto the whole thing -if I told him at the start, but if I waited a while and had a few -dollars saved up he might let me continue. - -Father knew Cy very well. On rare occasions he went into the bar and had -a drink and a talk with him. - -I worked faithfully, early and late. At the end of the week, in the -afternoon when there was no customer about, Cy mysteriously beckoned me -into his “office,” a small closet of a room at one end of the bar. It -was simply furnished—a table, a chair, a large spittoon, one picture on -the wall opposite the desk. A picture of the mighty John L. Sullivan in -fighting pose. Cy seated himself at the table, put on a pair of glasses, -and drew out a small notebook. He looked carefully about the room. -Seeing the door of his office open, he told me to close it. - -To me Cy had always been much of a mystery. He had been “out West”—to -Leadville, Deadwood, and San Francisco. He owned the latest pattern of -repeating rifle and a couple of “forty-fives.” He played poker. I -thought I was now to be initiated into some of the secret activities of -his life. Maybe he would ask me to do something dangerous. Well, -whatever it was, I would do it. He wrote something in the notebook, then -took three silver dollars out of his pocket and put them in my hand, -carefully, without clinking them. - -“Johnnie, this is pay day.” - -I went back to work happy. Pay day, three dollars of my own money. I -would have a gray suit, gray hat, gloves, and a leather trunk in no -time. I would soon be a tall, handsome, distinguished-looking gentleman, -on Cy’s money. I jingled my three dollars loudly and could hardly wait -for my father to come home so I could tell him about my working and ask -him to mind my money for me. - -The possession of three dollars changed me at once. I became -independent, confident, secure. When father came in I went to him -without a single misgiving, feeling sure he would approve. I had my -money in my hand and my spirit was high. I told him I had been working -for Mr. Near all week; that I had three dollars in wages and wanted him -to take care of them for me. He took the money and put it in his -pocket, saying: “All right. Let me know when you want it.” - -“And you don’t mind my working for Cy?” - -“No. I don’t mind. Cy told me all about it. You will have to learn to -work some time. And you will have to learn lots of other things. So you -may as well start at Cy’s.” - -He turned to his paper, and I thought the thing was settled, but as I -went out of the room I saw him twisting up the end of his long beard. - -The school work was no trouble to me. I put in a year, and vacation time -came along almost before I knew it. I was saving all the money I earned -as assistant to Cy, and was looking forward to earning more during -vacation. I brought home to my father a report from the school which -seemed to show that I had made good progress. He glanced at the card and -threw it to one side. - -“I suppose you have the multiplication table this time, John?” - -“Oh, yes, I learned it at last.” - -“How many are eight times nine, John?” - -“Seventy-two, sir.” - -“Good. Seven times six?” - -“Forty-two, sir.” - -“Correct, John.” - -He did not seem to be much interested in my correct and prompt answers; -kept on looking at his paper. Finally he looked at me and said: “And -eight times thirteen, John?” - -I was stuck again. This one froze me stiff. I got mad, red in the face. -I took pencil and paper out of my pockets, figured it out, and give him -the result. It seemed that he was taking advantage of me. Nobody at -school had ever asked me that question. I felt wronged. I thought of my -money and my two big horse pistols. If I was to be treated in this way I -would take my money and pistols and go away where I could get a square -deal. And if I did not get a square deal, I’d take it. - -Father looked at the paper I gave him. “Why, you have it right, John. -That’s good, very good.” He was stroking his beard thoughtfully, and I -could not tell whether he was smiling or making a face. - -Vacation was almost over. I needed new books for the coming season and -spoke to father about them one night. - -“Never mind them now. We will see about them later. We are going away, -going to Kansas City. I have been promoted after all these years.” - -“But I will lose my job,” I demurred. - -“I’ll get you another job. Don’t worry. Do you want a regular job, -working all day, or would you like to go to school some more?” - -I decided to have an all-day job, and let the school go. - -“All right,” he said, “we’ll see about it.” - -My father made no fuss about leaving the small town where he had spent -ten years of his life. He had no close friends or cronies. After my -mother died, he seldom spoke to any one but me, and I think he was glad -to go away. He was a cold, hard, silent Scotch-Irishman. He took no part -in social doings, never went to church, belonged to no clubs; nor was he -enough interested in politics to become a citizen and exercise the high -privilege of voting on election day. - -My good-bys did not take much time. Cy was sorry to have me go. He -laboriously wrote me a fine letter of recommendation which he gave me -along with a large, worn silver watch, that wound with a key. It weighed -almost a pound, and I was proportionately proud of it. My boy friends -envied me in going away to a big city and impressed upon me the -necessity for taking my pistols with me. Unnecessary advice; I had no -intention of leaving them behind. - -And last of all I hunted up old Beverly Shannon, the bad man. He was a -hooknosed old man with hard eyes and a long chin whisker dripping -tobacco juice. He had worn the Northern blue, and drew a small pension -for a “bad leg.” Times when he was half drunk, limping around town in -search of more drinks, some one would say: “Look out, ‘Bev.’ You’re -limpin’ on the wrong leg.” This always brought a string of eloquent -curses from him, and a warning that they had “better be keerful. I -hain’t stopped killin’ jest ’cause Abe Lincoln says the war’s over.” - -In those days all roads led to the harness shop, and there “old Bev” was -always to be found when sober, outside the shop on a bench under a tree. -There he met all the droughty farmers and entertained them with war -stories and tales of his wanderings “out West.” He was always invited to -drink with them. His pension kept him in food. His life held no serious -problem. - -I found him on his bench, sober and sorry for it. He passed the time of -day with me, and I told him I was going away and had come to say -good-by. - -“Goin’ to the city, huh? Well, don’t let ’em rub it into you. You ain’t -a very strong boy.” He was a foxy old man. He leered at me out of his -cunning eyes. “Have you got any shootin’ irons?” Long John Silver, the -pirate, could not have done any better in the way of complimenting a -boy. I was fairly hooked. I assured him that I was well heeled, having -two pistols. - -“That’s good. You’ll git along all right. Now you run along. I’ve got to -git me a farmer. I ain’t had my whisky yet.” - -I hastily dug up enough silver out of my small pocket money for a couple -of drinks, and gave it to him. As I went away I thought he looked like -an old spider watching his web for a fly. - - - - -CHAPTER IV - - -In his new position father was forced to travel much, often leaving me -to my own devices for weeks and sometimes months. I was put up at a -small boarding house kept by a widow, who had two children. She was -over-worked, sickly, and cranky. She had half a dozen boarders. Before -he left, father gave me the money I had saved up, and told me to look -about for a job. - -There was nobody at the hotel that interested me. The widow was always -whining and I kept away from her. Her children were too small for -company, and I saw nothing of the other boarders except at mealtimes -when they ate much and talked little. - -The widow gave me a trunkful of books she had taken for a board bill. -Among them I found a battered old volume of Dumas’ “The Count of Monte -Cristo,” on which I put in many nights. This sharpened my appetite for -reading, and I went around secondhand bookstores, and got hold of the -D’Artagnan tales and devoured them. Then “Les Misérables,” and on to the -master, Dickens. The books so fired me with the desire for travel, -adventure, romance, that I was miserable most of the time. As my money -dwindled I resolved to find a job. I’d ask the landlady for advice. - -I found her out in front, scrubbing the steps, red in the face and -vicious looking. I told her I was thinking of going to work. - -“Well, it’s about time you thought of that,” she snapped, “layin’ around -here readin’ and eatin’ up your father’s money. You can get a job just -like I did when my husband run off and left me with two brats on my -hands. I just started out and asked for it at every place I come to till -I got it, that’s all. And you can do it, too, if you got the gizzard.” - -I left her and started my search. If there was a job in the city I -determined to get it. I went through block after block, store after -store, hour after hour. I got mostly “Noes” but some answered -pleasantly, taking my name and address. I kept going until one morning I -stopped in front of a cigar store—a dead-looking place, no customers. A -man was reading a paper spread out on the counter. I went in and put my -question to him. When he stood up I saw he was very tall and very thin. -He looked sick. I had never seen an eye like his. It attracted me -strangely. I could not have described it then, but I can now. It was a -larcenous eye. He was very nice, asking many questions. How old was I? -Did I ever work before? Where? I handed him Cy’s letter. He read it and -asked me more questions. I have never answered so many questions since, -except in a police station. At last he quit, and snapping himself -together like a man coming out of a trance, he rapped his knuckles on -the counter. - -“I’ll tell you what I’ll do with you, kid. You come down here at nine -o’clock every morning, open this joint up, and stay here till one -o’clock. Then I come on and you go off till six in the evening. At six -you come on and stay till ten, and call it a day. You can go to work -right now. The sooner the better. In a week you will know the prices of -the different things as well as I do, and I can leave you by yourself. -Your wages will be three dollars a week and all the cigars you can -smoke.” - -“But I do not smoke.” - -“Well, that’s your bad luck, kid, not mine. What do you say? Want to -chance the job?” - -I got right in behind the counter and he showed me the different cigars, -cigarettes, and tobaccos, and told me their prices. In a week I knew all -about the “store” and had learned to serve the few customers that came -in, and to make change properly. I further learned that the store was -but a “front” or blind for a poker game and dice games in the back room, -and that I was a part of the “front.” My business was to sweep the place -out in the morning, stand behind the counter in case any one wanted a -cigar, and to keep an eye out for “new coppers on the beat” in the -evening. The job was interesting. I soon came to know the poker players, -crap shooters, and dice sharks who brought their victims into the back -room to “clean” them. I often spent my afternoons in the back room -watching the games and learning the life. - -When there was no game, the sharks sat around practicing their tricks -and bewailing their bad luck. Sometimes a poker player would show me -how to “shuffle up a hand,” or cut the cards at a given place or “go -out” with a hand. The dice shakers and crap shooters showed me their -favorite “shots.” I was an apt scholar, absorbing everything like a -young sponge. “Tex,” my boss (if he had any other name I never heard -it), admonished me never to gamble. “Lay away from it, kid; it’s a tough -racket. Look at me and my gatherings of forty years. I ain’t got a white -quarter to my name; if it was rainin’ soup I couldn’t buy myself a tin -spoon, and I’ve got a string of debts longer than a widow’s -clothesline.” - -Next door to the cigar store there was a small milk depot kept by a man -and his wife. I used to go in every day for a glass of milk, and got -acquainted with them. He delivered milk around his routes and the wife -minded the shop. He was forever complaining about not being able to -collect his money from “them women.” “Them women” were women who kept -“parlor houses” in the Tenderloin district a few blocks from his milk -store. They were good pay, but he could not get away from his work at -the right hour to find them. - -One day he told me he would pay me well if I would take the bills and go -to the places and stay till I got the money. Here was a chance to earn -more money, and I grabbed it. I went in and asked Tex, my boss, when -would be the best time to call at those places to collect the milk -bills. - -If Tex had not gathered much of worldly goods in his forty years, he had -at least learned something of the habits of “them women.” “I’ll tell -you,” he said. “If you go in the morning you’ll find them asleep; in -the afternoon they are out riding or shopping; and at night they will be -either too busy or too drunk. Take my advice and go about five o’clock -in the evening and you will catch them at dinner, or breakfast, or -whatever they call it.” - -I followed Tex’s advice that evening and collected three bills out of -five. The milkman was pleased with my enterprise and gave me a dollar. -Thereafter I collected his bills in the Tenderloin. I visited certain -places weekly and was paid promptly. The women I met were nice to me, -and I saw nothing of the other side of their lives. I worked faithfully -at my two jobs, saved my money, and began looking in the store windows -for my gray suit and gray hat. My work kept me so busy that I did not -read much. Thoughts of travel and adventure were in the back of my -mind, but that could wait. I was young; I must have money first. My -two old, rusty pistols, almost forgotten now, lay neglected in the -bottom of my little valise. - -Tex had a “run of luck” and raised me to four dollars a week. I -collected more bills for the milkman. Some of them he called “bad -bills.” I kept after them persistently and nearly always got the money. -The more hopeless the bill, the greater my commission was. I enjoyed -going after them. The Tenderloin women were sure pay; and poor families -were good, always had the money ready. I called on a tough saloon man, -in a dingy little dive, about ten times to collect a two-dollar bill. - -One day when I called he was serving several men at his bar, and when he -saw me he said: “No use comin’ in here with that bill, kid. I ain’t -goin’ to pay it. If your boss comes up here I’ll bust him in the nose. -His milk is no good and he’s no good.” - -“Mister,” I said, “I know he is no good, but I have to work and want to -keep my job. If you knew just how hard my boss is you would feel sorry -for me instead of being angry. He is so hard and no good that he told me -if I did not collect your bill of two dollars to-day I need not come -to work to-morrow, and that’s why I’m here.” - -The customers looked at me. I stood my ground. - -“Hell,” said the man, “I didn’t think he was that bad. Here, take the -lousy money.” - -I hurried back to the milkman. “Here’s Mr. Finucane’s two dollars.” - -“How on earth did you ever collect it?” - -“Oh, he just got tired and paid me, that’s all.” - -“Well, I’ll make you a present of them,” said he handing me the money. -“You certainly earned them.” - -The following week I called at Madam Kate Singleton’s with my bill. The -colored maid who opened the door showed me a seat in the hall and told -me to wait. The madam was dressing. I sat there a few minutes and there -was a ring at the door. The maid opened it and an excited little man -brushed in, followed by two big men who were not a bit excited. As the -door was closing I got a glimpse of a policeman in uniform on the steps. - -One of the two men spoke to the maid who went upstairs, and in a minute -the madam came down. She waved the men into a room off the hall and -closed the door. I listened, but they talked too low for me to hear what -they were saying. Presently the madam opened the door and called out: -“Oh, girls, come downstairs every one of you.” Half a dozen girls -appeared as if by magic. They were all brought into the room and the -door closed again. - -Nobody paid any attention to me. Now I heard loud voices in the room, -but so many were talking at once that I could make nothing of it. Then -one of the big men came out, went to the front door, opened it, and said -to the policeman: “Send Mike around to the back; tell him to let nobody -out. I’ll phone for the wagon. We’ll have to take them all to the -station. They won’t talk.” - -He disappeared into the room. I got up and opened the front door. - -“Where are you goin’?” said the policeman. - -“I’m going out, if you please.” - -“Get back in there, if you please,” he snarled, “and stay there.” - -While the officers were waiting for the wagon one of the big men went -upstairs and brought down two “guests.” They were about half awake and -looked as if they had been on a drunk. They sat down beside me on the -settee. One of them fell into a sound sleep and the other sat with his -elbows on his knees and his hands on the sides of his head. Neither of -them spoke. In a few minutes the wagon arrived. The girls were all -ordered to go out and get in it, which they did. Then the two men and I -were ordered to do the same. The madam and one of the big men got into a -hack that appeared to be waiting and drove away. - -The excited little man who had caused all the trouble got into the wagon -with the other big man and sat beside him. - -When I was being put in the wagon I protested and tried to explain, but -the detectives roughly ordered me to shut up. The “harness cop” who had -been at the front door went back to his beat. I did not see anything of -Mike, who had been ordered to stay at the back door. - -The girls laughed and joked on the way to the station and shouted -“rubberneck” at everybody that looked in at the back of the open wagon. -The police station was on one corner of Market Square, one of the -busiest corners in the city. Hundreds of people were there daily, -selling their produce. Their time was about evenly divided between -serving their customers and watching the patrol wagon spewing its loads -of humanity into the city prison. It seemed to me they were all there as -we were unloaded and hurried through a solid lane of them into the -police station. Madam Singleton was there before us, and with her was a -tall, sharp-looking man, gray and about fifty. I never found out who he -was, but he looked like a lawyer. - -The madam, the tall man, and the two big men, who were plain-clothes -detectives, went to one side, talking earnestly for a minute or two. The -rest of us just stood there and waited. One of the detectives went into -an office off the big room we were in, and came out at once with a man -in uniform he called “captain.” The captain was a big, red-faced, -gray-haired, good-natured Irishman. “Well, what’s this all about?” he -said, smiling. The detective stepped over to the small, nervous man and -said to the captain: - -“Captain, this man complains that one of the girls in Kate Singleton’s -place took one hundred dollars, two fifty-dollar bills, from him some -time last night or this morning. We went down to her place and saw the -girl. She denies that she took it. - -“We searched her room and couldn’t find it. The balance of them don’t -know anything, so they say. He wants them all searched. We couldn’t do -it there, so we pinched everybody in the house and here they are, ten of -’em, seven women and three men.” - -The captain took the little man in hand. “Who are you?” The little man -hesitated. - -“Come on, out with it. If you want any help here you’ve got to come -clean.” - -The little man gave him a name. I could not hear it. - -“Where are you from?” - -“Emporia, Kansas, is my town.” - -“What do you do for a living?” - -“I’m a hog raiser.” - -“When did you come to the city?” - -“Yesterday morning.” - -“What did you come here for?” - -“Oh, just to look around.” - -The captain smiled. “How much money did you have when you got off the -train here yesterday morning?” - -“I had two hundred dollars in paper money and some small change.” - -“How much have you spent since you arrived here?” - -“I spent twenty-five dollars for a suit of clothes and fifteen dollars -for an overcoat. I paid a dollar for a room and I spent about five -dollars around town.” - -“Is that all? Are you sure, now? Think again.” - -“Yes, that’s all,” said the hog man. - -“You’re a liar,” Madam Singleton said in a cold, level voice. “You gave -Julia ten dollars.” - -“Now, now, Kate,” said the captain, “don’t get excited. I’ll take care -of this thing all right.” Then to the hog man: - -“Guess you forgot about that ten dollars, hey?” - -“Yes, I forgot that,” he said meekly. - -“All right; now, how much have you in your pockets?” - -He took out some bills and counted them. “Forty-five dollars is all I -have.” - -The captain counted them and returned them. “That’s correct. Now, which -girl took your money?” - -The man pointed out the youngest girl of the bunch. She was about -twenty or twenty-two, a plump girl with a boyish face and lots of black -hair. She was pleasant looking, but not pretty, and she did not look as -worn and tired as the others. - -She looked straight at him but never opened her mouth. The -lawyer-looking man said to her: “Julia, did you take that man’s money?” - -“No,” she answered. - -“Take all these women in and have the matron search them. Madam -Singleton, you have no objection to being searched, have you?” smiled -the captain. - -“None at all, captain, only make it short and sweet. I am losing time -and money here.” - -They all trooped off to a room down the hall. - -An officer came out from behind the desk and searched me and the two -drunks. We had no fifty-dollar bills, so he told us to sit on a bench in -front of his desk. The lawyer, or bondsman, or fixer, or whatever he -was, paced up and down the room nervously. The captain had gone back to -his office. - -In a few minutes a big, mannish-looking woman with red hands and a tough -walk came along. - -“Well, what did you find?” said the lawyer. - -“Nothing. They didn’t have a hundred dollars among them.” - -The lawyer then hunted up the detective and the hog man. The detective -got the captain. The matron made her report and the officer who searched -me and the other two did the same. - -The captain turned to the hog man. - -“All these people have been searched and your money has not been found. -What do you want to do now?” - -“I want that girl locked up. I know she got my money. I know I had two -fifty-dollar bills rolled up with my other bills when I went into that -house, and when I got to my room I looked at my money and they were -gone.” - -“How long was it before you got to your room after you left Madam -Singleton’s?” asked the lawyer. - -“Oh, I walked around for an hour or two.” - -“Oh, you did, eh? Why, you probably had your pocket picked on the -street.” - -The big captain roared out a laugh and said to the lawyer: - -“It must have been an Emporia, Kansas, pickpocket. No Missouri dip -would take his roll, extract two fifty-dollar bills, and put the rest -back in his pocket.” - -The lawyer appeared to get angry. “You’ve searched everybody but me.” - -He turned to the hog man fiercely. “Do you want me searched?” - -“No, I don’t.” - -“Well, I want you searched. You are just the kind of a yap that gets up -in the middle of the night and hides his money so carefully that he has -to have a policeman find it for him in the morning. Go ahead and search -him,” he said to the detective. - -“All right, go ahead,” said the hog man. - -The detective went through his trousers carefully, placing everything on -a counter, then through his vest, then into his inner coat pocket. No -money. Then, as an afterthought, just to make a good job of it, he felt -in the coat pockets. In the first one was a bag of tobacco, and as he -pulled a handkerchief from the last coat pocket two bills fluttered to -the floor. - -The lawyer stooped, picked up the two bills, looked at them, and handed -them to the captain. The hog man’s eyes bulged till they looked ready to -fall out of his head. He was making a dry noise down in his throat that -sounded like the quack of a duck. The captain handed him the bills. - -“Is this your money?” he scowled. - -After inspecting the bills and recovering his voice, the hog man said: -“Yes, I think it is.” - -The lawyer plucked him by the lapel with one hand, and shook the other -in his face. “You dirty little swine, get your property off that -counter. Get out of here and back to your hog pastures before I have you -locked up.” - -The dazed and thoroughly crushed victim hastily gathered up his things -and went out with them in his hands. - -I was pop-eyed with amazement at this swift, smashing reversal of the -situation. The two drunks beside me were but mildly interested. Nobody, -from the captain down to Julia, the accused, seemed surprised. I could -not understand why the whole crowd did not fall on the hog man and tear -him to pieces. The captain disappeared into his office. The detective -walked out to the sidewalk. The lawyer turned to Kate and the girls, -bowing: - -“Madam, and ladies, shall we depart?” - -“It’s about time,” said the madam in a positive voice. “I’m hungry -enough to eat a raw dog.” - -They all moved out into the street. I was left on the bench with the two -drunks. The detective strolled back in. The desk man pointed to us. - -“What will I do with this outfit, Hayes?” - -Hayes appeared to be disgusted. “Oh, charge them with drunk.” - -“The kid’s not drunk.” - -“Vag him then.” - -“What were you doing in that joint, anyway?” to me. - -“I went in there to collect a milk bill, sir, and was waiting for the -money when all this happened.” - -“Where is the bill?” - -I produced it. - -“Do you work for this man?” he asked, after inspecting it. - -“Yes, sir.” - -“Why in hell didn’t you say so at the start?” - -“I tried to, sir, but everybody told me to shut up. The policeman would -not let me go out.” - -He turned to the drunks and asked them if they had ten dollars to put up -for bail to appear in the morning. They had, and the desk man took them -into another room. I saw them no more. When he came back, Hayes said: - -“Take the kid upstairs: lock him up with George. I’ll find out about -him.” - -The women were gone, the drunks were out, and I was the only one -detained. It looked all wrong to me. The sergeant took me down to the -end of the hall and opened an iron door. It was as if he had opened the -door to hell. My blood stopped circulating. We stepped inside and he -locked the door behind us. Never since, except perhaps in the half -dreams of opium, have I been so frozen with horror. We were standing on -a balcony overlooking the half basement that served as the city prison. -In front of us was a latticework iron door that opened on an iron -stairway leading down into the cell house. The cells were built around -the four sides of a cement-floored square, and opened into it. It was -supper time and pandemonium was on. - -The sergeant rapped on the iron door with his heavy keys, trying to -attract the attention of some one below. Failing to make himself heard, -he told me to stay there till he could get a “trusty” to take me -upstairs. He went out the way we came in, and left me locked in between -the two doors on the balcony. The cells below had all been thrown open -and there were about fifty prisoners in the open space. They seemed to -be about equally divided between negroes and whites, of all ages. The -air choked me; it was putrid, heavy, and thick with the stench of foul -food, foul clothes, foul bodies, and foul sewers. In the farthest corner -of the square a gigantic black was standing guard over a huge smoking -caldron. - -He was shirtless and barefoot. A leather belt supported his overalls, -his only clothing. Sweat glinted on his broad back and chest. He was -armed with a long-handled ladle which he dished out the “stew” with, or -beat back the stronger and more venturesome prisoners who crowded too -closely around the caldron. - -I saw no jailers or guards. There was no pretense at order. The younger -and stronger men shoved and elbowed their way to the big stew pot, -snarling and snapping at each other like a pack of starved dogs. Old -men and young boys stood around waiting meekly for the strong to be fed -first. - -The big negro wielded his ladle, filling the tin pans nearest him. Bread -was being served from a large box in another spot, but there appeared to -be plenty of it and there was no scramble there. Several new-looking -prisoners walked about, making no effort to get food. They were “fresh -fish,” new arrivals, who had not yet acquired the “chuck horrors,” that -awful animal craving for food that comes after missing half a dozen -meals. - -At last the weaker ones were served. The cursing, shouting, and fighting -were stilled. The big negro wheeled his stew pot away and the empty -bread box disappeared. Some of the prisoners went into their cells to -eat; some sat down outside on the floor, while others ate standing. Some -had spoons, others ate with their fingers, sopping at the bottom of the -pan with a piece of bread. - -The meal was quickly over. The tin pans, unwashed, were thrown into the -cells. The young negroes began singing and buck dancing. White men who -had been tearing at each other ten minutes before around the big pot -were now laughing and talking in a friendly fashion, and everybody lit -up a smoke. The air was so filled with tobacco smoke and steam from the -stew that I could barely distinguish forms below. - -It was growing dark and gas jets were lighted but gave no light. I heard -a rattling of keys; somewhere some one shouted “Inside.” The shadowy -forms shuffled into their cells, and there came the tremendous din of -iron doors being slammed shut. The prison was locked up for the night. - -I do not know how long I had been standing there. Not more than fifteen -minutes, but it seemed a lifetime. A trusty prisoner appeared at my -side. - -“Come on, you.” - -I followed him up a short stairway where he opened a door and we went -into a short hall with cells on either side. It was directly above the -city prison. As we passed down the hall I heard women’s voices; one of -them shouted, “Fresh fish, girls.” - -Faces appeared at the barred doors. A colored girl, as we passed her -cell, said: “Hello, boy, what you-all been doin’?” - -At the end of the hall the trusty stopped at a large room with a barred -door. I could look inside. The room was well lighted. Newspapers were -lying about. I saw two clean-looking cots, a table on which were books -and a box of cigars, and a couple of chairs. - -A man was pacing up and down the room, smoking. He wore a -comfortable-looking pair of slippers and was in his shirt sleeves. He -paid no attention to us till the trusty said: “George, the skipper sent -up some company for you.” - -He turned sharply and came to the door. He was a fine-looking man about -forty years of age, well groomed, fresh shaven. He was tall. His hair -was gray. His face was pleasant to look at. He might have been a doctor -or lawyer. I found myself wondering what he could have done to get -locked in a jail. He looked at me carefully for a minute. When he spoke -his voice was surprisingly pleasant. There was a suggestion of the South -in his drawl. - -“I don’t want to hurt your feelings, kid, but if you are lousy don’t -come in here, that’s all.” - -The trusty assured George that I was not lousy, that there was no charge -against me and I would be out in an hour or two. - -I was locked in. - -I had no jail manners then, so I just stood at the door with my hat on, -intending to wait there till some one came to let me go. All prisoners -do that the first time. Presently my companion told me to take my hat -off and sit down, and try to be comfortable. - -“You may get out in an hour and you may not. You never can tell. You are -beginning young. How old are you?” - -“Sixteen.” - -“What are you pinched for?” - -I told him all about it. - -“That’s everyday business here,” he said. “Usually the sucker is a -married man and can’t squawk. But when he does squawk, like this one, -the only thing to do is to blow back his money. Either the lawyer or one -of the girls eased it into his coat pocket. That’s better than returning -it to him and admitting that they tried to rob him. - -“The whole thing was a stand-in from the captain down. Everybody’s -satisfied. The sucker has his money, the girls are all out, Kate will -charge Julia fifty dollars for the lawyer’s fee, and that ends it. - -“You appear to be the only real sucker in the bunch. By God! Those -coppers are fierce. They’ll leave you here till you rot. I’ve always -said a copper is a copper till you cut his head off.” - -He got a tin cup and scraped it across the bars of the door. The trusty -bounced in. “Go down and get the desk sergeant.” - -I never saw a prisoner get quicker action. The sergeant came at once. - -“It’s a rotten shame to keep this kid locked up, Sam. Did you hear his -story? Go down and get Hayes and tell him to let him go home. Send a -messenger to his boss. I’ve got plenty of money down there; charge it to -me.” - -The sergeant went out, promising to “look into it right away.” Our -cell—it was more like a room—was in a small corridor set apart for the -women prisoners’ quarters. Down the hall I could hear them calling to -each other and chatting back and forth from their cells. Somewhere a -colored woman was singing a mournful dirge about “That Bad Stackalee.” -The verses were endless. The point of the song seemed to be that the -negro bully, Stackalee, had been killed with “a big forty-four gun over -a damned old Stetson hat.” In the most harrowing tones at the end of -every verse the singer moaned the sad refrain, “That ba-a-d Stackalee.” - -Later I came to know that this song is a favorite among negroes when in -great trouble, such as being locked in jail, being double-crossed by a -friend, or parting with their money in a dice game. At such times thirty -or forty verses of “Stackalee” invariably restores the laughing good -humor and child-like confidence of the wronged one. - -We heard a rattling of keys and a door opening. George put the side of -his face against the cell door, so he could see down the hall. - -“Get your hat, kid; here they are.” - -The detective came up with my two bosses—the milkman and Tex, the -gambler. The trusty opened the door. - -“Out you go,” said the detective, “and the next time you get jammed up -say something before you get thrown in. Holler before you’re hurt; -that’s my motto.” - -I said good-by to my benefactor, George, and thanked him awkwardly. When -I met him years after and had a chance to return his kindness, I learned -he was a most distinguished criminal; a man who had stolen fortunes and -spent them, who had killed a crooked pal, and served many prison -sentences. - -“Forget it, kid, and don’t let them scare you out of your job. You go -right back next week and collect your bills.” - -Tex and the milkman escorted me to the cigar store. The evening games -had not started when we went into the back room, so I told my story -again. The milkman sympathized and promised to raise my commission on -the bills. Tex was relieved to learn that I had not mentioned his -“store” to the police. - -Collection day came around again, and I made my rounds without incident -till I got to Madam Singleton’s, the last place. A colored maid, the -only person that escaped arrest the week before, opened the door. When -she saw me she screamed at the top of her voice: - -“Oh, Miss Kate, here’s the pore milk boy.” - -“Bring him right up here, Jo, this minute.” - -The maid led me upstairs, then down a hall and to the madam’s room. She -was in the midst of dressing for the evening, but when I appeared in the -door she stopped, kicked a bunch of clothes to one side, came over and, -putting her arm around me, led me into the room. - -“Well, you poor boy,” she patted my back. “We are ashamed to face you -after going off and forgetting you in jail. Julia thought of you about -nine o’clock that night, and I sent down word right away about you. -They said you were out and gone home. We never expected to see you -again. You must have dinner with us. It’s ready now, and Julia wants to -apologize to you. Not that it was her fault,” she added quickly. “It -was just something that couldn’t be helped. Those men from the country -are always—ah—misplacing their money. We are continually having trouble -with them.” - -She was so charming and friendly and natural, so different from the -crabby widow at my boarding house, the only woman I had any contact -with, that I found myself wondering if George had not been too severe in -judging them. - -She went on with her dressing, and I looked about the room curiously. I -had a dim recollection of my mother’s room—a plain bed, a bureau, a big -rocking-chair, and a rag carpet. I had looked into the widow’s room at -the boarding house, too. That was plainer than my mother’s. It had a -cheap, single bed; a packing case covered with a sheet, and a cracked -mirror propped against the wall served as a bureau. There was a -hard-looking chair at the head of the bed. There was no carpet on the -widow’s floor. - -Madam Singleton’s room had carpets an inch thick, and the biggest, -softest bed and the fattest pillows you could imagine. Her bureau was -half as large as the bed, but seemed too small for the things piled on -it—boxes, bottles, brushes, combs, pieces of jewelry, and a hundred -other articles I had never seen and could not guess the use of. Mirrors -were everywhere; from where I sat I could see my face, my profile, or my -back. A huge trunk, as big as a bungalow it looked, was in a corner. Its -top was thrown back and the tray was on the floor. It was piled high -with letters and cards and photos of men. The trunk was overflowing with -stockings, garters, ribbons, feathers, and soft, silky-looking garments. -My eyes strayed into the open door of a closet. It was full of coats and -cloaks, long and short, some of fur of different colors, and others of -expensive cloth. Wide rimmed and feathered hats hung everywhere, and the -carpet was half covered with shoes, slippers, sandals, gloves, and silk -dresses. Over everything hung the odor of perfume. Years after I heard -Madam Singleton described as a very beautiful woman. When she turned -from her mirror, I thought she looked as a queen ought to look. - -Tall, straight, dark-haired with big, brave black eyes; warm, full of -color, glowing; a dominating woman. - -I heard a small bell tinkling downstairs. - -“That means dinner, young man. Come with me.” - - - - -CHAPTER V - - -“Give me a name, any name you like,” said the madam as we went -downstairs. “I want you to meet my girls. They’ll all be glad to see you -again.” - -I had but one name then, so I gave her that, and was introduced to the -girls who were waiting in the dining room, the same six girls that had -been arrested. If they noticed my embarrassment they did not show it. -Two or three of them nodded, looked at me half curiously, half amused; -the others, excepting Julia, did not even glance at me. She came over to -where I stood, put her arms about my neck, and kissed me. - -“Oh, you poor kid, I never felt so sorry for anything in my life.” - -I was seated between the madam and Julia. The dinner was a marvel—fried -chicken, hot biscuits, green vegetables. Beer was served, but I did not -like it and the maid got me milk. The madam and Julia were the only ones -that ate heartily. The others picked at their food, yawned, and looked -at each other with low-lidded, feline calculating glances, seldom -speaking. They looked and acted tired, worn, old, frustrated, -disappointed. A big dark woman opposite me got a bottle from the -sideboard and poured herself a drink of something. - -“Now, my dear, be careful,” said the madam. - -“Why didn’t you say that a year ago, Miss Kate?” - -She took a piece of chicken in her fingers and went into a room across -the hall where she played “Annie Rooney” on the piano and sang with her -mouth full of food. Two others got up and went out. A blond girl pushed -her chair back, lighted a cigarette, and began doing her fingernails. -The maid came and whispered to another, who jumped up quickly and -disappeared. - -Julia had finished the chicken and was crunching the bones between her -strong white teeth. The last of the tired-looking girls stood up, put -her foot on a chair, and ran her arm, elbow deep, into her stocking. -She came up with a small roll of bills which she threw across the table -to the madam, sullenly. “Thank the Lord that’s over,” she said, and went -out. - -The madam counted the money carefully, bent over, and put both her arms -under the table; when she straightened up the money had disappeared. - -Julia chattered away and ate everything in sight. She wanted to know if -I had ever lived in the country, if I could ride a horse, if I had ever -caught a fish, if I could “shoot off a revolver.” - -The dinner was over and I was thinking about my milk bill. After this -wonderful hour I hesitated about presenting it to the madam. She may -have seen what was in my mind, for she said, “Julia, you have talked so -much to this boy that he has forgotten what he came here for.” - -“I’m not done talking yet, Miss Kate. You know Sunday is my day out, and -I’ve made up my mind to have a horseback ride in the country. I’ve been -wanting to do that ever since I came here and here is my chance. The kid -here can ride, and I’ll take him with me. If you’ll go,” turning to me. - -I hesitated. - -“Oh, come on. I’ll pay for the horses and everything, and see that you -get back before dark,” she laughed. - -“All right, I’ll go,” I said. - -Julia looked at the madam. “Oh, I have no objection, Julia. You’ll be -out of mischief for one day and you’re just a couple of kids, anyway.” - -She took my bill, gave me the money and went out. - -Julia was hopping around like a sparrow. “Let’s see,” she said. “You be -here Sunday morning at, oh, ten o’clock. No, not here, that’s no good. -Be at the drug store down on the corner at ten. I’ll meet you there.” - -I promised to be there and departed. On my way home I passed the police -station and pictured in my mind the inferno inside—the big negro -swinging his ladle above the snarling, cursing horde of half-starved -prisoners in the stinking bowels of the city prison. - -At Madam Singleton’s my boyish mind had not grasped the greater tragedy. -Fresh air, light, meat, drink, and music—that was all I saw there then. -But the tired women were prisoners more hopeless than the savage men -fighting for food in the jail. The bodily comforts they had at Madam -Singleton’s but served to tighten their shackles. Life-timers of -society, they were slowly sinking without a straw to grasp at. - -The time flew till Sunday. I looked over my clothes and wished I had my -gray suit and gray hat. I had saved my money but had not enough yet to -buy them. - -I was apprehensive about meeting Julia. I could picture her coming into -the drug store for me in a dashing big hat, rustling silk dress, -expensive shoes, all powdered, perfumed, and painted as she was in Madam -Singleton’s. And me with my pants too short, my coat sleeves way up my -wrists, and my shirt open at the collar. I wanted to go, but at times my -heart failed me, and when I went to bed the Saturday night before I was -still undecided, hesitating. - -Sunday morning I got up early, determined to face the thing. I also -settled another matter that had disturbed my mind of late. I got a -shave. I walked around till I found an idle barber in his empty shop. -He fixed me up with as much ceremony as if I had been an old customer. - -At ten I was at the drug store, and Julia was inside, waiting. I had to -look twice to be sure of her. She wore a faded blue tailored suit, a -wide-rimmed straw sailor hat with a ribbon, and a pair of worn but -substantial shoes. No powder or paint, nothing to remind me of Madam -Singleton’s. - -“Don’t pay any attention to my clothes.” She saw me looking at them. -“These are the ones I had on when I went there. I have lots of others, -but Miss Kate won’t let me wear them when I go out unless I am with her. -I owe her so much money she is afraid I’ll run away. All the girls owe -her. They are always in debt to her; that’s the way she keeps them -there.” - -We hunted up a livery stable near by. A big, good-natured fat man was in -charge, and we told him we wanted some gentle saddle horses. He looked -at Julia. She had a cocky air, and acted more like a boy than a girl. - -“Do you want to ride straddle-legged, gal? If you do, I’ve got some of -them bloomer things.” - -Julia did not blush or stammer. “No, I don’t want to ride straddle. What -do you think I am anyway?” She was angry. “You get me a riding habit and -a side saddle and mind your own business.” - -He went after the horses. - -“We’ll go down to the river, get the ferry, and go over into the woods. -I hope we find some place to eat over there. I am hungry already,” she -said. - -I had been too occupied to think of breakfast and was hungry, too, and -suggested that we go across the street and get a bite. When we came back -the horses were ready. The fat man boosted Julia up into her saddle, and -we dashed off like Indians. Our way to the river led past Miss Kate’s. -When we were in front of it Julia pulled up her horse, and we stopped. - -“They are all dead to the world in there except Jo, the colored girl. -They won’t get up till four this afternoon. God, what a place! How I -hate to go back there!” - -The treacherous April showers came on us when we got into the country -and drove us into a deserted cabin on an abandoned weed-grown farm. I -built a fire in the old fireplace. We found a couple of homemade -three-legged stools in a corner and in a box nailed to the wall there -was the greasiest pack of cards I ever saw. We got a board that we put -on the stools, making a table, and played casino. The roof leaked in a -hundred places, the cabin was full of smoke, the rain beat in from all -sides, and Julia won every game. She chattered away through it all, and -hoped there would be “a regular cyclone.” Discouraged, I threw the cards -in the fire. We were half wet and watery-eyed from the smoke, the horses -pawed restlessly in the leaky shed behind the cabin. Julia laughed at me -and accused me of being a bad loser. I couldn’t think of anything else, -so I said: “Oh, I’m half starved, and there’s nothing to eat within -miles of here.” - -She was just a healthy young animal, always hungry like myself, and the -thought of food, especially when it was so far away, started her to -raving. Nothing would do but we must head for home. The afternoon was -half gone, the rain let up, and the sun shone again. I stamped and beat -out the fire. - -Julia climbed upon a tree stump in front of the cabin, where she got -into her riding habit. I brought her horse around and she leaped to the -saddle like an acrobat. The horses, homeward bound, needed no urging. We -let them go as fast as they liked, and in the evening pulled up safely -in front of the livery stable, where Julia insisted on paying the bill. -The fat man reached for the money I proffered, but she snatched it out -of my hand and made him take hers. - -“This is on me,” she said, returning my money, “and so is the dinner. -Come on, let’s find a good place to eat.” - -The fat man looked at me slyly, started to say something, but changed -his mind. He was afraid of Julia. - -Any place is a good place to eat when one is young and hungry, and not -burdened with money. We wasted no time looking, but went into the first -restaurant we came to. Neither did we haggle over the menu card. Julia -found chicken, and there we stopped. She never seemed to get enough of -it. The dinner was a long time coming; she popped her head out of the -box every minute looking for the busy waiter. - -“I wonder what’s happened to him. He has either dropped dead or the -police came and arrested him,” she was saying when he appeared. We fell -on the dinner and devoured it like a couple of hired men. She had the -waiter bring a cigar. I managed it fairly well. - -Her chatter ceased. She sat quietly, elbows on the table, her face -covered with her hands, strong-looking, large, capable hands, but white -and shapely. I smoked and wondered about her. What a partner she would -make for me if she were not a girl! She pushed her chair back, rested -her hands in her lap, and looked up at her bedraggled straw hat on a -hook. I thought she was ready to go, and got up to get it. - -“Don’t touch it, I despise it,” she burst out. “I hate these shoes.” She -put her foot up. “And this dress and every stitch of clothes on my back. -Do you know why? Because every one of them means a different man. Do you -want me to tell you about it; what a tough time I’ve had? But you -wouldn’t understand it. You’re only a kid, like I was a couple of years -ago.” - -“Tell me, anyway, Julia.” - -Her story, new to me then, was as old as man’s duplicity and woman’s -inherent desire to be loved and protected. Betrayed and deserted, -fearing to face her family, she stole enough of her father’s money to -take her to the city and into a hospital where her baby was born. “And,” -she continued, “I was glad when it died, it was a girl. When I was well -enough to leave the hospital they couldn’t find my clothes. Cheap as -they were, somebody had taken them. A man can go out into the street -without a hat and coat, kid, but just let a woman try it, even if she -has the nerve, and watch what happens to her. I had no money. The doctor -gave me this dress; that is, he sold it to me and I paid for it the -first time he got drunk. One of the internes traded me these shoes. He -was just a dirty little beast and didn’t wait to get drunk. Then the -hospital cook got me that hat and some cheap stockings and underclothes. -He happened to be a white man,” she said bitterly. “I suppose I would -have taken them just the same if he had been a negro or a Chinaman. -After the drunken doctor I thought of nothing but suicide, anyway. But I -had to have enough clothes to get through the street and down to the -bridge where I could jump into the river. - -“The cook told me he would get me a job in a restaurant downtown and -that stopped me from going to the river. He gave me money for a couple -of night’s lodging, and something to eat, and told me where to go for a -room. He came that night to my room. When he left in the morning his -last words were: ‘I’ll go right out now and get you the job.’ - -“I waited all day but he never came back. He was a liar; I never saw him -again. When the third night came my money was gone. I was starving, and -the rent was due. I wanted to go down to the river then, but was so -hungry I couldn’t bring myself to do it.” - -She had talked furiously, with a storm of bitter words. Now she stopped -and smiled. “Yes, this appetite of mine saved my life. I’ll never die -hungry if I can help it. - -“Anyway,” she resumed, “this is the long and the short of it. About nine -o’clock that night the woman of the place came up and wanted the rent. I -told her I was broke, and asked her to stand me off for a few days till -I could get a job or give me something to do so I could earn the rent. - -“What do you think she did, kid—the big, man-eater! She took me by the -arm, dragged me out into the hall and pushed me downstairs. She went -back and got my hat, that straw hat hanging up there, and threw it out -on the sidewalk after me. - -“A policeman was standing there and saw her do it. He came up and asked -me what the trouble was about. Here is where I may get help, I thought, -so I told him I had just left the hospital, that my money was all spent, -and that I had been put out of my room. He asked how old I was. I told -him I was eighteen—that’s two years ago, I’m twenty now. He asked if I -lived here in the city. I told him I lived in the country, but was going -to stay in the city and work. He wrote something on a card and gave it -to me, saying: ‘I’ll get a hack driver to take you to a hotel. When you -get there give that card to the landlady.’ - -“The driver took me a few blocks to a place where he stopped, let me -out, and helped me up the steps. He rang the bell and went away. I gave -the card to a colored girl who opened the door. She came back in a -minute and asked me to come in—and,” she finished wearily, “I’ve been in -Miss Kate’s ever since, kid. - -“Miss Kate took me in and dressed me up. She charged me double for my -clothes. I pay her, she pays the milliner. It’s the same with all her -girls. No girl ever goes into her place unless she is broke and ragged -and sick and hungry. I’ve been there two years, and if I stay there -twenty years I will still be in debt to her. The longer I stay the more -I owe. Everybody charges us double for what we buy. We have to go to a -certain drug store where we get robbed. On our days off, Miss Kate -takes us around to her friends in the saloons and restaurants, and they -rob us. We go out with her because we can wear our best clothes and look -good and she shows us off to her customers. - -“Once in a while a girl gets so discouraged that she runs out into the -street in her wrapper, but she don’t get out of the block. Some other -landlady’s door is open and she goes in hoping to get fairer treatment -and a chance to save part of the money she earns, but it’s the same old -thing. What the madam don’t get goes to the doctors, druggists, hack -drivers, and messengers. All we get is enough to eat, enough to wear, -and plenty to drink if we’re foolish enough to go that route. God only -knows what becomes of these girls when they get too old and ugly. They -go down and down from one place to another till they finally land in the -street, old, worn out, dissipated and diseased. No man will have them. -I guess they go to the river or to the hospital. - -“Bad as Miss Kate’s is, it is better than having to trade yourself for a -few shabby rags like I did. Miss Kate won’t let drunken men come in and -beat us and abuse us. The men we meet don’t lie to us or deceive us like -they do out in the world. They come in and look us over just like the -butcher used to look at my father’s fat hogs in the fall. We know what -they come for; they know we know. So there’s no lying and deception and -promising you a job. Of course they will steal your money out of the -bureau drawers or your hair brush or a pair of garters or silk -stockings, but you soon learn to protect yourself. Sometimes, when they -get drunk, they give you a few dollars for yourself, or lose it on the -floor and you put your foot on it. Sometimes a girl gets so in debt that -she steals a few dollars from the men to spend decently when she can get -out by herself.” - -“Julia,” I asked, “did you take the hog man’s money?” - -“No,” she snapped, bristling. She lied bravely, and I knew it, and -respected her for it, somehow. It was one of those lies you know to be a -lie and yet believe. The beauty of her lie was that she just let it go -with that plain, short “No!” She did not go into any long explanations -or excuses, or blame it on anybody else. It was a perfect lie, any way -you look at it. - -She lied to me and made me like it. My mind was much disturbed by this -terrible story, so new to me, and a hundred plans came into it for -helping her, but she seemed so independent, confident, and resourceful -that I hesitated. - -She struck the table with her fist. “If I ever put my foot out of that -place again I’ll stay out. I was foolish to go out to-day; it’s so much -harder to go back now, after all the fun we’ve had. If I had a change of -clothes I would stay away and try to get a job and start over again. -I’ve got to get out of there while I’m young and strong enough to work.” - -“Don’t go back, Julia,” I advised. “Take my money, get a room and a few -clothes. I’ll help you find a job. I know how. I have forty dollars -saved up. You take that and we will earn more. It’s at my room. You -wait here till I get it.” - -“Sit down,” she said. “Sit down. Why, you poor kid, I wouldn’t take your -money on a bet. I’d rot in Miss Kate’s first. Don’t you know you are the -only human being I’ve met since I left home that hasn’t tried to do me -some kind of dirt? I am going to start in saving every nickel this week, -and if I can find some way to get a few clothes out of there I’ll kiss -Miss Kate’s good-by forever.” - -Here was a chance for adventure. “I’ll take your clothes out of there, -Julia,” I could see myself going into Miss Kate’s with my two rusty -pistols and demanding Julia’s clothes. I could see the madam blustering -and protesting, the girls all gathered around, myself standing there, -adamant. - -“No excuses, madam, if you please. I want Julia’s clothes and Julia.” - -Nothing to it, simple! - -“How are you going to do it?” Julia asked. “If you went in there and -tried to take them they would throw you out.” - -“Well, how can I do it? Any way you say.” - -She thought a long time before she answered: “I could tie them in a -sheet and throw them out the window into the alley, kid, to you.” - -This wasn’t heroic enough to suit me, but it sounded practical. I wanted -to help her, so I consented. - -“And how are you going to get away if I get your clothes?” - -She thought again. “This week, kid, you hunt up some hack driver you can -trust and tell him what you want to do. You can have him in the alley -with his hack. I’ll throw the clothes out. You put them in the hack. -Then I’ll come downstairs, go out through the kitchen, and over the back -fence into the alley. Nobody will pay any attention to me going out in -my parlor wrapper without a hat. - -“Next Saturday when you come with your bill I’ll see you in the hall and -tell you what night to come and what time.” Julia was herself again; all -animation, chattering like a sparrow. “It can’t fail, kid. I can feel -myself out of there already. All you have to do is get a hack driver, a -big, tough one that won’t get scared and run away. That’s all settled, -and it’s time for me to get back to Miss Kate’s. It’s not so hard to go -now.” - -Again she insisted on paying the bill. I said good night in front of the -restaurant. She shook hands with me heartily, boyishly; her hand was -hard, firm, and her grip something to inspire confidence. “Saturday,” -she said, darting away. - -I went home with my chest out, my shoulders up in the air, and my head -high. I thought of all my heroes. No, I wouldn’t trade places with any -of them. Here was real work to do. I must find a hack driver, “a big, -tough one.” - -Cocky McAllister was tough enough. A lean, hungry pirate with a balky -eye, who cruised about my neighborhood with his spavined horses and -rickety hack. - -I told him what I wanted. - -“Never let it be said that I refused to help any young feller get -himself a girl and get up in the world,” he declared. “Say when. I’ll be -on the spot an’ it won’t cost you a dime, either.” - -Julia was waiting Saturday when I got to Madam Kate’s. - -“Did you get a driver, kid?” - -“Yes.” - -“Be in the alley to-morrow night at eight.” - -I promised to be there. That night I found Cocky and readied him up for -Sunday evening. He showed up on the minute, and we were in the alley by -Madam Kate’s early. Julia was waiting at the window and out came the -bundle. I threw it into the hack. A minute later Cocky snatched her off -the fence, leaving part of her wrapper behind. More of it was streaming -out of the hack door as I slammed it and we drove away. - -She wiped the powder and rouge off her face. “No more of that stuff,” -she said. - -On the way back to my neighborhood she spotted a “Housekeeping Rooms” -sign in the window of a dingy-looking house. She stopped the hack and -put some money in my hand. “Dash up there, kid, and hire a room, -anything that’s vacant.” - -I secured a room quickly enough, came down, and got her. Cocky followed -with the bundle of clothes. I lit the gas, Cocky threw the clothes on -the bed. - -“This is the dirtiest room I ever saw,” said Julia, “but it’s better -than Miss Kate’s, and it’s home to me. Good night and many thinks. I’ll -see you later, kid.” - -Back at the cigar store I treated Cocky to a good smoke. “Kid,” he said, -leering at me admiringly, “you’ve got a gold mine; that dame’s a -money-getter. She’s young and healthy and good for years. Listen, you -put her right out on the street. Make her walk the blocks. She’s workin’ -for you then, an’ not the landladies and landlords. Keep her away from -the other women. They’ll wise her up an’ you’ll lose her, or put her -against hop an’ you’ll have a bum on your hands. That’s all, now. Are -you goin’ to start her in to-night? The sooner the better.” - -“No, Mac,” I was anxious to get away from him. “She’s tired and -nervous. I think I’ll let her rest to-night.” - -The police got Cocky that night. I never saw him again. He never learned -of my treason in allowing Julia to stay off the streets. - -She came into the cigar store a few days later, beaming, happy. “I’ve -got a job, kid, at the Comique jerking beer. Not so good, but better -than Miss Kate’s. It will do till I get a better one. Come down and -watch me work.” - -The Comique was an old-time collar-and-elbow variety show long since -supplanted by the modern vaudeville show house. A dozen girls sold -drinks to the patrons on commission. A girl could live on her -commissions, but few of them did. I think Julia managed to do it. I went -down to see her and found her bouncing with energy. - -“I’ve made three dollars already to-night, kid, and it’s all mine.” - -I waited till she was ready to go home, and walked with her. She had -cleaned up the room till it looked halfway decent. “You don’t have to -go; the place is as much yours as mine,” she said when I was leaving. I -didn’t think about her being a girl; I went home because it was my -habit. If she had been a boy I would have done the same. - -I was busy all the time learning to gamble at Tex’s, collecting bills -for the milkman, and taking Julia home after work. There was no mention -of her the next time I went to Madam Singleton’s. She was forgotten, -and they never suspected me. - -I was saving my money, hoping some day to get my gray suit, hat, and -trunk. I told Julia of my ambition to have the suit and leather trunk. - -“I’ll buy them for you, kid, as soon as I get a few things myself.” - -“Never mind that, Julia, I’ll pay for them,” I said, thinking of Cocky -McAllister. - -I hung around the Comique every night, waiting for Julia. She knew all -the “actors” and told me about them. - -The handsome young man who came out in a green suit did a clog dance and -sang “’Tis a handful of earth” so feelingly worked daytimes in a near-by -chop-house. The two girls with skirts almost to their knees that did the -buck and wing dance sold beer in the boxes. The comedians that beat and -pummeled each other about the stage starved around between engagements -at the local theaters. The strong man, my favorite, turned out to be the -bartender upstairs; he also served as bouncer. - -Julia was ambitious to make more money and every night practiced dancing -in hopes that she could some time do a turn at the theater. I served as -her audience, sat around till the small hours, and often fell asleep in -a chair or on the bed. One night we hurried home ahead of a storm and I -was on the bed asleep before she had her supper cooked. She woke me up -tugging at me. “Get up, you poor kid; take your clothes off and go to -bed if you’re that dead for sleep.” She helped me take off my shoes and -I was soon asleep again. She went to bed without waking me, but as I -tossed about in the night I knew she was there and was glad. Once my -body touched hers—it was hot and sticky. I pulled the sheet down between -us and turned away. The next morning as we were walking to the -restaurant for breakfast a heavy hand fell on my shoulder; I turned to -face my father. - -My father’s hand was heavy on my shoulder as he pushed me into a -doorway. He looked sad and his stern voice shook. “John, do you know -what you are? You are a pimp.” - -Julia never stopped, never looked back, just kept going, which was the -right thing. She probably thought I had been taken by the police. No -good in her getting arrested, too. - -Although for years I kept a sharp eye out, I never saw her again; that -is, to know her. Of course the gray-haired old lady that sat next me in -the car this morning might have been Julia. But anyway, if she is alive -and this meets her eye, I want her to know I never doubted for a minute -that she stayed away from the life she left behind at Madam Singleton’s. - -Later, when I went to her room, it was vacant. The man in charge told -me a strange, bearded man with a policeman called on her—my father, no -doubt—after which she packed up and left without a word. - -I called at the theater and inquired, but they had forgotten her. - - - - -CHAPTER VI - - -As we walked to our boarding house I told my father the whole story of -my job in the cigar store, my collecting for the milkman, my arrest, and -our rescue of Julia. He listened without comment, and when I was done, -said: “Well, John, you’ll be what you’ll be, and I cannot help or hinder -you. Go back to your job in the morning if you like.” - -Those were his last words to me. They were kind, and I have always -remembered them and their ring of fatality. I never saw him again. I -learned later that he lived out his life orderly and died decently. He -went away the next day, and when he returned I was far away, westbound -in search of adventure. - -I was tired of Tex and his tribe and their smoky back room and cheap -cheating. I was sick of the sight of the crabby widow at the boarding -house. It was springtime. Sundown found me miles away on a country road, -walking westward. Yes, I was going in the right direction. There was the -sun going down away off in front of me. Darkness was coming on, but it -did not strike me as unusual that I had no supper or no room for the -night. - -I came to a bridge and stopped when I heard voices below. I looked over -the side and a voice came up: “Come on down, kid. Don’t be leary, we’re -only a couple of harmless bindle stiffs.” - -I picked my way down to the level place beside the small creek where -they were. One of them was unrolling a “bindle” of blankets, the other -was washing a large tin can in the creek. - -“Throw out your feet, kid, and get some wood before it gets too dark. -We’ll have a fire and a can of Java, anyway.” - -Wood was plentiful. I soon returned with an armful. The other bum came -up with the can from the creek and began breaking up some twigs to start -the fire. He barely looked at me. “Take a look around the jungle, kid, -and see if you can find a pan,” he ordered. - -“What in hell do you want a pan for?” asked the one that sent me after -wood. “Are you going to fry some water?” The other was on his hands and -knees blowing up the weak fire. He stood up and looked at the speaker -with a most superior air. “Not so fast, brother, not so fast. I’ve got a -gump in my bindle.” - -He unrolled his blankets and produced a live chicken, big and fat. - -The other bum was humbled. “A gump!” he muttered, “and me carrying a -fryin’ pan with me for the last week.” He dived into his bindle and got -the pan. - -The owner of the chicken took the pan and held it between his eye and -the fire looking for holes in it. “It’ll do,” he said. “More wood, -kid,” they both ordered. - -We were three strangers well met under the bridge; one had a chicken, -one coffee and a stale loaf of bread. I had nimble legs and gathered the -firewood. - -The gump was picked, cleaned, unjointed, and put in the pan with -neatness and despatch that would have done credit to any chef. The -coffee boiled fragrantly in the tin can. The owner of the stale loaf -hacked it into three equal parts with his strong pocketknife, while the -chicken man deftly turned sections of the bird with a sharp-pointed -stick. - -“This is a pretty snide jungle,” he said, “no cans. Throw your feet, -kid, and get some cans for the Java.” - -I scurried around and was lucky to find one small can in the dark. The -cook inspected it. “Go down and wash it, bring it back half full of -water an’ I’ll boil it out.” - -I washed the can and brought it back. The chicken and coffee were cooked -and cooling near the fire. The cook scalded out the small can and filled -it with coffee. He held out the pan of chicken to the other bum and -then to me, helping himself to a piece last. The small can of coffee was -now cool enough to drink, and was handed around in the same order. The -first bum took several swallows and passed it to me. I handed it to the -cook without drinking any. He looked at me for the first time. - -“Say, brat, listen. If you was some kind of a rank dingbat you wouldn’t -have been invited down here. Don’t think because you couldn’t hustle a -can that you ain’t entitled to your coffee.” - -“You’re right at that, Jack,” said the bum that furnished the coffee. -“Go ahead, kid.” - -I drank my coffee and passed the can along. We ate in silence. The -chicken and bread soon disappeared. My companions lit up their pipes and -smoked while we finished the coffee. - -I was learning fast. I took the frying pan, filled it with water, and -put it on the fire, without waiting for orders. When the water boiled I -washed it at the creek, scrubbed it with sand, and returned it to the -owner. - -“Where you from, kid?” - -“The city,” I answered. - -“How long you been on the road?” - -“This is my first day.” - -“Got any people?” - -“No, they are all dead.” - -“Where you goin’?” - -“Oh, just west, anywhere, everywhere.” - -“Got any pennies?” - -“No pennies. I’ve got a couple of dollars.” I looked from one to the -other. “Do you want any of it, either of you?” - -“No,” from both of them. “But,” said the cook, “if we was in the city -I’d take fifty cents of it purty pronto and get myself a four-bit -micky.” - -“A what?” I asked, mystified. - -“A four-bit micky, a fifty-cent bottle of alcohol—Dr. Hall, white line,” -he translated in disgust. “If you’re goin’ west you better learn to talk -west.” - -“Yes,” said the other, “and ‘pennies’ don’t mean pennies. It means -money, on the road.” - -They didn’t talk much between themselves; they had probably compared -notes before I arrived at the bridge. They were both past fifty, wore -clean overalls, substantial shoes, and clean-looking blue shirts. A -month later I could have classified them correctly as professional bums, -too old to ride the trains, satisfied to throw their feet along the -“star routes,” or country roads, where food was seldom refused, and to -sleep in their bindles, or blankets, under the stars. - -It was time to “flop.” They took off their shoes and coats. The shoes -were neatly placed together on a level spot; the coat was folded and -placed on top of them making a fair pillow, and at the same time -protecting them from theft. Each of them threw me a piece of blanket. I -made a pillow of my coat and shoes, rolled up in the blankets, and was -soon asleep. - -A farmer’s team crossing the bridge woke us at daylight. I got up at -once, cold and sore from the hard ground, and made a fire. The other two -crawled out of their blankets and went down to the creek to wash. I -followed them. They both had soap wrapped in paper. One of them gave me -his piece. I washed and returned it. He placed it on a rock till it was -dry, then wrapped it up and put it in his coat pocket. They also had -pocket combs and small round mirrors. - -We went back to the fire and discussed breakfast. “Nothing but Java,” -said the bum that had the coffee. - -“I’ll go to the farmhouse,” I volunteered, “and buy something.” - -“Nix, nix,” said one; “buy nothin’,” said the other, “it’s you kind of -cats that make it tough on us, buyin’ chuck. They begin to expect money. -You go up to that house,” pointing to a place on a small rise, about -fifteen minutes’ walk, “and tell the woman you and two other kids run -away from home in the city three days ago and you ain’t had nothin’ but -a head of cabbage that fell off a farmer’s wagon between youse since you -left. Tell her you are on your way back home and the other two kids are -down by the bridge so hungry they can’t walk. On your way up there git a -phony name and street number ready in case she asks you questions. -She’ll give you a sit-down for yourself, chances are, but bring back a -‘lump’ for us. You’re a decent-lookin’ kid; she might git worked up -about your troubles and ask a lot of dam’ fool questions. Cut her off. -Tell her you’re ashamed to be settin’ there wasting time and the other -boys starvin’ under the bridge.” - -Before I got to the house a couple of dogs dashed out, barking savagely. -A healthy, matronly woman came out and quieted them, looking at me -inquiringly. I told her myself and two boy friends, runaways from home, -were hungry and I wanted some food, that I would be glad to pay her for -anything she could spare, and if she would wrap it up I would hurry down -to the bridge with it, where my chums were waiting. - -“Yes,” she said kindly, “come in. I haven’t much here, but maybe I can -find enough.” She gave me a seat outside near the kitchen door, where I -waited and made friends with the dogs. In no time she came out with a -large parcel, and refused the money I offered. I thanked her and went -down to the bridge with my “lump.” - -The bums had coffee boiling. We found enough tin cans to drink from and -opened the parcel. It contained cold, fried chicken, cold biscuits, and -half a pie. - -“You’re a good connecter, kid; sure you didn’t pay for this?” one of -them said. - -“No, and I didn’t have to answer any questions. It was easy except for -the dogs.” - -“Don’t let dogs worry you, kid; they’re cowards. I ought to know, I’ve -been battlin’ ’em twenty years. They’ll bite you if you turn your back -or run away, or if there’s a pack of ’em they’ll pull you down. If you -get up against a hostile dog, rush him and he’ll weaken. I never got bit -but once an’ that was in the town of Pueblo. I was just after gettin’ a -six months’ floater out of Denver an’ went down to Pueblo to do a little -D.D.ing with lavender for myself. I got myself a bunch of lavender and -a ducat.” - -The other bum laughed, his mouth full of chicken. “You’re talkin’ -Chinook to that kid. What does he know about the D.D. and lavender and -ducats.” - -“You’re right,” I said. “I don’t know what he is talking about.” I was -anxious to learn, but didn’t like to ask questions. - -“Well, it’s this way,” he went on. “I was dummyin’ up, see? Imitatin’ a -deaf an’ dumb man. D.D.ing, see? You surely know what lavender is—stuff -women put on clothes. You put about a spoonful in a small envelope. -You’ve got a pocketful of the envelopes ready when you go out to make -your ‘plunge.’ Then you get your ducat, see? That’s the main thing. I -got a bartender to write it for me on the back of a lawyer’s card. When -the women opens the door you slip her your ducat and she reads: - - ‘I am deaf and dumb. I got hurt by a street car and just came - out of the county hospital. I am trying to get seven dollars - to pay my fare home to Cheyenne. Please take a parcel of - lavender and give what you can.’ - -Sometimes they take your lavender an’ sometimes they don’t, but they -generally give up something, an’ they can’t ask you a lot of questions, -and if a copper grabs you you’ve got an out. You ain’t exactly beggin’. - -“As I was sayin’ about dogs. I was battering the privates, see? Private -houses. A woman had just slipped me a dime an’ was standin’ in the front -door watchin’ to see that I got off the premises. I’m about halfway to -the gate when I heard a dog snarlin’, an’ comin’ up behind me. I’m D.D., -see, an’ don’t want to round on the damn dog an’ give myself a bawl-out -in front of the woman, so I stand my ground figgerin’ she’ll stop him. -The next thing I know he’s got half my pants leg ripped off an’ a chunk -out of one of my shins. Anyway, I run him under the house. The woman -took me in an’ fixed me up with arnica an’ a bandage. Then she gets me a -good suit of her old man’s clothes, gives me two dollars, and holds the -dog under the house till I get out the front gate. That’s dogs for -you,” he finished, “an’ women.” - -I had a question, but the other bum asked it for me. “What do you do if -you bump into a natural dummy when you’re D.D.ing?” - -“Well,” said the dog expert, “I never bumped into one, but if I did I -suppose I’d do what everybody else does when they’re wrong an’ get -caught at it. I’d get mad an’ cuss hell out of ’em.” - -Breakfast over, the bums shaved. Both had razors. All bums carry razors -for shaving, fighting, or cutting through a sleeper’s clothing to get -into his pocket. One of them had a big silk handkerchief that he -stropped his razor on, the other used his belt. They heated water in a -tin can, lathered their hands, and rubbed it on their faces. One used -his mirror, the other used none. After shaving they dried their blades -carefully and secreted them about their persons. Blankets were rolled -up, and the bums were ready to take the road. The D.D. man was going -into the city for a few days. “So long.” He scrambled up the bank to -the road. - -The other was traveling in my direction and volunteered to direct me to -a junction where I could make a westbound train. - -“You’re welcome to travel with me, kid, if you want to jungle-up for a -month or two,” my companion said. “The fruit will be gettin’ ripe soon, -and there’ll be green corn and new spuds and the gumps are fat already. -I promise myself some famous mulligans around these parts.” - -Many boys would have jumped at this chance, but I declined. Maybe it was -a dislike for begging, or ambition, or my imagination pulling me -westward. I don’t know; but it wasn’t the hardships, I’m sure. At the -junction we parted. - -“So long, kid. May see you out West next fall when I make the poultice -route.” - -“What’s that?” I asked. - -“That’s southern Utah, kid, the land of milk and honey. You’re always -sure of a big pan of milk and a fresh loaf of home bread—the poultice -route, see? So long.” - ---- - -A long, heavy westbound freight train was slowly pulling out when I got -to the railroad yards. A car of lumber, clean and white, piled halfway -to the roof, the door invitingly open, came along. Nimbly I swung up and -in. - -Inside the car I looked about for a place to secrete myself. The lumber -was about six feet shorter than the car, which left a large space at one -end. I dropped down into it, took off my coat, and stretched out on the -floor, feeling sure of a long ride. No brakeman would crawl over that -pile of lumber even if he knew there was a hiding place at one end. - -Along in the afternoon, after one of the many stops, I heard a -scrambling above and a young fellow about my own age dropped lightly -down beside me. I had been in the car so long that the half light was -enough. I saw he was ragged and frightfully dirty, road dirt—coal smoke, -cinders, ashes, grease. His coat, too large for the thin frame, was full -of holes and its lining hung in tatters. His trousers were greasy and -full of hot-cinder holes. His calico shirt was open in front, his skin -was dirty. He was sharp-eyed and thin-faced. He eyed me wolfishly. - -“How long you been here?” - -“All day.” - -“Where you headin’ for?” - -“Denver.” - -“Got a smoke?” - -“No.” - -He dug a dirty newspaper out of his back pocket, neatly tore a piece off -the border, tearing it downward with the grain, till he had a piece the -size of a cigarette paper. A search of his coat pocket yielded a cigar -snipe, which he crushed in his hand and then rolled up in the paper he -had held in his mouth. - -“Got a match?” - -“No.” - -He looked at me in disgust, dug up one of his own, and lit up. The smell -of his cigarette was fierce. He now took off his shoes. One of them was -laced with dirty white string. He had no socks, his feet were grimy and -smelled. His coat came off next; with it and his shoes he made a pillow -and stretched out on the floor. - -“Won’t the brakeman smell that smoke?” I asked. - -“To hell with him an’ you,” and he spoke no more. Finishing his smoke, -he adjusted his pillow and went to sleep. I rolled my coat up, made a -pillow, and dozed. I was afraid he would steal my shoes, so I left them -on. - -Something woke me in the evening. I think it was the lumber shifting. -The train was on a down grade, the car creaking and rocking. We were in -the front end. Suddenly my companion jumped to his feet. He looked -scared, started to crawl up on top of the lumber. He was too late. There -was a grinding noise, and a crash. About four feet of the top of the -lumber slid forward against the front end of the car and he was crushed, -flattened between. I was a prisoner below, unhurt. This shifting of the -lumber cut off the light from the open side door, but its weight against -the end of the car opened up some cracks and I was soon able to see -about me dimly. The boy had died instantly. His body, from the waist up, -was flattened between the lumber and front end of the car. His legs -dangled below, down where I was imprisoned, with each movement of the -car, like the legs of a scarecrow in the wind. - -I can’t remember that I was shocked or frightened, but I do know that as -soon as I found I was imprisoned in that car I got hungry. I hadn’t -eaten since morning and was hungry before the thing happened. But then I -knew I could get out and eat at any stop. Now I couldn’t, and my hunger -became unbearable. - -The place I was in was large as ever, except in height. The shifting of -the lumber had reduced that to about three feet. I couldn’t stand up. I -was in no danger. The lumber could not shift at the bottom, the weight -of that above was too heavy. I had a strong pocketknife, and went to -work on the side of the car near the end. The boarding was thin, -weather-rotten, and old. In a couple of hours I had cut almost through -one end of three boards. My hands were blistered. I sat down and waited -till I heard the whistle blow for a town. - -As the train went into the yards I kicked the boards loose at the top -where they were cut, and pulled them away from below where they were -nailed. This gave me a hole large enough to crawl out of, which I did, -feet first, pulling my coat after, when she stopped. Up on the main -street I learned I was in Dodge City, Kansas, a town at that time -largely given over to gambling, fighting, and whisky drinking. I wasn’t -interested in any of those amusements then. I got something to eat and -went to a cheap room for the night. Tired out, I slept till noon the -next day. Then I went down to the yards to look for another train out. -Near the depot I met a character who looked like a bum. He gave me a -sharp look. - -“Goin’ down in the yards, young feller?” - -“Yes, why?” - -“Better wait till night if you want to make a train. The railroad bull -is hostile. They found a bum dead in a car of lumber this morning, and -they had to tear the end of the car off to get his body out. He must -have been an awful gay cat to get into the end of a carload of planed -lumber. It’s suicide.” - -I went back uptown and into a lunch counter. The waiter was idle and -talkative. - -“Traveling?” he asked. - -“Yes.” - -“Which way?” - -“Denver.” - -“Beating it?” - -“Yes.” - -“Listen here, it’ll take you three or four days to make Denver that way. -You’ll ruin your clothes and maybe get grabbed off a train and handed -thirty days at Colorado Springs—big chain gang there—they’re cleaning up -the streets. If you can dig up five dollars I’ll give you a card to a -porter on the Overland to-night. Give him the five and he’ll do the -rest.” - -“Thanks, I’ll try it.” - -I met the train and the porter who took the card and my five dollars, -stowed me away in the linen closet, and locked the door. I was almost -suffocated. Once in the night he opened the closet. “How you makin’ out, -buddy?” - -“All right,” I said, and the door was locked again. Next morning he -gave me a piece of steak between slices of bread, and a bottle of -coffee. After that I felt better and dozed in a cramped, sitting -position in a corner. - -That afternoon at Denver I was released, happy, hungry, cramped, and -tired. I rented a cheap room for a week, went to a barber shop, and had -a bath. I thought twenty-five cents for a bath a rank waste of money -and decided to find a swimming hole. In a few days I found one. - -There was a sort of camp for bums on the river bank under some trees. -They had their fires there, and cans for boiling coffee. They used to -lie around, washing and boiling their clothes, and swimming. They stole -chickens around the neighborhood and anything else they could get. - -One afternoon I was in swimming, when suddenly there was an alarm and -everybody ran. I didn’t pay any attention to it at first; then I got out -of the water and ran for my clothes. I had just about got them on when -the police arrived and grabbed me. - -They put me into the patrol wagon. I was the only one they got. Later -they picked up one or two others around in the woods, and took us all -down to the jail. I was scared half to death. - -They put us all in one big room with a lot of other bums they’d picked -up. The police had had a general order to clean up the town. - -In the morning they took us all up to court. It was the first time I had -been in court. We were all charged with vagrancy. When my name was -called, I protested. I said, “Judge, you can’t call me a vagrant. I -have twenty dollars down in the jail office.” - -He looked at me as coldly and impersonally as if I had been a dish of -parsnips. “Fifteen days on the chain gang. Next case.” - - - - -CHAPTER VII - - -I was taken downstairs and locked in a cell; I saw no more of the “bull -pen” where I spent the night. My cellmate was a handsome, smiling young -fellow about twenty-two or twenty-three. He looked like a country boy, -rugged, red-cheeked, blue-eyed, sandy-haired. He seemed to be well -acquainted in the jail. - -Some one sang out, “Who’s the fresh fish, ‘Smiler’?” - -“Another vag,” he answered. “Fifteen days.” - -I told him about my case at once. I felt outraged. - -“Forget it, kid. Your fifteen days will be in before your name’s dry on -the commitment. They won’t put you on the gang. You’ll get a trusty job. -I’m just finishing ten days, haven’t been out of this cell, goin’ out -this afternoon and out of this man’s town, too,” he smiled. “Let’s eat. -You’ve got money in the office. I’ll send for a messenger.” - -“All right,” I said, “do it.” - -A trusty took my name and our orders. Smiler ordered tobacco and papers -also. A messenger came in an hour with two meals and the “makings” of -smokes. I signed my name on the check and he was paid at the office. -After we ate, Smiler sang songs, danced, or stood at the door waiting to -be released. - -“I’m going West, kid; hope I see you on the road so I can return that -feed,” he said, when the trusty came to release him. - -I liked “The Smiler” and wished I could be with him. In the morning -coffee and stale bread were served in the cells. Fifteen minutes later -there was a banging of doors. Some one shouted “Chain gang.” My door was -opened. - -“Outside, kid,” said a trusty. - -I followed other prisoners down the corridor to a big, open room where -they washed up in running water at a sink and dried themselves with -handkerchiefs. The trusty came with my hat. - -“You won’t need your coat, kid. I’ll look out for it.” - -An officer opened a door to the street and stood inside; another was -outside; the chain gang filed out and climbed into an open wagon with -seats on each side facing each other. A crowd of curious men and boys -stood around the wagon. When my turn came, instead of getting into the -wagon I dashed down the street, instinctively, like a wild animal. The -guards didn’t chase me for fear the others would escape. The crowd -shouted and cheered me on. I was free. - -There was nothing in my room. I didn’t go near it. I had no money, and -hunger seized me at once. I walked out of town, walked all day and till -dark, when I found myself exhausted at a bums’ camp twenty miles away, -on the outskirts of a small town. Confidently I walked up to the fire. -I was one of them. I had escaped; I was hungry; I was ready for -anything; I belonged around the fire. I heard an exclamation. A form -rose up from the fireside and grabbed me with both hands. It was Smiler. - -“That’s doin’ time, kid, what! Did you beat it? Where’s your coat?” - -“Yes. My coat’s in the jail.” - -“Take a rest for an hour, and we’ll go up to the burg. I’ll get you -one.” - -On our way into the town he explained. “There’ll be a train through here -about ten o’clock, kid; I’ll kick in the first private house that looks -good. We’ll surely find a coat and maybe a few dollars and something to -eat if we have time.” - -He looked about sharply at the houses. Across the street we heard a door -slam. A woman and man came out the front gate, the cottage was dark. We -walked around the block and back to the cottage. Smiler walked -confidently in the front gate, I followed. He rang the doorbell, no -answer. We went around to the back where he found a kitchen window open, -climbed through, and unlocked the door for me. - -“Look around for some chuck, kid, and stay right there till I come -back.” He disappeared. In a minute or two I could see about me, and -explored the pantry. I found bread and meat and tied them in a cloth. - -Smiler returned from the front carrying a bundle of clothes, and we went -out. I found a coat that fitted passably. We left the balance, and -departed unseen. - -The train was pulling in and we made a run to the water tank where it -had to stop, and by the time we found a car we could get into it was -pulling out. - -The lunch was spread out on a paper and quickly disappeared. Smiler had -some cheap jewelry, an old silver watch, and a few dollars in cash. He -divided the money, and after inspecting the other plunder threw it out -the car door. “That junk would get us five years, kid, if we got grabbed -with it, and it ain’t worth two dollars.” - -This adventure fascinated me. I gave no thought to the burglary. It -seemed right that I should have a coat and food. My money was behind in -the jail. I couldn’t buy them. I had stolen them. Somehow I felt -satisfied, as if I had got even with somebody. - -“How do you like this racket, kid?” Smiler asked as we rolled up our -coats for pillows. - -“It’s great. How long have you been doing it?” - -“Oh, a couple of years. Ever since the coppers run me out of my home -town, Detroit. That was a snide little caper we cut back there and I -wouldn’t have touched it only you had to have a coat. How would you like -to be a prowler, kid?” - -I liked him, always smiling, for his ready help when I needed it and his -companionable ways. - -“I think I would like it; it’s exciting.” - -“All right, kid. When we get to Salt Lake I’ll show you the real thing.” - -“Good,” I said. “How long will it take us to make Salt Lake?” - -“About a week at this rate.” - -“Let’s ride the passenger trains,” I said, anxious to take my first -lessons in burglary. - -“We’ll get a passenger train out of Cheyenne, kid, if we can duck Jeff -Carr,” said Smiler. “Never heard of him? He’s a railroad bull and he’s -‘bum simple’—simple-minded on the subject of killing bums. If you run -he’ll shoot you; if you stand he’ll get you six months, and he’d rather -have you run.” - -I learned all about Carr later, and his feud with the bums. They made -many efforts to kill him, but never succeeded. He was later put in -charge of the railroad’s train-robber detail, but he never killed any -train robbers and the bums rambled through Cheyenne in peace. - -We got a train out without falling foul of the murderous Carr and rode -the baggage into a division point where there was a twenty-minute stop -for dinner. Looking around for a place to get coffee, we passed a -jewelry store. The jeweler was working at his bench in front. When we -got to the alley, Smiler said: “We’ll make that tray of watches in the -window, kid. You get a handful of rocks, go around to the back, and -throw them against the jeweler’s door till he opens it. When he does, -I’ll make the front. Don’t throw them too hard and scare him. -Easy—just enough to make him curious.” - -I followed instructions and was preparing to throw the fourth rock when -the door opened. The jeweler stepped out and took a good look around. I -walked down the alley to the street, and soon caught up with Smiler, who -was stepping away briskly. - -“We’ve got to plant this junk, kid. We can’t take chances luggin’ it -around.” - -We were in the yards now and Smiler was looking at the cars curiously as -we passed between them. He stopped beside a car of coal and looked at -the card tacked on it. “Billed to Butte, Montana,” he said, “this’ll -do.” He tied the watches, which he took from his coat pocket, in a big -handkerchief. We climbed up on the car and the parcel was planted in -one corner and plenty of coal put back on top of it. On the ground -again, Smiler tore off a corner of the destination card. “Don’t forget -that, kid; in case anything happens to me you’ll know this car.” - -This was all accomplished in less than twenty minutes, and we had plenty -of time to catch our passenger train, which we did, leaving our plunder -behind but sure to follow. - -“He may not miss that junk till he goes to close up, kid, or he may have -missed it already. Anyway we’ll sure be stuck up and frisked at -Evanston. All we have to do is tell the truth, say we rode this rattler -out of Cheyenne and never left the yards at Rock Springs. And they won’t -hold us. They can’t figure that we could touch that joint and go out on -the same train. We’ll stop at Evanston anyway and wait for our coal car. -Then, instead of going to Salt Lake, we’ll ride the freight over the -cut-off to Pocatello and I’ll get the coin on that junk in an hour from -Mary.” - -“Who’s Mary?” I asked. - -“Wait till you see her, to-morrow. She’ll buy anything from a barrel of -whisky to a baby carriage.” - -It was a warm night, and riding the front end of the baggage was -pleasant enough. “If the bulls grab us off, kid, you say nothing; I’ll -talk and tell them who we are and where we’re going. You listen, that’s -all. - -“Say,” he said suddenly, “take off that coat and let me look at it.” He -went over it closely by the light from the engine. It was tailor-made, -and he found the owner’s name on a piece of white cloth sewed in the -inside pocket. He ripped it out, and I put the coat on. - -“You never can be too careful, kid. We ought to have looked at that -before. If Jeff Carr had picked us up at Cheyenne you might have been -charged with that lousy burglary by now.” - -How could a boy help admiring such wisdom? I was flattered to be taken -up by one so experienced, so confident and active about his work, and -withal, so carefree, happy, and smiling. - -We were not molested at Evanston, where we got off and waited for our -freight train. It came along next day, and that night we dropped off it -at Pocatello, Idaho. - -Pocatello, at that time, was just a small railroad town. A famous -stopping-off place for the bums bound East, West, North and South. There -was a grand jungle by a small, clean river where they boiled up their -vermined clothes, or “rags” as they are always called, cooked their -mulligans, or, if enough bums got together, held a “convention.” These -conventions, like many others, were merely an excuse for a big drunk. -Sometimes they would end in a killing, or some drunken bum would fall in -the fire and get burned to death, after which they would silently steal -away. Oftener, the convention lasted till there was no more money for -alcohol, the bums’ favorite drink. The bums then began “pestering the -natives” by begging and stealing till the whole town got sore. - -The town marshal would then appear with a posse armed with “saps,” which -is short for saplings, young trees. He stood guard with a shotgun, while -the posse fell upon the convention and “sapped up” on those therein -assembled and ran them down the railroad track and out of town. - -We found our junk without trouble, and hastened to “Mary’s.” - -If I knew more of composition and writing and talking I might do justice -to Mary, the fence, and friend of bums and thieves. - -It’s an injustice to the memory of Mary, or, as she was lovingly called -by the bums, “Salt Chunk Mary,” to try to crowd her into a few -paragraphs or even a chapter. She should have a book. - -“Did you eat yet?” was the first thing you heard after entering her -house. “I have a pot of beans on the stove and a fine chunk of salt pork -in them.” She invariably produced the beans and “fine chunk of salt -pork” and always ate as heartily of them as any of her famished guests. - -Her principal business was selling wine, women, and song to the railroad -men and gamblers. She ruled her half dozen “girls” with a heavy hand. -Her house on the outskirts of the town was a dingy, old two-story frame -building with a couple of rooms added to one side of it where she lived -and received her friends from the road. - -Smiler knew her and we were welcome. The feed of beans and salt pork was -spread for us. She locked the door and, while we ate, this most unusual -woman estimated the value of our loot, spread out on one end of the -oilcloth-covered kitchen table where we sat. - -Salt Chunk Mary put no acids on the watches, nor pried into the works. -She “hefted” the yellow ones with a practiced hand and glanced but once -at the white ones. - -I surveyed her as I ate. She was about forty years of age, hard-faced -and heavy-handed. Her hair was the color of a sunburned brick, and her -small blue eyes glinted like ice under a March sun. She could say “no” -quicker than any woman I ever knew, and none of them ever meant “yes.” - -She went into the adjoining room and returned with a roll of bills. -“Four hundred dollars, Smiler.” - -“Good! Give us small bills, Mary.” - -He divided the money equally between us and we got up to go. - -“Let’s go in and buy a few bottles of beer for the girls, kid, just by -the way of no harm.” - -“No, don’t drag that kid in there—and here’s something else, listen,” -said this plain, blunt woman to Smiler. “I guess that kid is all right -or he wouldn’t be with you. If I’m grabbed with this junk I’ll rot in -jail before I put the finger on you, and if either of you gets grabbed -(she was looking at me), and thinks he can get a light jolt by turning -me in, he’s wrong. I’ll throw it in the river, and he can rot in jail.” - -We got a room to rest up, and before going to sleep decided that Salt -Lake was too small for us. San Francisco was better. Smiler had never -been there, and was as anxious to see it as I. Buying tickets was -throwing money away. So we “beat it” down to Ogden and over the Southern -Pacific, riding the front end of passenger trains at night, making long -jumps, avoiding bums’ camps, paying for our meals, and stealing nothing. -We got into Sacramento without mishap, rested up a couple of days, and -journeyed along toward “the city.” We got “ditched” off our train at -Port Costa, and crawled into a hay car for the night. There were a -couple of bums in the car already, and more came in later and flopped. - -Early next morning we were aroused by a pounding on the side of the car. -“Come on out of there!” shouted a man with his head in the door, “yez -are all pinched.” We hit the ground, eight of us in all, young and old, -large and small. Two men were outside, carrying shortened billiard cues. - -“March!” one of them ordered. - -One of the bums started to march and the rest followed. He seemed to -know just what to do and where to go. A short walk across the tracks -brought us up in front of a big barnlike house with a hotel sign and -broad steps in front. The bum led us straight up the steps and into a -barroom, where he stood up against the wall opposite the bar. We did the -same. A stout, grayish, red-faced man with a very positive air was busy -serving drinks. He paused and spoke to one of our captors: - -“What have you there, Mike?” - -“Eight bums, judge.” - -He served another round of drinks and turned to us again. - -“Are you guilty or not guilty?” - -The big bum that led us in immediately answered: “We’re all guilty, -judge, an’ hungry.” - -The judge—and he was no less person than Judge Casey, famous and -celebrated in song and story for his speedy trials and the human quality -of his justice—waved a short, hairy, muscular arm toward the dining -room. - -“Feed them first, Mike.” - -We followed our leader into the dining room and all sat at one big table -where we had a substantial breakfast. When the last bum had his fill, we -marched back to the barroom and lined up against the wall again. - -“All ready, judge,” said Mike. - -The judge stopped dealing drinks and pronounced sentence. His voice -sounded tired, weary; there was a note of kindness in it. - -“Oh, well, Mike, lave the big bums take tin days, and the little bums -five.” - -He turned to his work. The big bum now led us out and to a near-by box -car that served as a calaboose. One side door was nailed up and both -end doors fastened outside. We crawled in and the other side door was -shut and padlocked on the outside. - -Smiler sat down in the car and laughed. “What’s next, I wonder, kid?” - -Some one answered out of the darkness: “They’ll hook this box car on to -the first freight and haul us over to Martinez, the county seat, an’ -slough us in the county jail.” - -I had told Smiler about cutting myself out of the car when my companion -was killed. - -“Better get busy with your ‘shive,’ kid.” I started cutting on the side -opposite the boarding house. The bum that pleaded guilty for all of us -saw what I was doing and protested. “Hey, kid, lay off o’ that. You want -to get us all six months, destroyin’ railroad property?” - -Smiler was on him like a tiger and cuffed him around till he whined. “Go -over in that corner and lie down, you greasy, big gay cat, or I’ll cut -your tail off.” The bum sat down and stayed quiet. In an hour we kicked -the boards out. - -“You first, kid.” - -I dropped out and Smiler followed. As we dodged across the yards I -looked back. Two more bums had wriggled out. The other four elected to -stay in the car, too lazy to run away. - -We hid all day under a warehouse and at dark rode a freight into Oakland -where we got the ferry. We bought new clothes, rented a room, and got -cleaned up. San Francisco fascinated us. We spent days on the water -front watching the ships and sailors, or at the Cliff House where I -first saw the ocean, and in the park. Our nights were spent about the -“Coast,” Broadway and Pacific Street, at Bottle Koenig’s or the Bella -Union or downtown at Pete Dorsey’s and other dance halls. - -Gambling was open everywhere; we experimented and lost. We wasted our -money around the shows, dance halls, and hop joints, which were open and -unmolested by the police. In a month we were almost broke, and ready for -the road. Salt Lake was decided upon where Smiler had something special -in view. - -An uneventful week on the road put us into Salt Lake City. - -Then swiftly came the tragic night that separated us forever—I to jail -and the kindly, lovable Smiler to his grave. - - - - -CHAPTER VIII - - -There was a legend on the road that the Mormon Tabernacle in Salt Lake -City was a veritable storehouse of gold, silver, and precious stones and -it was this that lured Smiler back to that city. At that time a high -adobe wall surrounded the block on which stood the Tabernacle and the -then unfinished Mormon Temple. We looked it over for several days and -nights but could get nothing tangible to work on. Sunday we attended -services and the plate was to be seen, silver and gold; more than we -could carry away if we got it. At last we decided to go over the wall -and give the place a good reconnaissance. If it looked feasible we could -get a couple of other idle burglars and give it a thorough looting. - -On top of the wall we pulled up our light ladder and placed it inside. -Smiler went down first. I barely had my feet off the ladder when a dozen -men rose up out of the shrubbery armed with shotguns, and surrounded us. -We stood still by the wall. One of them spoke, sternly, evenly: “Go back -over that wall.” - -Little we knew the Mormons. We went up the ladder, pulled it up, and -went down and away. - -When Smiler’s good humor returned he held up his hand. “Kid, I’ll never -try to rob another Mormon. I’ll go to work first.” - -The next day we went into a small gambling house where we hung out to -read the papers. We sat at a table near the big safe in a corner of the -room. A man in overalls was taking the lock apart. The place had changed -hands a few days before and the new proprietors were having the numbers -of the combination changed. When the mechanic finished his work he wrote -some numbers on two slips of paper. These he threw on the floor beside -his tools and went back to the bar for a drink. Smiler stooped, picked -up the slips, looked at them closely, and threw them back on the floor. - -Outside, he said: “We’ve got the combination of that box, kid. Those two -pieces of paper are for the new proprietors, their new combination.” - -Neither one of us knew enough about safes to feel sure of opening one -even when we had the numbers. Smiler knew a chap doing time in the -penitentiary who knew all about safes. The “stir” was only a mile out of -the city and we decided to go up and get some expert advice. - -Next day we visited the expert at the “stir,” who gladly gave us -instructions and declared himself in with any money we got. - -That night Smiler opened the box as easily as if it belonged to him and -locked it again. We got but a few hundred dollars where we expected -several thousands. The new owners had no bankroll, just opened up on a -shoestring, hoping to get off lucky and win. The next morning they -accused each other of the theft, almost fought with pistols, and -dissolved partnership, calling each other thieves. - -The money was split three ways. The expert at the “stir” took his bit -with bad grace, intimating that we got more than we were dividing, and -that we were thieves. As we were leaving, Smiler said: “Good-by, -‘Shorty.’ Everything’s all right now, ain’t it?” - -“Oh, sure,” he grouched. “Everything’s all right—just like Denmark.” - -“Kid, we’ll go up to that joint and give them a chance to win their -money back,” said Smiler. “I feel lucky.” - -We went up, but they were closed and we had to go elsewhere to gamble. -The habit had fastened on him. He became a fiend for gambling. When his -money was gone I let him play mine in, and he kept us broke. In a few -days the money from our last venture was gone, and we were sparring -about for more. - -The oldest and commonest system of the house burglar in locating money -and jewelry is to stand about theaters, cafés, and the better shops, -watching their patrons and following them home if they display wealth. -Smiler and I followed a woman and man to their home one night from the -theater. The woman wore enough diamonds to stun any thief or pawnbroker. -They went into a well-kept, two-story house, back in a big yard full of -trees and shrubs, only a dozen blocks from the main street. They let -themselves in with a key and appeared to be the only occupants of the -place. - -We looked the spot over for several days and evenings. There was a -servant girl about the place, but no children and no dogs. This was -good. Children, particularly young ones, often need attention in the -night, which interferes with the prowler. Dogs, young or old, are the -bane of the burglar’s life. A dog inside a house where people are -sleeping prohibits burglary, and the smaller he is, the louder he -prohibits. So far as we could see, the place looked made to order for -us. House burglars customarily work single-handed. Two men prowling -about in a house in the dark are apt to get confused if any one wakes -up, and shoot each other. It has happened. - -“I wish this stool-pigeon moon wasn’t so bright to-night, kid,” said -Smiler as we waited in the shrubbery for our people to put out lights -and retire. At eleven o’clock the house was in darkness. “About three -hours more, kid, and we’ll get busy.” - -We had been in the yard since nine o’clock, tense, watching, listening. -Six hours lying on the damp grass and wet from the heavy dew. And still -the burglar wonders how he catches those terrible colds that hang on and -on and finally develop into T.B. - -It was agreed that I should stay outside and lend a hand in case -anything went wrong in the house with Smiler. Inside the house, -inexperienced as I was, I would be in the way. Smiler looked at his -watch for the hundredth time. - -He removed his shoes, putting one in each hip pocket as far as it would -go, buttoned his coat tightly, and pulled his hat far down over his -eyes. Always clean, handsome, smiling, he wasn’t good to look at now. We -stepped toward the house, keeping out of the moonlight when possible. On -the rear porch Smiler tried the door and windows—all fastened. He -motioned me to stay where I was, and disappeared around the side of the -house in search of an unlatched window. No burglar uses force till he is -sure there is no window or door unfastened. - -He was gone so long that I was getting worried when he silently appeared -from the other side; he had gone around the house. I left the porch and -joined him beside a window he had found unfastened. He pointed to some -vines near by, where I took my stand to wait till he rejoined me. I -watched him intently, a pupil, apt at learning. The bottom of the window -was about even with his shoulder. He stood with arms upraised, hands -against the window sash, slowly, silently pushing it up. I listened, but -he made no sound. The night was calm, still, dead. - -Then came a blinding flash of fire and the deadly roar of a rifle. -Broken glass, falling, tinkled, and a woman shrieked once hysterically. - -My eyes had never left Smiler. He staggered back from the window -clutching his throat with both hands; his legs trembled like a spent -fighter’s, as he sank slowly to his knees. - -For a moment I shrank with fear and shock, cold and helpless, into the -vines beside the house. The flash and deafening explosion coming out of -the still night when my nerves were at their highest tension petrified -me on the spot. Then my legs ran away with me and I found myself at the -back gate to the alley, the way we came in, fumbling at the latch. My -mind was clearing up now. The gate was open. I was wondering whether to -run up or down the alley, into the city or out of it. I expected to hear -more shots. Then I thought of Smiler, and looked back. - -He was there in front of the window in the moonlight, on his hands and -knees now, shaking his head from side to side slowly. - -There was no alarm yet. The night was calm and still again. There was -the smell of burnt powder in the air. - -This was my first desperate experience. I didn’t know what to do. I -wanted to run on and save myself and I wanted to help Smiler. -Something—I don’t know what it was, but I don’t think it was courage or -bravery—turned me around and I ran back through the shrubbery to a spot -opposite the window from which the shot had been fired. In the clear -moonlight I could see that it was raised about six inches and one of its -lower panes was shattered. - -The house was still in darkness. There was no sound inside. I must have -been in a panic still. No sane-thinking human would have done what I did -next. I ran out in front of the window to Smiler, and standing over -him, put my arms under his, lifting him slowly to his feet. Blood was -streaming out of his mouth. He slowly and weakly put one arm around my -neck. I held it there, grasping the hand that hung limply over my -shoulder, and with my other arm around his waist slowly dragged him to -the gate and out into the alley where he collapsed. His dead weight was -too much for me. I let his body slip gently to the ground. A twitching -shudder ran through him. He straightened out on his back and threw his -arms wide. He was dead. - -Still no sound came from the house. Next door I now heard a window -thrown up and voices calling, a light appeared. It seemed an age since -the shot was fired, yet it wasn’t three minutes. Smiler was beyond my -help. I must be off. I was drenched with the blood that spurted from a -wound in his neck. It was on my face and hands. My shirt front was -saturated with it. My coat was dripping blood. I thought of our room -downtown—no chance to make it in that condition. - -Smiler’s watch chain glistened in the moonlight. I tore at his pockets -and found his money. I went through them all, took everything, and ran -for blocks and blocks through the alley toward the outskirts of the -city. The dawn was coming fast. I must hide. I turned out of the -alley into a street and walked on wondering what to do, where to go. - -A “For Rent” sign on a large, neglected-looking residence halted me. Not -a soul was in sight on the street. I dodged into the yard, around to the -back, and found the kitchen door unlocked. Inside, I went into what had -been the dining room and sat down on the floor exhausted, nervous, and -covered with blood. - -When it became light enough I explored the old house, finding nothing -but rags and old papers. There was no water in it and washing was out of -the question. I gathered up an armful of the rags and papers, making a -pallet of them by a window upstairs in a front room, where I could look -out on the street. I sat down on the pallet and began to think things -over. It was the first good chance since I had left my father. I -heartily wished myself back with him. If this was adventure I wanted no -more of it. I was done with it. It had brought me to this. Tired, -hungry, bloody, afraid to go to sleep even if I could, lest I should be -found and dragged off to jail and surely convicted. Smiler was dead. I -had no ties to bind me to the road. - -Yes, I would get out of this mess somehow and go back to my father. I -was sorry for poor Smiler and would have stayed with him on the road, -but now it was different. I felt no remorse for any of the things we had -done. I wasn’t sorry. I didn’t even think they were wrong. That phase of -it never entered my mind. - -Then I fell to thinking of Smiler’s tragic end; trying to puzzle it out: -Why the woman shrieked, why the house remained so dark and silent, and -why I wasn’t shot when I went to his assistance. There was no answer to -it all. I felt easier in my mind now that I had decided to quit the road -and go home, and longed for the night to come when I could leave my -hiding place and wash the blood off my hands and face and get fresh -clothes. - -As the day wore on, feeling more secure, I stretched out on my bed of -rags and paper and tried to sleep, but it wouldn’t come to me. Later, in -the afternoon, I removed my coat and shoes and managed to doze fitfully -till evening. When it was dark enough to walk through the streets safely -I left the house and made my way to a hot sulphur spring that gushed out -of a hillside a mile away. There I stripped and scrubbed myself as best -I could in the dark, and without soap. My clothes were stiff with dried -blood. I threw the shirt and underwear away, put my handkerchief about -my neck, and, buttoning my coat, started off in search of a store where -I could get a new outfit. - -Since the night Smiler stole the coat for me we had never allowed -ourselves to get flat broke. With all his passion for gambling he would -hold on to a few dollars. With the money I found on him and my own, I -counted up thirty dollars. His watch wasn’t worth two dollars, a cheap -one he bought in San Francisco. I kept it as a memento. There was -nothing else of value in his pockets. - -In a few minutes I found one of the many little general stores that -flourished in Salt Lake at that time, and purchased a suit, the cheapest -one there, for twelve dollars, and a fifty-cent shirt. I went back to -the spring with my bundle, where I donned the cheap bullswool suit and -threw my good one away. Tired and hungry, I crawled aboard a street car -citybound from the sulphur springs. - -In the car I looked closely at my hands and saw there was still some -blood around my finger nails; there were dark spots on my shoes, too. -Hungry as I was, I first went into a barber shop, had a bath, and -scrubbed my shoes. Then to a restaurant, and while eating I decided to -go to our room and have a good sleep and get a suit of underclothes and -a few other things that I would need on my way home. I turned the whole -thing over in my mind and was sure there was no danger in going to the -room. - -I was sitting at the table nearest the kitchen, finishing my meal, when -a policeman came in and sat opposite me. The waiter brought a steak -which was ready and waiting for him. - -“Did they identify the dead burglar yet?” the waiter asked. - -“No, not a thing on him.” - -“How did it happen, anyway?” - -“Just like the morning paper says. The woman’s husband was called away -unexpectedly. The hired girl had the night out and she was alone in the -house, sleeplessly walking around the rooms when this bird appeared at -the window. Scared half to death she got her husband’s rifle and fired -at him; then she fell in a faint. When she revived, the neighbors were -called and they got the police. The bird ran as far as the alley, and -dropped dead. The bullet cut an artery in his neck.” - -From the restaurant I went directly to our room and to bed, where I -slept the sleep of exhaustion till some time next forenoon, when I was -roused by heavy knocking at my door. When I opened it, two big, -red-faced men shouldered in, told me I was under arrest, and ordered me -to put on my clothes. I washed and dressed. One of them put handcuffs on -me and made me sit in a chair while they searched the room without -finding anything that interested them. - -The other then produced a bloodstained piece of paper, and, holding it -out before my eyes, said: - -“Did you ever see that before?” - -I looked at it. It was the landlord’s receipt for our room rent. They -had found it in a corner of one of Smiler’s pockets. Smiler had -continually drummed it into me never to answer any questions in case we -were arrested. - -“Just clam up, kid. Tell them you’d rather not say anything till you get -a lawyer. They might slug you, but don’t talk; that’s your only -salvation.” - -I remembered his advice and said to them as respectfully as I knew how: - -“You gentlemen have arrested me for something, I don’t know what. But I -would rather not make any statement till I can see an attorney and get -his advice.” - -The landlord now came to the room. - -“Was this young man in this room night before last?” - -“The bed wasn’t slept in,” he replied. - -“That’s good, we’ll lock him up. Maybe he’ll talk then. You come along -with us, too. We want you to identify the dead one.” - -The city jail was but a few blocks away and all four of us walked there -together. They took me inside and unlocked the handcuffs. A man at a -desk asked my name and age. I was then taken out the back door, and -across a yard into the jail building and locked in a cell with a solid -iron door, in a remote corner of the building. They didn’t threaten to -beat me up, and asked no more questions. A jailer came at noon with a -trusty, who put a pan of very good stew, a tin cup of coffee, and half a -loaf of bread in the cell. - -I said to the jailer: “Mister, could I see a lawyer?” - -He shut the door and locked it without answering me. The door wasn’t -opened again till midnight. I was lying awake on a bunk fighting bedbugs -in the dark. It seemed they were trying to eat me alive. - -“Step out here, young man.” - -I stepped out in my stocking feet. - -“Put your shoes on, and come with us.” - -They were the same two men that arrested me. They took me out and up -the streets into the next block where we stopped at an undertaker’s. -They led me to a back room and up beside a table on which a figure was -lying, covered by a long, sheetlike, white cloth. I stood there beside -the table between the two officers for a moment. Then, suddenly, one of -them snatched the sheet away from the upper part of the figure. The -other shook me violently and shouted: - -“Did you ever see that man before?” - -I knew Smiler was there before he snatched the sheet off. When we went -into the undertaker’s I felt they were going to show me his body, but I -couldn’t understand why. I learned later that some people are unnerved -at the sudden sight of a gruesome corpse, and, weakening, talk. - -It hurt me to look at Smiler, his smile forever gone, changed to a -hideous, snarl-like grin, and a gaping hole in his throat. - -I couldn’t think of anything else, so I said: “I want to see an -attorney, please.” - -“You’ll get a lawyer when we get done with you. You were with that -fellow when he was shot and we are going to charge you with an attempt -to commit burglary if you don’t tell us where you were night before -last.” - -I was locked up again. - -The following day the two officers took me out to the booking desk where -I was formally charged, and on the morning of the third day I went into -the police court for my hearing. One of the shyster lawyers, or “stir -steerers,” as the bums call them, came over to me. - -“They tell me you want a lawyer,” pointing to the officers. - -“Yes, I do.” - -“Got any money, or friends?” - -“I’ve got fifteen dollars in the office—and no friends.” - -“Give me an order for the money, and I’ll look after you,” he said. - -I gave him the order, he spoke to the two officers for a minute, and -then asked the judge for a continuance of twenty-four hours. This was -granted, and I was led back to the bedbugs in the dark cell. - -The next day, when my case was called, the lawyer stood up and started -talking. - -“Sit down!” roared the judge. - -He obeyed. - -A woman wearing a thick veil was called. I could not distinguish her -features. In a few words she told of shooting a man at her window. She -saw but one man, the one she shot. She was excused and hastily left the -courtroom. - -My landlord was called, and testified that I was the roommate of the -dead burglar; that I was not in the room the night he was killed, and -when I appeared the following night I had on a different, a new suit. - -The officers testified that they arrested me in the room and that I had -refused to make any statement. The prosecutor stood up. - -“Officer, when you accused this defendant of being an accomplice of the -dead man, did he deny it?” - -“No, sir, he did not.” - -The prosecutor looked wise, and sat down with a satisfied air—as if I -had been found guilty. - -“Anything more?” asked the judge. - -The prosecutor got up again. “It’s as plain as the nose on your face, -Your Honor. The dead man and this chap went out to rob that house. When -the other fellow was shot, this chap tried to help him away, but he was -too far gone. Then, what did he do? - -“Your Honor,” he said, ominously pointing a finger at me, “he robbed his -dead companion. The dead man’s pockets were turned inside out. But in -his haste this man overlooked this—this telltale blood-soaked receipt,” -and he waved it about with great effect. - -The judge frowned at me. The courtroom chair warmers craned necks in my -direction. - -“What about that new suit he has on?” continued the prosecutor. “He -either bought it or stole it since the shooting. Why? Because the suit -he wore that night had blood on it. Blood, Your Honor, blood,” he -finished hoarsely. - -I looked down at my shoes, wondering if the wizard was going to point -out the dark spots on them that I hadn’t succeeded in scrubbing off -entirely. - -“Anything for the defense?” inquired the judge. - -“We waive our defense,” said the “stir-steerer.” He left the room, and -luckily I never saw him. - -“Defendant held to await the action of the grand jury.” - -I was led away. - -It was a relief to get into the county jail, away from the bedbugs. It -was clean. I was put in a cell with a fine old Mormon farmer, charged -with polygamy—unlawful cohabitation, to use the legal phrase. He was -well supplied with tobacco and food, from friends outside, which he -shared with me. We were confined to the cells all the time, and I made -no acquaintances while there. I did not try. I was much discouraged at -this turn of things against me, but was still hopeful of getting out and -returning to my father. - -“You’ve been indicted by the grand jury,” said the jailer one morning, -some three weeks later, “and to-day you go up to the ‘big house.’” - -Utah then was a territory and all persons indicted were at once -transferred to the custody of the United States marshal who, in addition -to his other duties, acted as warden of the territorial penitentiary. An -hour later I was taken out of my cell and turned over to a big, rawboned -man with a worn pistol swinging from a holster on his belt. - -“Young feller, I don’t put irons on none of ’em,” he said to me, tapping -his gun. “Ef you want ter run, that’s yore business.” - -In an hour I was at the penitentiary, where I made friends and incurred -obligations that turned my thoughts away from home and sent me back on -the road. - - - - -CHAPTER IX - - -To say I was shocked, stunned, or humiliated on entering the -penitentiary would not be the truth. It would not be true in nine cases -out of any ten. It would be true if a man were picked up on the street -and taken directly to a penitentiary, but that isn’t done. He is first -thrown into a dirty, lousy, foul-smelling cell in some city prison, -sometimes with an awful beating in the bargain, and after two or three -days of that nothing in the world can shock, stun, or humiliate him. He -is actually happy to get removed to a county jail where he can perhaps -get rid of the vermin and wash his body. By the time he is tried, -convicted, and sentenced, he has learned from other prisoners just what -the penitentiary is like and just what to do and what to expect. You -start doing time the minute the handcuffs are on your wrists. The first -day you are locked up is the hardest, and the last day is the easiest. -There comes a feeling of helplessness when the prison gates swallow you -up—cut you off from the sunshine and flowers out in the world—but that -feeling soon wears away if you have guts. Some men despair. I am sure I -did not. - -Inside the prison I was brought before a convict clerk who took my name, -age, and nativity. I lied about them all. I couldn’t cheat the scales or -a measuring machine, and they got my correct weight and height. I did -screw my face up a little when I was photographed, and felt good about -it. My clothes were not taken, nor was my hair cut. I had a bath and was -turned loose in the yard where there were about one hundred prisoners, -some, like myself, in outside clothes awaiting trial, and others in -convict stripes doing time. The penitentiary was small then. There was -no work except farming and gardening, which was all done by “cohabs,” -Mormons convicted of unlawful cohabitation, and a very decent lot of men -they were, never complaining of persecution, always ready to help their -fellow prisoners, and freely dividing the food, money, and tobacco with -which they were well supplied by friends and relatives. - -The other prisoners played poker all day in the yard on blankets, and -occasionally a game of baseball, when they could get up enough ambition. -The food was fair. There was no discipline. Prisoners were expected to -appear at their cells at evening to be locked in, and to stay in them -till they were let out in the morning. They didn’t always do that. In -prison parlance, the place was a “playhouse.” - -The first man to speak to me in the yard was Shorty, the safe expert we -had visited. He came directly up to me and put out his hand. “Kid, that -was tough about Smiler. I wanted to see you both and apologize. I -thought you put me in the hole for some coin, but I found out that the -people lost just what you both said. I couldn’t imagine a gambling house -with a six-hundred-dollar bankroll.” - -Shorty was one of the patricians of the prison, a “box man” doing time -for bank burglary. “I’ll put you in with the right people, kid. You’re -folks yourself or you wouldn’t have been with Smiler.” - -I had no friends in the place. But the fact that I had been with Smiler, -that I had kept my mouth shut, and that Shorty had come forward to help -me, gave me a certain fixed status in the prison that nothing could -shake but some act of my own. I was naturally pleased to find myself -taken up by the “best people,” as Shorty and his friends called -themselves, and accepted as one of them. - -Shorty now took me into the prison where we found the head trusty who -was one of the “best people” himself, a thoroughgoing bum from the road. -The term “bum” is not used here in any cheap or disparaging sense. In -those days it meant any kind of a traveling thief. It has long since -fallen into disuse. The yegg of to-day was the bum of twenty years ago. - -“This party,” said Shorty, “is one of the ‘Johnson family.’” (The bums -called themselves “Johnsons” probably because they were so numerous.) -“He’s good people and I want to get him fixed up for a cell with the -right folks.” - -“Why don’t you go out and see George and his outfit? There’s an empty -bunk in their cell.” - -We hunted up “George and his outfit.” They knew all about me apparently, -for George said, “Sure, put him in with us. If you don’t they’ll only -stick some gay cat in there and we’d have to throw him out in the -middle of the night.” - -“What have they got on you, kid?” asked George. - -I sat down with them all and went over the whole thing from the shooting -of Smiler to my arrival at the prison. - -“And you’ve made no statement yet?” - -“No.” - -“Not even to the shyster?” George inquired. - -“Not even to the shyster,” I replied. - -George turned to the others. “He’ll beat that case.” - -“Sure, he will,” they all said. - -“Judge Powers can beat that case before lunch any day,” said Shorty. - -“How’s he going to get the judge to defend him? He hasn’t a dime, and -you’re talking about the best lawyer in the state,” George wanted to -know. - -It was Shorty’s time to get superior now. “Where did I get that two -hundred dollars that’s out in the office? Didn’t him and Smiler bring it -up here to me for my end of that chippy gambling house’s bankroll. The -judge will take this case for a hundred; it’s only an hour’s work for -him.” - -George smiled. “Shorty, I knew damned well you’d do that,” and to me, -“Kid, that’s what comes of bein’ on the square. If you’d burnt Shorty -for his end of that coin, you’d have been here just the same, and you’d -have got a beatin’ instead of a lawyer and a lot of good advice from -real people.” - -My case was disposed of right there. I had an attorney. But the bums had -already tried me and I was found not guilty. All I had to do was wait -for the day to come and I would be free. I was very grateful to them -all, and tried to tell them. “Aw, forget it,” they said. - -“You can pay me the money when you get out and are lucky,” said Shorty. -“I’ll send for Judge Powers in the morning.” - -At supper time I fell in line with my new friends and ate at the same -table, after which we marched to our cells and were locked in. These -scheming yeggs had managed to get possession of the most desirable cell -in the prison, probably by bribing the trusty prisoner whose duty it was -to look after the cell house. On each side of the cell was a framework -ingeniously made of angle iron that contained two bunks, one above the -other. The mattresses were filled with clean straw, the blankets were -new and clean. George gave me a small feather pillow. In the center of -our cell at the upper end was a table on which stood a fine Rochester -oil lamp that gave plenty of light. Newspapers were produced, and the -“best people” settled themselves for the evening. - -George, who by reason of his age and experience was “captain of the -outfit,” explained to me that, being the last man in the cell, it was my -duty to empty the slop bucket in the morning and sweep out. - -I must stop to describe briefly my three cellmates, all persistent and -professional criminals, because of their influence on my after life. - -A name on a prison register doesn’t usually mean anything. Although I -knew George well later, I never learned from him his family name or -birthplace. To ask about those things in the underworld is to invite -suspicion. All criminals conceal them carefully and resent questions. -George was known on the road and to the police as “Foot-and-a-half -George” because of an injury to one of his feet that cost him a couple -of toes and caused a slight limp. It happened in this way, as he told me -one night when we were waiting to open up the powder house at a rock -quarry and get a supply of fresh dynamite, caps and fuse. - -“I always crush into these powder shacks for my ‘puff’ for two reasons; -first, it’s always in good condition; second, if you buy it you’ve got -to leave your mug with the storekeeper. He’s always suspicious of -anybody buying explosives and is apt to remember you and cause trouble -later in case of a pinch. - -“I got this bum foot,” he said, sticking it out, pointing to the shoe -with its bent-up toe, “through buying a roll of rotten fuse at an -out-of-the-way general store in Montana. I was goin’ against ‘P.O.’s’ -then. I always favored post offices because in the small country ones -the postmaster has to furnish the box himself and gets the cheapest one -he can find. He don’t care because the government stands the loss if -it’s a plain burglary from the outside. - -“Besides that, you’re a cinch to get some coin and a bundle of stickers -out of every ‘P.O.’ You can peddle the stamps anywhere at sixty or -eighty per cent and they can’t be identified. Then again, if you do -fall, the government don’t hang a lot of prior convictions on you and -bury you. The limit for a ‘P.O.’ is five years and you never get that if -you use a little judgment. Yes, I’m strong for the government,” mused -the veteran, reflectively. - -“This caper I’m tellin’ you about was a third-class ‘P.O.’ outside of -Butte, Montana. It was soft, and good for a few hundred dollars so I -decided to go against it alone. No use takin’ a bunch of thirsty bums -along and stealin’ money for them to slop up in some saloon the next -day. Anyway, I had a hole in the old box an’ a shot in it in half an -hour. I strung the fuse to a window and touched it off from the outside. -It spluttered along the floor and up to the door of the box, but nothing -happened. After a few minutes I went back inside to put on a fresh piece -of fuse. Just as I got in front of the box there was a roar, the door -came off, and knocked me flat. The edge of it caught my foot on the -floor and smashed all the toes.” - -“Did you get the coin?” - -“You’re damn right, I did. - -“After my wind came back I got the coin and stickers, limped outside -where I had an old ‘swift’ tied to a hitching rack. I had no saddle and -it was a tough ride into Silver Bow Junction. But I got there before -daylight and grabbed a rattler into Pocatello where ‘Salt Chunk Mary’ -put me away, got a doctor, and got rid of my ‘stickers.’ That’s why I’m -so particular about my fuse,” he concluded. - -This grizzled old yegg was a by-product of our Civil War. Apprentice to -a village blacksmith, he was drafted into the army, where he learned the -disruptive force of powder, and many other things useful to him in his -profession of safe breaking. His rough war service, his knowledge of -mechanics and explosives combined to equip him for what he became—one of -the pioneers of safe breaking. From black powder he turned to dynamite -and afterward was one of the first to “thrash out the soup”—a process -used by the bums and yeggs for extracting the explosive oil, nitro -glycerine, from sticks of “dan” or dynamite. He boasted that he had -never done a day’s work outside of prison since he was mustered out of -the army, except one year in a safe factory in the East where he went -deliberately and worked for starvation wages to learn something of the -construction of a very much used make of safe and its lock. Fortified -with this knowledge, he followed that particular make of safe to many -parts of the world, and, as he said, “knocked ’em open like ripe -watermelons.” - -George inherited a very ordinary set of features to start with. His war -scars and rough bouts on the road and in prison hadn’t served to add -anything to them in the way of refinement. His head rose to a point from -all four sides. The “Sanctimonious Kid,” one of my cellmates, once said -of George: “If you were to put a dime on the top of George’s head and -start it sliding down the back it would fall inside his shirt collar; if -you started it down his forehead it would wind up in his mouth, his -lower jaw sticks out so far.” His eyes were small and cunning. They -looked as if they had been taken out, fried in oil, and put back. Dead, -pale blue and expressionless, they gave no hint of the cunning, -always-busy brain behind them. His nose wasn’t worth looking at, just a -small knob of soft red flesh, long since collapsed and hanging like a -pendant from between his eyes. He was of medium height, broad, heavy and -rugged. With all his ill-favored appearance and his rolling, limping -walk that seemed to start at his shoulders and work its way down into -his legs, he had a heart of gold and oak, and knowing him one readily -forgave him ungovernable temper and violent outbursts of rage. He was -square. His life was stormy and his death sudden and violent as -“Smiler’s.” But that has another place in this story. - -The “Sanctimonious Kid” was, in point of years and experience, second to -George, and naturally second in say in the cell. All matters of -importance were submitted to George first, then to “Sanc” and lastly to -“Soldier Johnnie,” the third man. Nothing was submitted to me. I had no -say about anything. All I had to do was to keep my mouth shut and listen -all I wanted to. - -“Sanc” had everything that George lacked. Tall, six feet, slender and -soft stepping, more active than most men half his size, you would not -suspect him of two hundred pounds, solid flesh and bone. Straight -without stiffness, natural, like an Indian. Dark hair, eyes and skin. -Handsome, intelligent. Years after, I saw him in the dock of a crowded -court room in a big city. His head was the finest, his face the -handsomest, and his poise the surest of any there, from the judge down -to the alternate juror. His nose, eyes and forehead might have been -those of a minister or divinity student. But there was a hard look about -his mouth, and something in his jaw that suggested the butcher. He was -educated and a constant reader. Whether it was his appearance or his -careful manner of speech that got him his monoger, “The Sanctimonious -Kid,” I never knew. He was serving a short sentence for house burglary, -at which he was an expert. - -We traveled together for several years after he was released, and I -found him one of the squarest and most resourceful thieves I ever knew. -At last, after one of the cleverest prison escapes on record, he went to -Australia where he was hanged for the murder of a police constable. - -“Soldier Johnnie,” who had served a term in the army, was the youngest -of the three. He was an industrious and trustworthy yegg who made his -living serving as “target” or outside man, for the yegg mobs that preyed -on country banks. The “target” is the most reliable man in the mob. To -him is given the job of sticking up the town bull if he appears while -the others are inside. He is the first one to get shot at and the last. -It’s his job to carry the heavy artillery and stand off the natives -while the others get the coin, and then to cover the get-away. - -He was born lucky. His face and figure were neutral. A hard man to pick -up on his description. Medium size and weight. After one look at him -you couldn’t say whether his hair was brown or black, whether his eyes -were gray or blue. Quiet, unobtrusive, soft-spoken, a copper would -hesitate before halting him on the street. - -Such were my companions, guides, friends and philosophers, day and -night, till the day of my trial, which soon came. - -Shorty’s letter to Judge Powers brought one of his office men out to see -me the next day, who got the points in my case and went away with one -hundred dollars of Shorty’s money. I felt better after his visit, he was -so fresh, vigorous, confident. “Nothing to it, young man,” he said -breezily, “I’ll be in court when you appear to plead and have a day set -for your trial; that is, if they want to waste their time trying you.” - -I went back into the prison yard with his card in my hand and gave it to -Shorty. He passed it to George and then to “Sanc.” - -“I know him,” Sanc said. “He is in Powers’ firm. Powers will tell him -what to do. You are all right. True, he is but a second-class man, but -that’s not so bad. These second-class lawyers can skin a first-class -bunko man any day in the week. I see no reason why he cannot skin a -third-class judge in a territorial court.” - -I soon saw that these three cellmates of mine practically controlled the -inside of the prison. They had brains and character backed by courage -and the valuable background of a reputation for doing things outside. - -I say they had character because, while they did wrong things, they -always tried to do them in the right way and at the right time. The -thief who goes out and steals money to pay back room rent rather than -swindle his poor landlady has character. The one who runs away without -paying her has no character. The thief who holds out a lady’s watch on -his pal to give to his girl has no character. - -In the underworld one has good or bad character as in any other layer of -society. The thief who pays off borrowed money, debts, or grudges has a -good character among his fellows; and the thief who does the reverse has -a bad character. Thieves strive for good character and make as great -sacrifices to keep it as men do anywhere else. A burglar can have -friends, but he has to pay his room rent or he will lose them, and they -will despise him. - -Because of this quality these three men had money in the prison office, -sent them by friends at liberty. - -They had visitors frequently, who kept them well supplied with books and -magazines. The evening mail brought newspapers from many cities. They -kept well informed, particularly about criminal and legal doings. The -papers were carefully read at night, and the next morning “routed” -throughout the prison till, torn and read ragged, they found their way -into the hands of the lowliest “bindle stiff” in the farthest corner of -the yard. - -There were fat times when we didn’t go into the dining room for a week. -A half-gallon bucket of milk was left at the cell every evening. Loaves -of fresh, hot bread were smuggled up from the bakeshop, and juicy steaks -from the guards’ quarters. These creature comforts helped to take the -curse off the place, and mitigate the prison pangs. Our light was put -out, not when the nine o’clock bell rang, but when George, or Sanc, or -Johnnie felt like going to sleep. The guards looked the other way when -they went by in their felt-soled shoes, on their night rounds through -the prison. - -In the prison yard there was a deep well from which water for bathing -and other uses was pumped to a large tank on the prison roof. The pump -was manned by four prisoners who had to work in one-hour shifts. A gang -of eight men were detailed each week for this work, which was not -hard—nothing more than exercise—and no one ever complained. My name was -called one Saturday evening and I was instructed to report at the pump -the following Monday morning. I thought nothing of it, and would have -pumped cheerfully. But that night “Soldier Johnnie,” who was something -of a jail lawyer and agitator for his and his friends’ rights, remarked -that they were wrong in forcing me to work because I had not been -convicted of any crime and that I ought to refuse to do it. The other -two took the matter up and it was argued pro and con. They were pretty -technical about it, and the weight of opinion was that it would be -establishing a dangerous precedent for an unconvicted man to do any work -of any kind in the prison and a test case should be made of it. - -I was willing enough, and, looking back at it now, I believe I was glad -of the chance to do something to raise myself in the estimation of these -distinguished characters. - -Monday morning I refused to work, explaining to the officer in charge -that I was not lazy, but felt they had no right to order me to work -before I was convicted. He appeared surprised, and took me to the office -of the prison captain. He heard me out, and turning to the guard, said: -“Throw this fresh kid in the cooler and leave him there till he gets -ready to work.” - -I was given an old pair of overalls and a cotton shirt to wear in the -“cooler,” where my outside clothes would have been ruined. The cooler or -dark cell was the same as other cells, except that there was nothing in -it and the door was solid, admitting no light. The floor and walls were -of thin steel and very cold. I slept on the floor without any kind of -bedding or cover. There was but one fixture in the cell, a sheet-metal -bucket smelling strongly of chloride of lime. My sentence carried the -further punishment of bread and water, one thick slice a day and about a -quart of water. - -A guard opened the cell in the afternoon the first day and put in a -quart tin cup of water but no bread. As he was closing the cell, he -said, not unkindly: “You’re a damned fool, kid. You’d better weaken and -promise to go on the pump. I’ll tell the captain now, if you want, and -you won’t have to freeze in here to-night.” - -“No, I won’t weaken,” I declared. - -“All right, but if you change your mind just rap on the door with that -tin cup.” - -My teeth were chattering before nine o’clock that night, it was so cold. -I could not sleep on the cold steel floor and walked up and down in my -stocking feet all night. The next morning it became warmer and I slept -in fits till noon when the guard came with my bread and a fresh cup of -water. The bread was about half eaten when something got between my -teeth that made me stop chewing, hungry as I was. - -I examined it, lying on my belly at the bottom of the door, where there -was a crack of light. It was a piece of chicken quill about an inch -long. I couldn’t imagine how it got into the bread, and out of curiosity -and having nothing else to do, I broke it apart. There was a tightly -rolled piece of paper inside, on which was written: “Stick. We’ll feed -you to-night.” There was no name, no explanation. I knew it was from my -cellmates, and put in the balance of the day trying to figure how they -would manage to get food into that tight cell in plain view of a guard -all day and night. - -The cell above me was part of the prison proper, and was occupied by two -prisoners doing time. That afternoon I heard unusual noises in it, and -they indicated that some one was moving out or in. Immediately after -“lockup” in the evening there was another new noise. Prisoners in -dungeons rely almost entirely on sounds to tell them what is going on -about them. Every sound has its meaning. No sound escapes them, and any -new or unusual sound must be thought out and classified at once. - -The sound that attracted my attention was a low, grinding rasping that -seemed to come from the floor of the cell above, which was the roof of -my cell. One person above walked back and forth with his shoes on, -making considerable noise. Something very unusual. The rasping became -more distinct, and after an hour’s thought I concluded that somebody up -above was boring a hole through the thin steel floor and that the -walking was to cover the noise of drilling and to keep watch for the -guard. Before nine o’clock there was an inch hole in the floor, and -strips of tender meat, long pieces of bread, toasted to hold them -together, cigarettes, and matches were being lowered into my cell. After -them came a long, thin piece of rubber hose, from which I sucked about a -quart of strong coffee. - -I spent about three weeks in the cooler and never missed my evening -meal. My cellmates bribed the night guard to give me a blanket at night, -which he took away from me before he went off watch in the morning, to -protect himself. All in all, I didn’t fare so badly and was getting -pretty well settled down to life in the dark cell when they took me out -one evening and sent me back to my cell with instructions to be ready in -the morning to go to court. I found my clothes in good shape and a clean -shirt had been procured for me by my cellmates. - -They seemed to think they owed me an apology for not being able to get -food into the dark cell until the second night, explaining in great -detail how they had to get two gay cats moved out of the cell above me -and have two members of the “Johnson family” put in it, who would attend -to the matter. I was instructed by them to ask for an immediate trial; -the captain had declared that he would keep me in the cooler till I -either got acquitted or went to work pumping. - -The next morning the man from Judge Powers’ office was in court and told -me to plead not guilty. When this formality was done with, he asked for -a trial on the earliest possible date, saying that it would not take -more than two hours to try the case. - -“Two hours,” said the judge, looking over his calendar, “how would the -day after to-morrow do?” - -There was no objection from either side. The case was set for trial. I -went back to the prison and into the cooler. That evening my rations -came down as usual. The guard gave me my blanket, but I couldn’t sleep. -Everybody was confident I would be acquitted, but I was afraid. I -remembered my experience in Denver when the judge gave me fifteen days -without a hearing, and at Port Costa when Casey gave us ten days. I -imagined the procedure would be about the same in this case and was very -uneasy. - -The next evening I was sent back to my cell. I found plenty to eat -waiting me, and after a good supper my case was tried by my cellmate -lawyers. They threshed it out from every conceivable angle, and declared -that if I got convicted I would have to do it myself on the witness -stand. They were so sure I wouldn’t come back that George gave me a -ten-dollar bill. - -“Take that, Kid, you’ll need it. You can send it back when you feel -able.” - -I promised to write them, and we agreed on a fictitious name for me to -use. They all shook hands, bade me good-bye, and sent me away in high -hopes. - -Judge Powers himself was in court the next morning. A fine, tall, gray, -elderly gentleman, he patted me on the back in a fatherly manner. - -“Young man, I am going to put you on the witness stand and ask you one -question: ‘Are you guilty or not guilty of this charge?’ You answer -‘No,’ and don’t answer any other questions from anybody unless I tell -you to.” - -The jury was drawn in ten minutes. The witnesses that testified at the -police court came on in the same order and gave the same testimony. -Judge Powers asked the veiled woman we were preparing to rob if she had -seen me at her house on the night in question or on any other night. She -answered that she saw but one man, the one she shot. The detectives -confined themselves to the truth. Powers looked at his watch with the -air of a busy man being detained over a trifling matter, and dismissed -them without cross-examination. He waved the landlord off the stand -without questioning him. When the prosecutor said: “That’s our case, -Your Honor,” Powers looked at him, and then to the jury. - -“Is that all?” he asked, frowning. - -I was put on the witness stand and answered “No” very positively to his -question. The prosecutor hadn’t anything to cross-examine me about. He -started a few questions, but was stopped and gave up. My attorney made -some motion and was overruled. He then offered to let the case go -without argument from either side, but the prosecutor wanted to talk and -the judge told him to go ahead. - -He argued about the same as the prosecutor in the police court, waved -the bloody room-rent receipt and harped about the change of clothes and -my absence from the room, and my refusal to make any statement. He -dingdonged away till the judge ordered him to stop. - -Judge Powers went over the case in five minutes, the jury was instructed -in five more, and went away to the jury room. I was nervous. I thought -my attorney had not asked enough questions, hadn’t argued enough. The -judge went into his chambers. Judge Powers followed him in for a visit. -A few courtroom hangers got up and went out. Nobody paid any attention -to me. The bailiff who had me in charge strolled about the room, -gossiping. There was no dock in the courtroom. I was sitting outside the -railed-off enclosure at the attorneys’ table. The jury hadn’t been out -fifteen minutes, but I was so nervous I couldn’t sit still, and got up -to stretch my legs. The bailiff was busy talking to a man who came in -from the street. His back was turned to me as I walked a few steps up -the aisle in the direction of the door, and then back. - -The next time I walked farther toward the door before turning, and still -he never looked at me. The third time I went to the door and out, and -oozed down the broad, single flight of stairs into the main street. -Dodging between two hacks at the curb I crossed to the opposite side of -the street and looked back up the stairway to the courtroom—no alarm -yet. Directly in front of me was a basement restaurant. I went -downstairs, straight through the dining room to the kitchen, into the -back yard, and then to the alley without being molested. When I got out -of the alley I turned every corner I came to for fifteen minutes and -finished in the railroad yards, instinctively. - -The whistles were blowing for twelve o’clock, noon. I saw no signs of -any outgoing trains and decided to plant myself somewhere nearby till -night, when I could get a train or walk out of town in safety. I found -an old deserted barn and hid up in the loft, hungry and thirsty, till -dark. - -A passenger train was due out on the Rio Grande at eight. With much -caution I made my way along between lines of box cars till I got near -enough to the depot to get aboard the blind end of a baggage car. I -held the train all night, carefully dodging about at every stop. - -At daylight, as the train slowed down for a stop, a man climbed up -beside me. “You’re arrested,” he shouted, tapping a big gun in its -holster. - -I was discouraged. After all my hiding and dodging and starving, I must -now go back to Salt Lake. He took me off the train and held my arm as -the train pulled out. I was scared and desperate. I could see the -penitentiary opening up for me again, and the dungeon. As the last coach -was even with us, I gave the constable, that’s who he was, a vicious -push and he fell into a ditch beside the track. - -The train was moving fast now, but with a tremendous effort I clutched -one of the handbars and the momentum threw me up on the rear steps. Just -as I landed, one of the trainmen opened the rear door and saw me. He had -his mouth open to say something when he saw the constable crawling out -of the ditch, firing his pistol in the air and making signs to him. He -pulled the bell cord. - -As the train slowed down two more trainmen appeared and the three began -kicking me. I jumped off and fell into the hands of the constable, who -came up reënforced by some natives from the depot. They all fell on me -and gave me an unmerciful skull dragging. After they got done scruffing -me around, two of them took me by each arm and the constable fastened -both hands in my coat collar from behind. The ones that couldn’t find a -place to lay hold on me surrounded us, a tribe of small boys appeared -from nowhere, and I was dragged, pushed, and bumped across the fields to -the village and thrown into the jail. - -When I was safely locked in, the constable mopped his forehead with his -sleeve, and, shaking his fist at me, said: “Sure as God made little -apples I’ll see that you get ten days.” They all went away then except -the small boys. They lingered around all afternoon peeping in at the -windows. - -It was a mail-order jail—two steel cells on a concrete foundation. A -cheap wooden shack had been built around the cells to keep the weather -out. The door of the shack was always open and there was plenty of -light. The cell they put me in was clean, and there was a roll of new -blankets in it. I was the only prisoner. - -I unrolled the blankets and, stretching out on the floor, tried to -figure out what had happened. I couldn’t understand the constable’s -threat to get me ten days, and concluded he was so excited that he said -ten days when he meant ten years. - -He turned out to be a very decent fellow. He was postmaster, section -boss, and constable. He appeared at the jail in the evening with a big -dishpan full of food—bread, meat, butter, a fruit jar full of fresh -milk, and half a pie. He apologized for having lost his temper and -treating me so roughly, asked me if I wanted tobacco, and made a special -trip back to his house for some old magazines. - -I was surprised to learn that I had been arrested for trespass, or -stealing a ride. He explained that the bums had burned a string of box -cars farther up the road and the “company” had sent out orders to arrest -them on sight and give them ten days. - -“It’s a wonder somebody along the road didn’t tell you about it,” he -said. “You’re the first one I’ve seen for a month. The bums are all -going over the Union Pacific now instead of the Rio Grande. It’s too -bad, you’ll get ten days sure in the morning. Company’s orders. Good -night.” - -I put in most of the night trying to think up a talk for the judge next -morning. After bringing my breakfast the constable went after him, and -about nine o’clock they appeared, a few town loungers following them. -They didn’t even take me out of the cell for my “trial.” - -The judge asked my name, read the law from a code he brought along, -listened patiently to my talk, and solemnly sentenced me to ten days in -the jail. I asked him to take my ten-dollar bill and let me go, but he -refused it. - -“Sorry, young man. Can’t do it. Company’s orders, ten days.” - -One of the loungers threw me a Salt Lake newspaper, another gave me a -sack of tobacco, cigarette papers, and matches. When they had gone I -opened the paper and found the story of my escape from the courtroom. -The reporter treated it humorously, and made fun of everybody connected -with my trial. I didn’t know what he saw about it that was so funny till -I got to the end of it, where he said the jury came in with their -verdict of “not guilty” before I was out of the block. - -This took a big load off my mind; nothing to fear now. I could go back -to Salt Lake and wait for my friends to come out of prison. The -Sanctimonious Kid had but two weeks more to do, Soldier Johnnie but a -month. George had almost a year yet to do. - -All thought of going home was gone. I owed money to Shorty and George. -That must be paid. All worry was off my mind now and I began planning to -get some money when I got out. My head was full of schemes I had -absorbed during my month in the penitentiary. George’s tales of fat post -offices and country general stores came back to me. Idle all day in my -cell, my eyes and thoughts turned to the big general store directly -across the street from the jail. - -The constable often talked to me in the evening while I ate supper. I -learned from him that all the money in the town was in the big safe in -the store, his post office money and stamps included. The store owner, -as was often the case in small towns, did a banking business and had -acquired about all the money in the place. - -It was a puzzle to me how to get out of the town when my time was up -without spending my ten dollars for fare. This was not to be thought of. -The constable solved it by volunteering to put me on a freight train -that stopped there in the daytime and fix it with the crew to let me -ride back to Salt Lake, where I could start east over the Union Pacific. - -The morning my ten days expired I went over to the store, bought some -tobacco, and waited around till time for the train. I got the make of -the big safe, its location in the store, and any other information I -could, without asking questions, and decided to report the matter to my -friends at Salt Lake. The constable fixed me for a ride, as he promised, -but instead of stopping at Salt Lake I went on to Ogden and wrote a -letter to Sanc, telling him where I would be when he came out. I was -careful with my ten dollars and had half of it when he appeared at -Ogden. - -I at once told him of my ten-day sentence and about the fat general -store. He had promised to wait for Soldier Johnnie, who was due in three -weeks, and offered to pay my expenses till then, when something might be -done about my store. - -Johnnie was discharged in due time and arrived at Ogden. He was pretty -well supplied with money and there was no rush about doing anything. We -talked over the general store, but Johnnie didn’t like the looks of it. -The night trains didn’t stop at the town, and it was so far from Salt -Lake that horses were out of the question. - -“No getaway,” he said. “I can beat the box all right, but we can’t get -out of there if we do get the money.” Sanc agreed. - -During my ten-day stay in the town I had turned over in my mind a -hundred plans, but only one of them seemed feasible, and I was almost -afraid to broach that to them. At last, when I saw they were going to -give it up as a bad job, I said to them: - -“Can’t you both go over there, get yourselves ten days like I did, make -a key for the cell, and go out at night and get the box? You could plant -the money and lock yourselves up again. Then when your time is up you -can go away and come back for the coin when the thing cools off.” - -They looked at me and laughed. An hour later Sanc said to Johnnie: - -“Say, there might be something in that, after all. We would have a -perfect alibi.” - -The bizarre appealed to Sanc. - -After some discussion they decided to “look into it.” - - - - -CHAPTER X - - -An apprentice to a mob of yeggs has to do the rough, unskilled work just -as if he were learning a trade from any craftsman. I was sent out to get -dynamite, caps, and fuse at a railroad construction camp, and returned -with them safely. My next job was to go out and buy a number of twist -drills. Johnnie hired a horse, bought a couple of blankets and a pair -of overalls, and set off to look over the general store. The dynamite -and drills were to be left near the store so they would be available in -case they decided to “crush” into the jail and beat the box while -serving their time. - -He returned in a week, very enthusiastic. The box looked good. There -were guns and ammunition in the store. The jail was empty. There was a -blacksmith shop where other necessary tools could be had, the town was -dead at night. He had fitted keys to the padlocks on both the jail cells -(all this would have been my work if I had not been known in the town), -and had planted his “dan,” caps, and fuse safely near the jail. He had -picked out another spot near the jail where the money was to be planted. - -Their plan was to buy tickets to the town nearest the one where I was -arrested, on the same passenger train, then to get out and on the -baggage, where the hostile constable would find them. I was given enough -money to supply my wants till the business was over. They secreted the -jail keys carefully in their shoes. The cautious Johnnie had also -planted in the empty jail files and blank keys to be used in case they -lost those they were carrying. - -“The only danger is,” said Sanc, “that some other bums may be picked up -and thrown into this jail with us.” - -“In that case,” Johnnie replied, “we’ll have to do our ten days and -crush right back in again and stay there till we can get the jail all to -ourselves.” - -“Kid,” said Sanc, as they were leaving, “watch the papers. If it goes -all right we’ll be back in about two weeks. If it goes wrong, and you -never can tell, you will know from the papers what happened. Then send -somebody up to the ‘stir’ to see George and he will tell you what to -do.” - -Ten days later the burglary was reported in the papers. Four thousand -dollars had been taken from the general store and the man hunt was on. -The burglars had worked quietly. The theft was not discovered till -opening-up time the next morning. The thieves were evidently experts, -and left behind them the most complete set of safe-breaking tools seen -in years, etc., etc. They had escaped by taking a hand car from the -section house. It was found wrecked several miles down the railroad -track. - -Johnnie and Sanc had strengthened their alibi and strangled any -suspicion that might fall on them by taking the “John O’Brien”—the bums’ -term for hand car, so called because every other section boss in those -days was named O’Brien—and starting it down the railroad. There was a -slight grade and it traveled several miles before jumping the track into -the ditch, where it was found wrecked, “abandoned by the burglars.” - -The hunt started from there. Blanket stiffs looking for work were -brought in, questioned, locked up for a day or two, and let go. The -trains were searched up and down the line. Bums were brought in, got -their ten days, but the burglars escaped and in a week the hue and cry -was over. It was almost three weeks before the burglars showed up at -Ogden. They were nervous and irritable, complaining that the jail had -got uncomfortably filled up the last few days they were there. They got -lousy from the blanket stiffs. The constable was sore about the burglary -and wouldn’t square them for a ride into Salt Lake as he had done for -me, and they had to pay their fare out of the town. Their money was -almost gone, and there, in that little burg, was four thousand dollars -that couldn’t be touched for at least a month, and somebody was liable -to “steal” it on them. I got nervous, too. - -We decided to go up to Pocatello and kill the month around Salt Chunk -Mary’s, where we would be safe and welcome, and where they could borrow -enough money to live on until the time came to go after the four -thousand. After a night’s ride we were welcomed by Mary, who spread the -customary feed of beans and salt pork before us. She inquired anxiously -about “Foot-and-a-half George.” She seemed to know every bum on the road -of any consequence. - -Johnnie put in his time down in the jungle drinking with the bums. Sanc -and I either watched the fine six-foot Indians that stalked about the -town looking scornfully at their white inferiors, or the tinhorn -gamblers who skinned the railroad men on pay days and each other -afterward. - -Pay day was coming on and the town took on a busy aspect. Small-money -gamblers appeared with their women companions. “Brass peddlers,” bums -who sold imitation gold jewelry, principally rings, appeared on the -streets with their ninety-cents-a-dozen gold “hoops” made in Wichita, -Kansas, and “dropped” them to the Indian squaws and railroad laborers -for any price from one dollar up. Other bums had bundles of pants and -shoes planted in the jungle, the proceeds of a boxcar burglary on the -Oregon Short Line. These articles were peddled openly about the -railroad shops and to trainmen in the yards. A band of yeggs on their -way to Great Falls and then to the “Canadian side” stopped off to -thresh out their “soup” in the jungle. - -The “Johnson family” became so numerous that a “convention” must be -held. In any well-ordered convention all persons of suspicious or -doubtful intentions are thrown out at the start. When a bums’ -“convention” is to be held, the jungle is first cleared of all outsiders -such as “gay cats,” “dingbats,” “whangs,” “bindle stiffs,” “jungle -buzzards,” and “scissors bills.” Conventions are not so popular in these -droughty days. Formerly kegs of beer were rolled into the jungle and -the “punks,” young bums, were sent for “mickies,” bottles of alcohol. -“Mulligans” of chicken or beef were put to cooking on big fires. There -was a general boiling up of clothes and there was shaving and sometimes -haircutting. - -The yeggs threshed out their “soup” and prepared for the road. The -“brass peddlers” compared notes and devised new stunts for “dropping” -their wares. Traveling beggars, crippled in every conceivable manner, -discussed the best “spots” for profitable begging. Beggars of this type -are always welcomed at a “convention” or any other place where thieves -or bums congregate. - -This may seem strange, but it’s a fact. The underworld beggars are the -most reliable and trustworthy, the most self-sacrificing and the -quickest to help of any class of people outside the pale of society. -Crippled, wounded thieves, fugitives and escaping prisoners, if they -know what they are about, always turn to the beggars for aid and are -never refused. They are sheltered in the beggar’s humble “flop,” his -small “plunge” (money he begs) is divided with them, and he carries -messages any distance to their friends and relatives. The beggar minds -his own business, settles his own feuds, and I cannot recall ever seeing -one of them in court testifying against anybody for anything. - -This convention at Pocatello ended in a most unusual way. Nobody was -killed, none of them fell in the fire. There was no fighting. When their -“pennies” were all “slopped up,” and the food eaten, the bums folded -their tents and stole silently away to their different activities. - -Sanc and Johnnie borrowed money from Mary and we went back to Ogden, -where they prepared for their journey, horseback, after our coin. - -“Are you both going?” I asked. - -“Yes,” they answered without looking at each other. I wondered if each -mistrusted the other, and if I would ever see either of them again, or -any of the money. - -My fear of never seeing Sanc or Johnnie was groundless and a wrong to -them. They returned within a week to the cheap lodging house where we -quartered at Ogden. The four thousand was split in three equal parts. I -was sent out with about seventy-five dollars in silver coin to lay off -for paper or gold. They looked at me curiously as I stowed away my bit. - -“Top dough for you, isn’t it, kid?” said Sanc. - -“Yes, two hundred was the most I ever had. I didn’t expect to get -one-third of this money. I doubt if I earned it. I took no chances. You -two did all the work.” - -“We talked that over,” he replied, “and decided you were entitled to an -even cut. It was your caper, you located it. You had the nerve to -propose what we first thought was a bughouse caper. We are clean so far -as the coppers are concerned. If we ever do any time for this we’ll have -to plead guilty to it. The constable of that town would be our best -witness if we got picked up on it. He would never admit that we could -screw (key) out of his jail, beat that box, plant the coin, throw the -jail screws in the creek, and go back and lock ourselves up. He might -admit that it could happen to some other jail, but he will swear it -couldn’t be done to his, see? - -“But here’s the main reason we gave you an even cut of the coin. From -the way you stepped in Smiler’s case, and the way you took your jolt in -the cooler at the ‘big house’ we know you are ‘right.’ If anything had -gone wrong with this caper and we had to take a pinch, we figured you -would have been a big help on the outside. That’s why you are declared -‘in and in’ with the works. - -“And now that we can lay off for a while, where will we go?” turning to -Johnnie. - -“First,” said Johnnie, “we’ll go back to Pocatello and pay Mary. She -told me she was going to Salt Lake soon to visit George at the ‘big -house.’ I want to send a few dollars to some people there. The kid here -wants to pay the hundred to Shorty that went to Judge Powers and the ten -George gave him. You’ll probably want to send something, too. We can -give it all to Mary and she’ll deliver it. While we’re there I’ll have -her buy me a pair of ‘smoke wagons.’ No telling how soon I’ll be broke, -and if I have a couple of guns I won’t be helpless. Then I’m going home -for the winter, if nothing happens. When I got this last jolt I wrote -and told my people I was going to Alaska for two years and they -wouldn’t hear from me till I got back. - -“I go home now and then when I have a decent piece of money. My old -people are both living, and I’ve got seven brothers and sisters. I bring -them all something nice for presents, not that they need anything, but -just to rub it into them. I am the youngest and always had to take the -leavings. The first lock I ever busted was on the pantry in the kitchen -of my old New Hampshire home, so far away. - -“Where are you going, kid?” - -“I’d like to stay with you people, but if you are going to split out, -I’ll go to San Francisco for a while.” - -“You can go with me,” cut in Sanc. “I’m going to San Francisco for the -winter. No New Hampshire winter for me.” - -I think the two of them were looking forward to a few months of quiet, -peace, and maybe dissipation. My thoughts were running ahead to future -burglaries. No thought of going home, even when Johnnie was telling of -his home life. When I was hiding in the empty house covered with -Smiler’s blood, I wanted to go home, because I was in a tough hole. Now -I was safe, independent, the life fascinated me. No thought of home now. - -“What shall I do with the balance of the dynamite and drills?” I asked. -“Somebody might step on the bundle and blow the house down. It’s planted -out in the back.” - -“I’m going to meet George here in the spring when he gets out,” said -Sanc. “It would save us the trouble of stealing more if we could plant -it.” He was thoughtful for a minute. - -“Kid, in the morning you go up to the bank and rent a safety box for a -year—it’s about four dollars. Arrange with them to let any one into it -that brings a key. Tell them there will be nothing of value there, just -papers, and that you may want to send some one else after them and to -let any one open it who comes with the key—better get two keys. After -you get the box arranged for, come down, get the ‘dan’ and ‘stems’ -(drills), and put them safely away in the box. When you get the receipt -for the box rent tear it up, throw the pieces away, and bring me the -keys. I’ll plant them here in this joint somewhere where I can find -them when I return.” - -Johnnie laughed. “Sanc, are you going to plant that stuff in the ‘jug’?” - -“Certainly, the bank will take good care of it and it won’t deteriorate. -I’m not going to carry the box key around on my watch chain and put the -receipt carefully away in my pocket. If I get snared by the bulls they -won’t know I’ve got a safety box unless I snitch on myself, and if I -were going to stay in this town my money would be in that box, too.” - -When the bank opened next morning I rented the box and was given two -keys and a password, and was told that anybody bringing a key and the -password would have access to the box. “Even if it’s a Chinaman,” said -the attendant. - -The receipt was destroyed, and the stuff, in a neat parcel, put in the -box. Sanc took the keys, planted them somewhere about the premises, and -buried the password in his fertile mind. - -“Go down to the depot, kid, and get three tickets to Pocatello. We’ll -all stay uptown till the train is ready to pull out. No good hanging -around that depot, it’s lousy with bulls.” - -Johnnie was a typical knight of the road. He believed that beds were for -sick people in hospitals, that room rent was wild extravagance, and -paying fare on the railroad nothing but ostentatious spending. He -protested. - -“Sanc, you’re not going to start paying fare?” - -“Yes, I am, and I’ll buy you a ticket to California if you’ll come. Just -look at the pleasure you would have beating your way from there back to -your home town in New Hampshire.” - -“That’s the funny part of it,” said Johnnie. “My home town is twenty -miles off the railroad and I always have to pay fare on the stage going -in and out.” - -Back at Pocatello we paid Mary the borrowed money, and spent some in her -place for interest. She gladly undertook to deliver the money we wanted -to go to our friends at the prison, and we gave it to her, capable woman -that she was, feeling as sure they would get it as if we were doing it -ourselves. - -Mary bought or sold anything crooked. Johnnie paid her for a couple of -guns and gave her an address in Chicago to express them to. He could -have bought them cheaper there, but in the matter of buying guns he was -careful. Mary was square, and no matter what happened, she would not -talk. - -“Be sure and get thirty-eight caliber, Mary,” he cautioned. “I won’t -have any off calibers or strange make of guns. I want the kind that -everybody else has. I don’t want to shoot anybody, but if I do they -won’t dig a forty-one caliber slug out of him and find a forty-one -caliber gun on me.” - -We parted at Pocatello, agreeing to “weigh in” (meet) at Ogden in the -spring; Johnnie starting home, where he never arrived, and we to the -Coast. - - - - -CHAPTER XI - - -We arrived in San Francisco safely and without incident. The first thing -was to get rooms. My experience in the matter of Smiler inclined me -toward a room by myself. Sanc, always cautious, decided it would be -safest to have separate rooms. I found a nice, quiet German hotel in the -Mission where I located, and Sanc found himself a place downtown. After -getting settled, Sanc took our paper money to a bank and got gold for -it. - -At that time storekeepers hesitated about taking paper. Many of them did -not know good from bad paper, there was so little of it in circulation, -and they had been loaded up with Confederate bills till they were -suspicious of any paper and sometimes called in a copper to inspect it -and the person who proffered it. We didn’t want any of this thing, and -got gold at once. - -“Now for another safety box,” said Sanc. “I would prefer the bank, -straight, but there’s too many formalities about putting it in and -getting it out, and besides that you can do a lot of locating if you -have a safety box. You can go in two or more times a day and you will -always see people going and coming to their boxes with money or jewelry. -Many women have all their jewelry in safety boxes and only take it out -when they want to display it at a theater or party. They lift it on the -afternoon of the evening they want to wear it, and put it back the next -morning, but they have to keep it at home that night. Simplest thing in -the world to tail them home from the bank. - -“The safety box is also used,” he continued to illuminate me, “by -race-horse men, gamblers, and the moneyed macquereau, and I don’t mind -telling you that I’d rather ‘prowl’ one of them than any business man. -It’s a joy to hear one of them squawk, and most of them would put the -old index finger on you or me in a minute, just by the way of alibi. - -“There is one bad objection to a safety box for a thief. The coppers are -beginning to get wise that they are the greatest receptacles of loot in -the world. They are loaded with stolen money, jewelry, bonds; and the -larger boxes are often used to store smuggled opium and other contraband -drugs. The coppers hang around them, doing a little locating themselves, -and if I were known in the town I wouldn’t think of having anything -crooked in one of them. I will pay for the box, and tell them I play -poker and may want to get money before or after banking hours, and that -you are to have access to it at any time.” - -He got two keys and gave me one. “You can carry the key with you if you -want, kid. There’s nothing crooked in the box yet, but if there is later -on, and I hope there will be, you must plant it till you need it. And -here goes the receipt,” he said, tearing it to bits and giving them to -the wind. - -“To-morrow, Kid, while we have plenty of coin, I want you to get a -couple of guns. Thirty-eights,” and he named a certain standard make. -“No other kind, remember. You heard what Soldier Johnnie said, and he -knew what he was doing. I suppose you’ll go to the first hardware store -for them, eh?” he said rather severely. - -Those were the good, or bad, old days when any wild-eyed maniac could -rush into a hardware store or pawnshop with money enough and buy a gun, -guaranteed to kill a man a block away. They would take the number of it, -to be sure, in order to get witness fees if the gun worked properly. -To-day it’s a little more difficult to buy a gun in California. The -better stores will not sell them unless the purchaser has a permit. The -other stores, and they are quite numerous, take your money to-day for -the gun, and to-morrow you go to the store and get it. - -“Oh, I don’t know, I might look around a bit,” I said. “How about -getting them in a hockshop?” - -“That would be just the place, kid, if you were going to shoot a burglar -or stick-up man, but in this instance there’s a difference. I’ve been -carrying a gun around for ten years. Every time I fired it I was in the -wrong, legally speaking, see? I’ve been lucky enough so far not to have -killed anybody, and hope I never do, but you have to be careful just the -same. The hardware store has the number of every gun. The hockshop man -not only notes the number, but in most cases puts a mark on it for -future reference. Your hockshop man, kid, is the hangman’s handmaiden. - -“You will get those guns in Chinatown at different places, one to-morrow -morning and one in the evening. You have plenty of time, and the best -way to spend it is in taking precautions against trouble. The Chinks are -safe to do any kind of business with, buying or selling. They don’t -talk. I’ll show you the kind of place to go this evening. The guns you -will buy are probably stolen from some pig-iron dump (hardware store) -outside of the state, and come into the Chinks’ hands by such devious -routes that the numbers are long since lost track of.” - -The guns and cartridges were duly bought and put away in the safety box -with most of our money. The keys we planted about the places where we -lived. Our clothes were few and in bad shape. Sanc proposed going to a -tailor. - -“Yes,” I said. “Here’s where one of my ambitions comes to a head. I’m -going to have a nice gray suit, gray hat, and a fine leather trunk,” my -mind going back to the gray man and his traveled trunk that I worshiped -on the depot platform in my little town. It seemed an age since then. - -“If you dress yourself that way, Kid, we part. Where did you gather -that insane notion? A gray suit, gray hat, leather trunk! I suppose -you’d have stickers on the trunk so the coppers wouldn’t have to ask you -where you were from.” - -I was silent, ashamed to tell him where I got the notion. - -“It’s just as I said about the guns; you might wear that rig if you were -out hunting burglars, but you wouldn’t get many. Even the ‘dicks’ have -too much sense to dress that way. Do you want everybody to look at you? -Do you want everybody that looks at you to remember you? You do not. You -want as few people to look at you as possible, and you want those few to -forget you as soon as possible,” he continued, with emphasis. - -“What you want is clothes that will not detain the eye for a second. -Expensive as you like, and well fitting, but not loud or striking. -You want clothes that a man or woman could not describe as blue, -brown, or black five minutes after looking at you. You want neutral -clothes. Be as positive yourself as you like, but no positive clothes. -You’ve got to watch yourself, kid. You know that old maxim, ‘eternal -vigilance.’ You’ll have enough trouble come to you naturally and -unavoidably—accidents that you cannot foresee—without advertising for -it with a loud suit of rags. Ninety-nine men out of a hundred are -picked up through some peculiarity of dress and identified by the same. -You don’t want any funny hats, either, or loud ties. - -“You know when you are doing things to people you depend largely on the -element of surprise. They do not look at you carefully and memorize your -features. They get a fleeting, frightened glance, and you are off. But a -red tie, Kid, a glance is enough, and no matter how surprised your party -may be he remembers your gray suit, gray hat, or red tie.” - -The Sanctimonious Kid was a sober, careful character. He did not gamble -and keep us broke as poor Smiler had. We went along easily and got some -good out of our money. I spent days along the water front and in the -park and at the beach, and evenings at shows or in the dance halls, -watching the sailors, whalers, miners, lumbermen, spending their -winter-money in a night. - -The night life fascinated me. Grant Avenue, now filled with the best -shops, was a part of the Tenderloin, and all the narrow streets or -alleys off it were crowded with cribs and small saloons with a dance -floor in the back room. Many of them had only the short, swinging doors, -and never closed from one year’s end to another. The Tenderloin was -saturated with opium. The fumes of it, streaming out of the Baltimore -House at the corner of Bush and Grant, struck the nostrils blocks away. -Every room in it was tenanted by hop smokers. The police did not molest -them. The landlord asked only that they pay their rent promptly. If it -was not paid on the hour, he took the door of the room off its hinges -and put it behind the counter, leaving the occupant’s “things” at the -mercy of his fellow lodgers. - -Dupont Street, now Grant Avenue, began at Bush and carried the -Tenderloin over into Chinatown, where old St. Mary’s Church rose from -the heart of it, brooding over it all. It was a colorful -Tenderloin—loud, drunken, odorous, and stupid from hop. Its bad wine, -ill women, and worse song have gone to join the Indian, the buffalo, the -roulette wheel, and the faro box. Deeply and securely dug in, it yielded -slowly, inch by inch, and with scant grace, to the sledgehammer blows of -the militant Father Caraher. - -I made a few acquaintances around the dance halls and found my way into -the hop joints. Curiosity was my only excuse for my first “smoke.” It -made me very sick, and although I became a “smoker” after, it was years -before I touched the pipe again. - -Sanc spent his time in his own way, and there were times when I wouldn’t -see him for a week. One night when he appeared at our eating place, he -handed me a sheet of paper. - -“Here’s some work for you, kid. There are the names and addresses of -about fifty people here and in Oakland who carry burglary insurance. It -cost me one hundred dollars. The lawyer who got it for me probably gave -the clerk who got it for him ten dollars. It’s cheap though, at that, -for it will save me a lot of footwork, guesswork, and uncertainty. A -glance at that list tells you where they live, it tells you they have -valuables because they are insured, and it tells me that they are -careless because they are insured. It also tells me that in case of a -show-down they will give up their valuables without a murmur because -they are insured. It further tells me that some of them are going to -collect insurance shortly, providing you get out and do your part of -it, and that’s this. - -“I want you to look over some of those shacks. To-morrow you copy off -about three names and plant that list somewhere around your hotel; then -go out and look over the places. Later I’ll look at any you think are -possible of approach. I want to know about dogs, kids, servants, sick -people—everything. The house, the porch, the basement, the yard, the -alley. - -“You’ve read a lot of books about criminals, but forget it all. Don’t -scrape acquaintance with the nurse girl to ask questions. Don’t ask a -question in the neighborhood. Just walk by and look, or get a book or -paper and read where you get a good view of the house and its occupants. -Look at the porches especially. This is about the time of the year for a -good ‘supper sneak’; it’s dark when they are at dinner now. - -“Take your time, and when you see one that looks tough, forget it. There -ought to be a few soft ones on that list. One good one would do.” - -There was nothing of the Bill Sikes about Sanc. He ordered me to do -things as a plumber would an apprentice. I took orders and obeyed them -as any apprentice should, cheerfully. I worked faithfully day after day, -reporting several places to Sanc, who took a look at them and said, -“Keep on going, Kid.” - -At last I found a house that seemed to interest him. He looked at it and -told me to quit my search and turn my attention to the place for a few -evenings. It was built to be burglarized. Big yard, trees, shrubs. -House of about ten rooms, two stories, porch in front and around one -side. It was on a corner lot and from the side street the family could -be seen, assembled at dinner. - -We looked at it together for several evenings, and Sanc decided it would -do. “Ordinarily,” said he, “I would get this alone, but to-morrow night -you will come along. That old porch may not bear my weight. If it -won’t, you will have to go up.” - -The next evening we were in the yard when they gathered round the dinner -table. The upstairs was lighted as usual. Sanc left me in the shrubbery, -and stepped to the side porch and upon the railing. When he grasped the -upper part to lift himself, the whole structure groaned and creaked and -rocked. He tried another place and it was worse. He beckoned me. “Up -you go, Kid. It won’t hold me. The front rooms first, remember. Take -your time; we have half an hour. I’ll protect you.” - -I went up with ease and he back to the sheltering shrubs. The nearest -window was unfastened. I doubt if one of them was locked. I was nervous. -My heart was pounding with the suspense till I could hear it. Sanc had -instructed me well. I was fortunate enough to get the long end of what -was there. It was on top of a dressing table. No money. The other rooms -were bare of valuables. - -I was hanging from the top of the porch, feeling for a foothold on the -railing, when a pair of arms encircled me, and, thinking it was Sanc -helping me down, I said softly, preparing to let go my handholds, “Have -you got me?” - -The arms tightened around my waist like iron bands, pinning me to the -porch post, helpless. - -“Yes, damn you, I’ve got you good!” said a strange voice. “Oh, Clarence, -come out here. I’ve got a burglar, red-handed.” - -Captured red-handed, as I was, my mind turned to Sanc. I could not -believe he had deserted me. Another man joined my captor in response to -his call and they began tugging and hauling me, trying to break my hold -on the porch roof. I could see myself being beaten, mauled, despoiled of -my loot, and thrown into the patrol wagon by the two outraged and angry -citizens. - -Just when I was ready to let go all holds and fall into their arms, I -felt the iron clasp of the one that had me around the body slacken -slowly. One of them exclaimed: “Look out!” Then I heard Sanc’s voice. -It was not clear and soft as usual. There seemed to be a slight -impediment or obstruction in his speech, which was positive enough but -so different that I doubted for a minute if it was he. His precise and -careful English was gone, too. - -“Hey, youse, let go uh that guy or I’ll tear your heads off. Want to git -yourselves plugged over a bunch of junk dat’s insured? Git inside an’ -stay there or I’ll smoke the both of youse off.” - -My confidence came back, and I found a foothold on the porch rail. My -captors were backing slowly, silently toward the door they came out of. -Sanc, a fearsome object, his coat collar up, hat down over his ears and -eyes, stood in the shadow of a large bush six feet away, waving some -shiny thing at them. “Don’t try any funny business,” he said to them as -I jumped to the ground. “You might get us to-morrow but not to-night. -Phone your head off if you want, but don’t poke it out of the house -while we’re in the block.” - -“Did you connect, Kid?” he asked when we were on the street. - -“Yes, a coat pocket full,” I said, brushing the cobwebs and dust off my -clothes; “but why did you tell them to phone?” - -“I’ll explain all that to you later. You’ve got to outthink them. You -have to have something besides guts at this racket. I sent them to the -phone so they wouldn’t follow us out. I couldn’t have stood them off on -the street with this bottle. I had to keep waving it about wildly for -fear they would see it wasn’t a gun. I found it right at my hand on the -porch, and it served the purpose,” he said, throwing it into a yard. “I -seldom carry a gun at this evening work because I can flatten the -average man with a punch. However, I think I shall put a small ‘rod’ in -my coat pocket hereafter.” - -We walked away briskly without attracting attention; it was early -evening and there were people in every block. At a corner I started to -turn toward downtown. He stopped me. “No, no; we must assume that they -phoned because they did not follow us. That way you might meet the -coppers on their way out.” - -A short walk brought us to a car line. “Take this car, Kid, and go -straight to your room. I’ll be on the next one; and don’t lock your door -when you go in. It looks and sounds suspicious at seven o’clock in the -evening in a decent, quiet hotel.” - -He came in ten minutes after me, without knocking, and locked the door -softly. “Now, kid,” he said in his best manner, “we will proceed to -estimate the intrinsic value of our takings in dollars and cents. That -amount, divided by four, will give us an idea of what we have earned -this evening.” - -“Why divide it by four, Sanc?” - -“Because it’s crooked and no fence will give you more. It’s a great -game, Kid. The fence divides it by four, taking seventy-five per cent of -the value to pay him for the chances he takes. The loser, reporting to -the insurance company, multiplies it by four to pay himself for the -extrinsic value of his junk, and the annoyance caused by his burglar.” - -He turned to the stuff I threw on the bed. “Better brush your clothes -off carefully, Kid. There are still some smudges on your coat.” He -looked at me critically. “And a button gone.” He pointed to where there -should have been a button. “Take that suit off. Put on your old one. -That button is around that porch and it’s enough to bury us both in -Quentin. Tear the tailor’s tags out of those clothes, wrap them up, go -out, and throw them in a lot somewhere, not too close to this place. -To-morrow you can order a new suit. That one is poison. While you’re -out, I’ll take these stones out of their ‘harness.’” - -It broke my heart to throw away a new suit of clothes, but I was a good -apprentice and obeyed. When I returned he had finished “unharnessing” -the stones. There was a fistful of broken gold settings, and some small -articles of little value. “Wrap that junk up, kid, take it out and throw -it in a lot and not the same lot you left the clothes in, either,” said -the master. - -I tore a sheet from a newspaper, and, wrapping the junk up, started out -again. He stopped me. “Wouldn’t it be just as well to take the balance -of that paper and throw it away, Kid? Why leave it in the room? It fits -the piece you have in your pocket. And be sure to throw that junk away. -Don’t plant it somewhere against a rainy day. Throw it away,” he -finished emphatically. - -Again I obeyed. When I got back he had planted the stones, a very small -parcel now, in the hotel wash room. On our way out he said, “One more -thing now, and I will feel safe. We will get a new hat each.” - -We left the old ones in the store, “to be called for.” - -“Now, Kid, something to eat, and I will sum up for you the doings of -this evening.” Seated in a quiet restaurant with decent dinners before -us, Sanc began. - -“You probably thought when you were seized coming down the porch that I -had abandoned you.” - -I protested, “No, no.” - -“Well, that’s what I would have thought if I had been in your place. You -see, I saw the party coming toward the door just as you were dropping -off the porch roof. I was afraid if I started anything then you would go -back up and get trapped inside the house. So I let things go along -naturally till I thought they had gone far enough.” - -“You did the right thing,” I said gratefully, “but why did you tell them -they might get us to-morrow?” - -“Ha, that’s the psychology of the situation, Kid. I mentioned also that -he was insured. That reminds him that he is not losing anything, and it -also saves his face with the family. He went inside and said to them and -the other chap, after they had looked about the house and phoned the -police, ‘Oh, well, we’re insured. Of course if we hadn’t been I would -have given that other burglar a battle, tough as he was.’ Then the other -chap cuts in and says, ‘You did the sensible thing, Tom. The police will -pick them up to-morrow at some pawnshop.’ - -“You see, kid,” Sanc continued, “those people are excited and -frightened. You have to think for them and for yourself, too. When I -told them they might get us to-morrow I gave them another out; they say -to themselves, ‘Why, of course the police will get them. How foolish of -us to endanger ourselves and family over a few things that are insured -and will be recovered in the pawnshops when the burglars are arrested.’ - -“Then I send them to the phone, and we depart.” - -I listened, spellbound. “You did something to your voice. I hardly -recognized it.” - -“Simplest thing in the world. Put a fifty-cent piece or any little -object in your mouth and see what a difference it makes in your voice. I -venture to say that the loss of one tooth would cause a change that -might be detected with certain instruments for analyzing sound. It’s -just as well to take such precautions. Some people have uncanny -memories for voices. And now we come to the last phase of the evening’s -work. It hurt you to throw away your new suit. Don’t worry, it’s not -wasted. Somebody will find it and wear it, and maybe get arrested. But -this is no time for speculating about that. Suppose that button were -found on that porch or maybe in one of the rooms. You might have lost -it going in the window upstairs. It don’t belong in the house. The -presumption is that you lost it in the struggle or climbing up the -porch. - -“Old Captain Lees (you’ve heard of him) would give that button to one of -his smart young ‘dicks’ and stand him on the Richelieu corner, Geary and -Market. - -“He would stand there from four in the afternoon till midnight waiting -for you to come along, which you do every evening. Just think what might -happen to us then. He wouldn’t pinch you there. He would tail you to -your room, then to my room, then to the safety box, and when they got -ready in we would go. Think that over. - -“If the case were big enough, Lees would go through every tailor shop in -town fishing for a line on you, and he might stumble on it. - -“The gold mountings you threw away could have been melted at the expense -of a fifteen-cent crucible and a dime’s worth of borax, and would have -brought us maybe ten dollars as old gold at any jeweler’s. But think of -the chances you take in selling it, jeopardizing the stones we have and -our liberty for ten dollars—bad business. - -“And that newspaper I made you throw out. Here’s the reason. We might -be in jail to-morrow on suspicion. We figure to get picked up any time -because, well, because we’re what we are. Everything in your room, if -they find your room, is taken down and held and examined. Suppose that -happened to-morrow and while you’re locked up the parcel of junk is -found in the lot wrapped in the missing part of the paper found in your -room. No lawyer in California could beat that case. That proves -possession and that’s all they need to convict you of burglary. And -here’s something else about house burglary. You seldom get money. -Everything has to be sold. And that’s where your danger and troubles -begin in earnest. Not one house burglar in a hundred is caught in the -act. It’s always when he is trying to sell his plunder. - -“I could steal, take, and carry away,” he continued, smiling, “fifty -thousand dollars’ worth of plunder—rugs, furs, paintings, statuary, and -such junk in thirty days, if I wanted to make a pack horse of myself. -But just imagine trying to dispose of it. There’s where you ‘sup with -sorrow’ as the poet says, Kid. Take nothing you can’t put in your coat -pocket. You’ve got to watch yourself like a fat man on a diet. The -smallest trifle will upset you, and you’ll have leisure to repent your -carelessness. When you get your new suit from the tailor’s, take all the -tags out of it, and when you buy a hat don’t let the hatter stamp your -name on the sweatband. You don’t know what house you might lose it in. - -“I know thieves so conceited and foolish that they have their names in -their hats and monogrammed pocket handkerchiefs, and neat little -notebooks with all their friends’ addresses and phone numbers carefully -noted. That’s the type of thief that calls the police ‘a bunch of -chumps,’ and goes to jail crying, ‘Somebody snitched.’ - -“The police are not chumps, kid; they are just lazy, that’s all. If they -worked as thoroughly at their business as I do at mine, I don’t know -what would happen. They are human, and take the easy way. Somebody -whispers to a dick. He whispers to me, and we go down to the jail, where -he locks me up ‘on suspicion.’ The next morning he and his partner come -to my cell, knock me down, walk up and down on my wishbone for a few -minutes, and ask me if I am ready to snitch on myself and all my -friends. If I decline to help them, they let me out. That’s the lazy -coppers’ notion of doing police duty.” - -Our dinner finished, he said: “And now, after all this talk, what do you -think we should do with the stones we have?” - -“Why not spend a hundred dollars for fare to Pocatello and back?” I -asked. “Mary’s safe.” - -“You are learning, Kid. That’s precisely what I intended doing. Mary is -safe, and moreover she’ll give me more than I could get around here. The -expense of going to her is money spent insuring ourselves against -trouble. If I try to drop the stones here, I have to take what the first -man offers me or I make a dangerous enemy right there. If I refuse to be -robbed and turn down half a dozen offers, I make that many bad friends, -and they whisper me into jail. I could give them to some crooked saloon -man, who would sell them in an hour and pay me at the rate of five or -ten dollars a day, in the hope that before I got all the money I would -get pinched for something else, and put away where I couldn’t collect -the balance. If I get insistent and demand it all at once, he throws a -scare into me thus: ‘Say, now, what’re you trying to do, crowd somebody? -If I wanted to be wrong I could turn you in to the coppers and get a -favor of them some time. But I’m right. Nevertheless, don’t try to -crowd me, see?’ - -“So I am for Salt Chunk Mary’s in the morning. She’s righter than a -golden guinea and is entitled to make the profit on the junk. I’ll be -back in ten days. - -“While I’m away take it easy and don’t go around the residence district -at all. You can make the safety box about ten o’clock in the morning and -four in the afternoon every day. You might locate something from there. -Here’s something else you can do. - -“Every afternoon go into some good hotel and pay for a room for the -night. Register from out of town. When you get the key, go out to your -own room and make a duplicate of it. Mark your duplicate so you can -identify it, and plant it somewhere. Most of the best places are using -these spring locks now and you can’t do anything without a key when -there’s a sleeper in the room. In a week you’ll have keys to half a -dozen good transient rooms in the best hotels, and I might get some real -money out of them. - -“Go back to the hotel in the evening, tell the clerk you are called out -of town and ask for your money back. He will usually give it to you.” - -I bade Sanc good night and good-by, resolving to have something good -located for him on his return from Salt Chunk Mary’s. - - - - -CHAPTER XII - - -During Sanc’s absence I worked industriously, bettering his instructions -by renting two rooms a day and making the duplicate keys. In most -instances the clerks returned my money when I told them I was called -away and could not occupy the rooms. My days were well filled with work, -renting two rooms, making two keys, trying to get my room money refunded -and visiting the safety box twice a day, sometimes following a depositor -out and around the streets to see what he did with his money. - -My evenings were my own and I spent them on the Barbary Coast or the -water front. With an old suit on and a dollar or two in silver I loved -to go to the sailors’ boarding houses where seafaring men, brawny, -brown, and tattooed, speaking all languages, ate, drank, fought, sang -their strange sea songs, and told tales of hardship and adventure on all -the seas. Here I learned to beware the crafty shanghaier with his -knockout drops, lying in wait for strong young fellows from the country. -The cowardly and unscrupulous thieves who later used chloral so -indiscriminately and murderously learned its stupefying effects from the -busy shanghaier on San Francisco’s water front. - -The wine dumps, where wine bums or “winos” hung out, interested me. -Long, dark, dirty rooms with rows of rickety tables and a long bar -behind which were barrels of the deadly “foot juice” or “red ink,” as -the winos called it. Sometimes the dump was equipped with a small lunch -counter in the back where the winos could buy for a nickel a big plate -of something that looked like stew, and a hunk of stale bread. The stew -was served from a big pot that was always boiling. Several times a day -the porter, who was also cook and waiter and wino as well, threw a box -of mixed vegetables, discarded from the commission houses, unwashed and -unpeeled, into the pot. Then followed a box of bones, pieces of tallow, -scraps of meat trimmings, odds and ends of meat covered with sawdust -from the floor of the market near by. - -The patrons of the wine dumps were recruited from every walk of life. -Scholars, quoting Greek and Latin poets, lawyers dissecting Blackstone, -writers with greasy rolls of manuscript fraternized with broken bums -from the road, sailors too old for the sea, and scrapped mechanics from -the factories—all under the lash of alcohol. They sat in groups at the -tables drinking the wine, alcohol in its cheapest and deadliest form, -from every conceivable kind of vessel: tin cans, pewter mugs, beer -glasses, steins, and cracked soup bowls—anything unbreakable that the -boss could buy from a junkman. They talked volubly. They seldom laughed -and never fought—too far gone for laughing or fighting. When they could -drink no more or buy no more, they staggered or crawled to a bare space -on the floor in the back of the room where they lay on their backs in a -row with their heads to the wall, each with his hat over his hideous, -bloated, purple face. The porter-cook-wino watched the sleepers -carefully. When he thought they had “slept it off” enough to stand up, -he roughly kicked them to their feet and herded them out into the -streets to beg, borrow, or steal enough small silver for another bout. -Too often they failed to respond to his kicks; he would lift the -battered hat, take one look at the purple-blue face, and ring for the -morgue wagon. - -This pitiful crew, gathered from the four corners of the earth and from -every stratum of society, whipped beyond resistance by that mysterious -and irresistible craving for alcohol, drank themselves purple in the -wine dumps and died on the floors or under the city sidewalks. The wine -dumps are gone; can any man regret their passing? And so are the winos -gone. In their places have appeared the Jamaica ginger fiend, the -canned heat and wood alcohol drinker. It is difficult to study and -classify them; their lives are too short. - -The most disreputable wine dump in the city was in Clay Street, below -Kearny, and I never failed to visit it when in the neighborhood. I had -no more than stepped into the place one night when a wino at the door -shouted, “Here comes the wagon,” and dashed out wildly. Some of the -soberest ran out the back and disappeared. I started to the front door, -but the cops were coming in. I was the first one they got, and as the -cop threw me into the wagon, in the middle of my explanation, he said: -“Oh, tell the judge about it, I’m no court. I’m a hundred-dollar-a-month -cop, and it serves me right for being one if I get lousy throwing all -you wine bums in and out of the wagon.” He seemed discouraged. - -I had got calloused about getting locked up and didn’t worry, knowing -they couldn’t do much to me. But going over in the wagon my mind turned -to the burglary of the week before. I felt uncomfortable and thought of -my room and was thankful that it was “clean,” and of the safety box and -the keys I had made, and every other crooked transaction in my short -life of outlawry. “No danger,” I thought as the wagon rattled over the -blocks, “if I cover myself up. My name is William Brown, I am nineteen -years old. I was born in Pocatello, Idaho. My parents died when I was -fourteen. I have supported myself since, selling papers, washing dishes, -and working on farms. I came to this city this morning and am going to -get a job. I went into that place out of curiosity.” - -I just had this short biography put together when we got to the city -prison. It was in the basement of a building that stood where the Hall -of Justice now is, and it was the foulest I ever saw, worse than the -first one at home. There was a busy spot, that corridor in the city -prison! Officers hurrying in and out, lawyers haggling at the desk about -releases for prisoners, “fixers,” hawk-eyed and rapacious, lurked about, -cheap bail bondsmen coining misery, ignorance, and crime into thick -nickels and thin dimes, and on the long bench by the wall sat a thin, -wrinkled, poorly dressed woman of fifty, holding a boy’s hand in hers. -He sat beside her, silent and stubborn. She was crying. - -Ten of us from the wine dump were lined up at the desk. The officer in -charge said to the man at the desk. “We’ll vag the chronics and charge -the new ones with drunk.” The chronic winos gave their names, etc., and -were hurried away down the corridor. Another chap and I were the only -“new ones.” We answered all questions without angering anybody and -getting knocked down. I protested that I wasn’t drunk. The desk man -said: “Oh, that’s all right, you can go out in the morning at five -o’clock on the broom.” They searched me, but took nothing except a -pocketknife. - -We were put in a large cell about twenty feet square, directly across -the corridor from the desk where prisoners were received and registered. -The front of this cell was of upright iron bars and admitted plenty of -light from the corridor. The cell was foul smelling from a fixture in -one corner that seemed to connect directly with a sewer. A broken water -faucet leaked continually, with a hissing sound. About ten men were -there, some sleeping on the damp asphalt floor, some on the benches that -lined the wall; some stood expectantly at the front waiting to be -released, others squatted on their haunches in the corners, staring -vacantly at the floor. - -I sat on the bench and wondered about “going out on the broom” in the -morning. I could have asked my cellmates. I looked for the other “new -one” that came with me from the wine dump; he was asleep on the floor. I -decided not to ask, but to wait till morning and find out for myself. -Even at that age I had stumbled upon one truth, and that is, The best -way to get misinformed is to ask a lot of questions. Nearly all my life -has been spent in the company of unfortunate people, and while I never -looked upon myself as an unfortunate, I was always accepted as one of -them. Whatever knowledge I have of them was gleaned by looking and -listening, and it is much more accurate than any I could have got by -asking impertinent and close-up questions. Your best friend would give -you a surly answer if you were to ask him the time of day an hour after -his watch had been stolen. Ask any one-legged stranger how he lost his -limb, and you will get something like this: “Well, you see, it was this -way—I got run over by a ferryboat.” - -Of all the many friends I have made since I gave up my larcenous life, -“Shorty” is one of the most respected and highly prized. His friends are -legion, and in every state in the Union; not that Shorty has traveled -there and made friends of them, but that they have traveled here and -made a friend of him. - -Shorty’s news stand is on a busy corner in the shadow of a skyscraper -owned by ex-Senator Phelan, one of California’s most distinguished men, -and there, under his patronage and protection, he stands on his stumps -(“cut-down legs” he calls them), early and late, serving thousands with -papers and periodicals. He hobnobs with doctors, lawyers, business men, -and politicians. He finds lost children and dogs, and returns them to -their owners. Shopgirls and strangers ask him which is the best show of -the week. Men around town consult him about the chances of a horse in -to-morrow’s race. He can borrow more money on his I.O.U. than many -business men in his block and pays on the minute. He is no stranger at -the banks on the opposite corners. His reputation for truth and veracity -is such that if he were to tell me the water had all disappeared from -the bay I wouldn’t go down to look. - -Traveling in search of adventure when young, he lost his legs under a -train, but instead of despairing and sinking under this terrible -misfortune, he braced himself and, picking out a bare corner on the -street, built up, day by day, year by year, a business that has made him -independent and respected. I stopped one day at his stand, and, looking -at his massive chest, broad shoulders, and fine head, I saw him in fancy -a splendid figure of a man towering ruggedly above his fellows. - -“Shorty,” I asked, “how tall were you before you lost your legs?” - -He flashed me a savage look; then remembering we were friends his eyes -fell to his stumps and he said with a laugh, “Oh, I was taller by two -feet.” - -That’s all one gets by asking questions that wake painful memories. - -From my position on the bench I could see every prisoner brought to the -desk. About ten o’clock there was a stir in the hall and several -policemen came in with Chinamen from a gambling-house raid. This was -before they had cut off their queues, and instead of handcuffing their -prisoners the cops came in driving the silent, stolid Chinese before -them like charioteers. Each cop had the tails of three Chinamen’s -queues in each hand. Ahead of the procession walked a white man with a -heavy bag of gold in his hand which he put on the desk, and waited till -the names of the prisoners had been taken. Then they all went back up -the corridor out of my sight—the Chinamen back to Chinatown to their -gambling, and the bag of gold into the bond-and-warrant clerk’s office -to insure their appearance in court. - -Several times during the night men were brought in, questioned at great -length, searched thoroughly, and led away to another part of the -prison—felony cases. About midnight two young fellows about my age were -brought in by a copper and stood up before the desk. - -“Vag these two ‘hypos,’” said the cop to the desk man. He searched them -most carefully, finding a small package in the torn lining of one’s -coat. The boy begged for it piteously. “I’ll croak, officer, if you take -it away from me.” The cop gave him to the waiting trusty. “Throw him -in.” He was put in with us. Nothing was found on the other hypo, and he -was “thrown in” too. - -They immediately began comparing notes and taking stock, walking up and -down the center of the cell nervously. They were in rags and unwashed, -their shoes were broken and had no laces, and the tops flapped open -showing their bare ankles. They seemed utterly unconscious of their sad -condition and walked and talked as briskly as two brokers on Montgomery -Street discussing the markets. - -“He got my plant, Georgie,” said the first one, “but you saved yours, -didn’t you, Georgie? Gee, Georgie, but you’re a fox.” His tones were -honey. - -“Never mind that,” the other replied; “you don’t have to ‘Georgie’ me. -You’re in with what ‘gow’ I’ve got. Let’s bang it up before they come in -and take it away from us. See if you can hustle some matches.” - -The match seeker glanced sharply around him. When his eye fell on me I -produced some matches. “Got any smokes?” I handed him a pack of -cigarettes. He took two, gave one to his partner, Georgie, and returned -the pack. His mind seemed detached from the cell. He took the matches -and cigarettes from me without a word, as if he had reached up to a -mantel and taken them off it. Georgie fished about the front of his -trousers and brought up a tobacco sack that had been hanging suspended -from a button. The sack contained his “plant,” an eye dropper with a -hypodermic needle soldered to it with sealing wax, and a small paper of -morphine in a little tin box. - -They went to a back corner of the cell and prepared their shot. About a -spoonful of water and some of their meager store of “morph” were put in -the tin box and matches were burned under it till it boiled, completely -dissolving the morphine. It was then drawn up into the eye dropper, and -Georgie injected his portion into his arm. The other boy did the same -with his portion. Their outfit was carefully put away in the tobacco bag -and suspended again from a button down inside the front of Georgie’s -trousers. Nobody paid any attention to them. They took their shot as -coolly as if they had been in their room, or under a sidewalk. They -seemed a little more interested in their surroundings in a few minutes. -The one I gave the cigarettes to came over to me rubbing his hands -briskly, smiling. - -“Give us a couple more of them smokes, young fellow.” - -“I’d like to buy some,” I said, “if I could.” - -“Got money?” - -“Yes, a couple of dollars.” - -“I’ll fix it for you,” he said most condescendingly. He went over to -the bars and shouted, “Hey, Finnerty!” - -In a minute the head trusty, a thin, weazened, rat-eyed, undersized -character, came up. - -“Cigarettes, matches? Sure. Anything else?” - -I produced a dollar. - -“What’s the matter with a can of coffee and some snails?” said the hypo. - -“Get whatever you can,” I said, giving him the dollar. - -Finnerty disappeared, and in a surprisingly short time came back with -cigarettes, a gallon fruit tin half full of splendid coffee, and a bag -of snails. The two young fellows took charge of the coffee and snails, -spread a newspaper on the floor, and very cordially invited me to help -myself. - -While we were having our lunch the talk was diplomatically turned to -dope and the shortage that menaced my two hypo friends and the -sufferings they would undergo when there was no more and the “habit” -came on, and the necessity for a shot in the morning as a bracer for -them when they faced the judge. They grew so despondent over their -plight that when we were done eating they decided to “shoot up” the -small portion of white stuff they had left. They brightened up after -this operation was over, and things looked rosier. - -“Just think, Georgie,” said the talkative one, looking at me, “what a -four-bit piece would do for us. What a life-saver! We’ll both get a -‘sixer’ in the morning if we go in front of the judge with our teeth -rattlin’ so we can’t put up a talk. If I had a decent shot for the -morning I could talk him out of it. - -“And that rat, Finnerty, the trusty,” the talker spoke to me now, “has -got a ton of it out there to sell, but he wouldn’t give us a jolt if we -had the horrors.” - -“Can you buy it from Finnerty?” I asked him, interested. - -“Can you? Why, that guy Finnerty would peddle you a six-shooter and a -road map if you had the coin, and then snitch on you to the desk -sergeant, the rat,” he finished. - -At that time morphine and opium were almost as cheap as tobacco. Fifty -cents’ worth would last them a day. I hastily dug up a half dollar and -gave it to him. In answer to his call Finnerty appeared, took the half -dollar, and from his shirt pocket drew a bundle of neatly folded packets -of morphine. In plain sight of the desk sergeant he counted out the -required number of parcels and put them into the purchaser’s hand -extended through the bars. They were divided at once. - -Georgie said to his partner. “I think we’d better cook up a shot just to -see if the stuff is all right. That Finnerty would peddle you chloride -of lime if he happened to run out of ‘morph.’” This seemed to be a very -rational reason for taking another shot, and they did. - -Given a sufficient quantity of hop, no fiend is ever at a loss for a -sound reason for taking a jolt of it. If he is feeling bad he takes a -jolt so he will feel good. If he is feeling good, he takes one to make -him feel better, and if he is feeling neither very bad nor very good he -takes a jolt “just to get himself straightened around.” - -Along about two in the morning a young chap about twenty was brought in -to the desk. While he was being searched the two hypos had their eyes -glued on him. “He ain’t got a dime,” said Georgie to his partner when -the searching was done. The desk man gave the young fellow his -cigarettes and he was locked in with us. He was neat, well dressed, and -very wise looking. He sniffed at the hypos, gave me half a glance, -adjusted his tie, and polished his shoes by rubbing each foot on the -back of the opposite leg. He hung a cigarette on his lower lip and felt -about for matches, but found none. - -“Hey, you,” snapping his fingers at Georgie, “gimme a match.” Georgie -gave him a few. “I’ll be out of here in an hour,” said the newcomer, -inhaling his smoke. “I’ll send you in anything you want. I’m a quick -connector. I can get a ten-dollar piece before I get out of the -block—sucker born every minute, you know.” - -“Yes, I know,” Georgie replied. “I’m sorry for them poor suckers. -They’re all asleep down in the Palace Hotel and you’re up here in the -can begging matches. There’s one born every minute, all right, but -there’s two wise guys going to jail every minute, an’ beggin’ matches.” - -The wise guy said no more, but stood by the door waiting to go out. He -was standing there when I left in the morning. - -Georgie turned to his companion. “That last shot didn’t hit me right; -we’d better cook up another an’ begin to get straightened up for court.” - -Having bought the stuff for them, I took the liberty to sit by while -they took their shot, which they did without seeming to notice me. Their -bony arms were gray, like pieces of petrified wood. The skin was pocked -with marks, mottled and scarred from the repeated, hourly stabbing of -the needle. Their shirt sleeves were encrusted with dried blood from the -many punctures. And yet they appeared oblivious to it all. - -“Have a little shot, young fellow?” Georgie asked cordially. - -I declined. “What would happen to me if I did?” I asked. - -“Why, nothing; you’d lie down on the bench and sleep like a baby till -time to go out in the morning, that’s all.” - -“Yes! And what would happen to the balance of my silver while I am -sleeping like a baby?” - -Georgie’s partner cut in like a flash: “This is what would happen. Me -and Georgie would stick right here by you and see that nobody frisked -you for it.” - -I laughed so loud that the desk officer thinking some one had gone -hysterical, stood up sleepily and peered over his desk into the cell. -The other bums stirred uneasily in their sleep. Mine was the only laugh -there that night. I could laugh then; I didn’t know anything about hop. - -My companions didn’t seem hurt or offended because of my intimation that -they had designs on my last four-bit piece. They fell to discussing -their case and preparing a talk for the judge in the morning. Georgie -was for pleading guilty, and his chum wanted to “talk the judge out of -it.” They couldn’t agree, and looked at me. I ventured to ask what they -had done. - -“We’ve got two tough raps,” said Georgie. “In the first place a hypo -ain’t supposed to be found within a block of police headquarters, an’ -we’re grabbed right alongside of the building. In the second place, a -hypo ain’t allowed to leave Chinatown. Of course the cops know we sneak -out. That ain’t so bad. Our racket is peddling kindling wood to the -Chinks an’ we’ve got to go out of Chinatown to get it. Last night we -ducks out and down Jackson Street to the commission houses and gather up -a couple of fine bindles of wood. They are pretty heavy and we’re on -short rations of gow and don’t feel any too strong, so we decide to dash -up Washington Street, the shortest route into Chinatown. We’re bang up -against the city prison when a big, flat-footed, harness bull steps out -an’ yaffles us—an’ here we are.” - -Their case looked so tough that I could think of no solution. “I -wouldn’t plead guilty to anything if I were you,” I advised him. - -“Me, neither,” said his partner. “If I get six months they’ll have to -hang them on me. I ain’t going to reach out an’ grab them.” - -They fell into a fresh argument and their words became so personal and -threatening that I feared they would do each other some great violence. -I took a chance in the rôle of peacemaker and suggested that they take -another shot and talk it over peaceably and quietly. They quit their -wrangling instantly and in a minute they were on their knees in the -corner of the cell with their heads together, amicably preparing another -shot. Somewhere down the corridor I heard a clatter, and a singsong -voice droned, “Get ready for the broom. Get ready for the broom.” - -I was going out. I went over to my friends in the corner with the -fifty-cent piece I had left. “Here,” I said, “take this.” One of them, -still on his knees waiting for his shot, held out his hand; his fingers -closed on the half dollar. He neither looked up nor spoke to me—his eyes -were on the little tin can where the morphine was dissolving in the -boiling water. - -The door was opened and my name called. - -I stood by the door till a trusty prisoner opened it and let me out. My -partner from the wine dump was also taken out and we joined four or five -others in the corridor. A trusty came with an armful of brooms and gave -each of us one. A husky young fellow, half awake, reached for one of the -newest brooms. “No, you don’t,” said the trusty, “the last time you -were here I gave you a good new broom and you beat it up to Chinktown -and peddled it for a dime. An old broom for you.” - -We were detailed in pairs to sweep the sidewalks clean all around the -block the prison stood on. My space was from the prison door down to -Montgomery Street. An old man had the sidewalk across the street from -me. Two or three assistant trusties nosed around like bird dogs to see -that we swept clean and didn’t run away with the brooms. When my task -was done I helped the old man finish his, and he carried my broom back -to the prison. The trusty dismissed me with a wave of his arm and I went -up Montgomery Street in search of a restaurant where I could get some -coffee with a dime I had saved from the rapacious and cunning hypos in -the prison. I decided to keep away from the wine dumps in future, and -out of the hands of the police vag detail that rounded up the riffraff -when they got too numerous and pesty. - -In a few days Sanc was back, quite satisfied with his trip to Salt Chunk -Mary’s. The money was split and put in our box in separate parcels. We -had more than $1,000 each now, but he had no notion of taking a rest or -vacation. He wanted to know right away what I had done in his absence. I -reported everything, including my night in jail. He asked me what I told -the police at the station. I told him. “Not bad,” he said, “but be -careful.” - -I gave him the hotel room keys I had made, and he complimented me on my -work and put them away for future use. - - - - -CHAPTER XIII - - -Having plenty of time and spending money I visited San Jose, towns down -the peninsula, and across the bay—always with an eye to business. -Jewelry-store windows are fascinating to the thief. He must stop and -look over the sparkling plunder. Even in these days of my regeneration I -stop occasionally from habit at a jewelry-store window. Usually there -are others looking, too! - -I paused before a jewelry-store window in Oakland one evening, just at -closing time. The clerks were clearing it out for the night. In the -center of the display stood a slim, polished wood pedestal, on top of -which, in a velvet cup, reposed an enormous ruby, the size of my thumb -nail, set in a ring. A placard announced that this pigeon-blood ruby, -valued at three thousand dollars, was to be awarded by some -organization, the name of which I don’t recall, to the winner of a -contest they were holding. - -The window was cleaned up, the display put away for the night, but the -ruby was left on its pedestal when the store was closed. I got the next -boat across and found Sanc. We went back to Oakland and got to the store -about eleven o’clock. - -“I don’t know anything about rubies, kid, but if it’s left there all -night it’s phony.” - -Just then two men came along, entered the store, and, locking the door -behind them, went to the window and got the stone. They disappeared -toward the back of the store. - -“It must be genuine, kid. They are putting it away in the ‘box.’” - -As we walked away, Sanc said: “The window has a burglar alarm. You can -see the tape around the edges. If I could devise some way to put an inch -hole through the glass without cracking it clear across to the tape, the -alarm would not sound and I could take the stone out with a stiff wire. -To-morrow night I’ll try something I have long thought of.” - -The next day he bought at a second-hand store a small machinist’s -hammer, weighing about a pound. One face of it was thick, heavy, and -flat, the other was rounded to a nose about the size of a boy’s marble. -He bought a whipstock of tough, springy wood and made a handle about -eighteen inches long, which he fitted into the hammer. - -For several nights we went around to new buildings and into deserted -streets where there were plate-glass windows of a weight corresponding -with the one in Oakland. Sanc used his hammer like a whip, snapping the -noselike face of it against windows till he became so expert he could -make a hole as clean as if it had been done by a bullet, and without -cracking the glass for more than six inches from it. - -“Vandalism, they will call it,” he said after destroying probably five -hundred dollars’ worth of glass, “but in reality it is a scientific -experiment and a success.” The impact of the hammer sounded very much -like the breaking of a piece of kindling wood under foot. At last we -were ready, and Sanc, as usual, gave me final instructions. - -“Oakland is a tough town to take a pinch in, kid. You can’t fix your -case, and you’ll get the limit if convicted. I’ll take a gun along. You -needn’t. There isn’t much you can do. When the bull is out of the block -and pedestrians are a couple of doors away I will do the best I can. You -stand near by and if anybody gets wise to me, you shout to him: ‘Look -out, he’s got a gun. Let’s get a policeman!’” - -At nine o’clock we passed the window. A crowd was admiring the ring. At -ten the pedestrians had thinned out, and half an hour later Sanc’s -chance came. - -The store was in the middle of a block. The patrolman was at the corner -going farther away. Everything was exactly right. A passing electric -car swallowed the noise of the breaking glass. Sanc disengaged the -hammer’s nose from the hole carefully with a rasping noise. The hammer -went into his coat pocket, and the wire came from beneath his coat. The -top of the pedestal where the ruby rested was higher than the hole in -the window, and when Sanc lifted the ring on his wire it slid slowly -down and out into his hand. He threw the wire into the street and walked -away. I followed behind and overtook him at the corner. A few blocks -farther away he tossed the hammer into a lot. We sat apart on the train -to the ferry and on the boat across to the city. - -In my room Sanc removed the ruby from its setting, which I immediately -took out and threw into a near-by sewer opening. When I returned he was -admiring the stone. “There’s a stone, kid, that, as Shakespeare says, ‘A -Jew would kiss and an Infidel adore.’” - -The Sanctimonious Kid’s face wore a serious look the next evening when -we met to go to dinner. “Kid,” he said, “the more I think of this -wonderful pigeon-blood ruby the less I think of it, if you understand -what I mean. It is possible that we put too much faith in the integrity -of the business firm that displayed it so carelessly. I was out to the -park to-day and gave the thing a careful inspection in the sunlight, and -there is a cold, clammy suspicion in my mind that we have been -swindled—in short, I am afraid the thing is a rank phony. - -“And the worst of it is there’s not one person in five thousand who -knows a real ruby when he sees it. There are probably three men in San -Francisco who would know, but they are all square business men and we -can’t submit it to any of them. The next nearest man is the buyer for -the big Mormon store, Zion’s Co-operative Mercantile Institution, at -Salt Lake City. I will take a run back there with it and get some one to -have him give an opinion on it. If it’s genuine I can get a thousand -dollars on it. I’ll be gone about two weeks, and this is what I want you -to do while I am away. - -“Put on your best clothes, keep clean and neat, and spend your evenings -around the Diamond Palace in Montgomery Street. Go through the whole -block on both sides of the street. Look into every hallway, basement, -empty store, and saloon. Try to locate some place that we can go through -and out into an alley or another street. The getaway’s the thing, and if -you can find one in the block we’ll chance the Diamond Palace some -evening, maybe Christmas Eve.” - -He left next morning after giving me strict orders to keep away from the -wine dumps and attend to business. I worked faithfully and soon found -half a dozen places that would serve. My time was now my own, and once -more I began exploring the byways of the city. - -The hypos I spent the night with in the city prison had aroused my -curiosity about Chinatown. I put in many nights prowling through the -alleys watching these mysterious people gambling, smoking opium, and -trafficking in their women slaves. There were rumors of strange, -mysterious underground passages below the streets and under the -buildings, but I never saw them and I have since come to doubt whether -they ever existed. - -The spots most favored in Chinatown by the hypos and small beggars were -the “cook ovens,” places built in back of Chinese lodging houses where -the occupants did their cooking on the community plan. There were warm -places around the ovens to sleep in, and always a bite to eat for the -asking—no Chinaman refuses to feed a hungry man. - -In my experience with the Chinese I have found them charitable, frugal, -thrifty, moral, and honest. - -In speaking of the cook ovens I may say that it was there the word -“yegg” originated. It has not yet been locked in the dictionary, but it -has a place in our language and it’s about time its derivation was -settled once and for all. It is a corruption of “yekk,” a word from one -of the many dialects spoken in Chinatown, and it means beggar. When a -hypo or beggar approached a Chinaman to ask for something to eat, he was -greeted with the exclamation, “yekk man, yekk man.” - -The underworld is quick to seize upon strange words, and the bums and -hypos in Chinatown were calling themselves yeggmen years before the term -was taken out on the road and given currency by eastbound beggars. In no -time it had a verb hung on it, and to yegg meant to beg. - -The late William A. Pinkerton was responsible for its changed meaning. -His business consisted largely of asking questions and necessarily he -acquired much misinformation. A burglar with some humor fell into -Pinkerton’s hands and when asked who was breaking open the country -“jugs” he whispered to the detective that it was the yeggs. -Investigation convinced Pinkerton that there were a lot of men drifting -about the country who called themselves yeggs. The word went into a -series of magazine articles Pinkerton was writing at the time and was -fastened upon the “box” men. Its meaning has since widened until now the -term “yegg” includes all criminals whose work is “heavy.” - -Sanc returned in a very hostile frame of mind. “We’ve been bilked, kid. -It was a French imitation. Been on the market ten years. I sold it to -Tom Dennison, who runs the Wasatch gambling house in ‘The Lake,’ for a -hundred and fifty dollars, just enough to pay expenses. If you locate a -few more capers like that you’ll put us in the poorhouse.” - -I reported my findings in Montgomery Street, and Sanc after looking them -over carefully pronounced two of the getaways feasible. - -“Kid,” he said, “I read in the papers some time ago that a man named -Charlie Rice, in New York City, put on a cheap, black alpaca coat, put -his cap in his pocket, and with a pencil on his ear walked into a bank -and behind the counter where there were twenty clerks at work. -Unnoticed, he picked up twenty-five thousand dollars in bank notes and -walked out. - -“That suggested to me that I can walk into this jewelry store some -evening before Christmas when they will have an extra force of clerks -employed, and go behind the counter if I am dressed like a clerk. If I -can get behind a counter you can surely get in front of it. I will put a -tray of stones out for your inspection, and you will walk out with it. -We will go over it carefully now. - -“I will walk into the place about seven o’clock some evening, dressed in -a black suit, white shirt, high collar, and black tie. You will go in -directly behind me. You will carry a harmless-looking parcel that looks -like a box of handkerchiefs neatly wrapped and tied. There will be no -bottom in it. I will walk to the back of the store where there are two -or three settees for patrons and visitors. You will stroll about near -by. I will leave my derby hat and overcoat on a settee and try, mind -you, try to get behind the main counter. I am depending upon the fact -that the place will be full of visitors and customers and that there -will be a number of strange clerks and that no one clerk will know all -the others. - -“You will follow my movements closely. When I get behind the counter I -will take out the best tray I can get and set it on the show case in -front of you. You will put your bottomless package over the tray, pick -it up, put it under your arm, and walk out. We have two weeks to get -ready. We will go down there separately and look the place over for a -week. When you go in, you rehearse the thing in your mind and don’t -think of anything else for the next ten days.” - -We thought and talked of the Diamond Palace only for days and days. -“Kid,” said Sanc, “I heard ‘Rebel George’ who invented the gold-brick -swindle say: ‘The way to sell a brass brick is to bunko yourself first -into the belief that your brick is solid gold—the rest is easy. The most -successful bunko man is the one who bunkoes himself before he goes after -a sucker.’ - -“I am going to hypnotize myself into the belief that I am a clerk in -that store from the minute I take my hat off till I put it on. You are a -visitor from the minute you go in till you get your hands on the stones; -then, presto, you are what you are. If we can get one of the larger -trays of stones we can get enough money on them to go to Salt Lake or -Denver, and open a small gambling house where, while we can’t be -entirely respectable, we can at least be secure. I am at a stage where I -would like to quit. I don’t feel like going to work as a laborer at two -dollars a day, or as a clerk for fifteen a week. I’m not speaking -disparagingly of them, mind you—fact is, they have more real courage -than we have, working for such wages. But this life of ours breeds -expensive habits of loose, careless spending that are hard to overcome, -and even if I could swallow my objections to being exploited I would -still find it impossible to survive on the pay. - -“I didn’t jump into this life I’m leading as I jump into bed, and I -can’t get out of it in one jump. I drifted in by slow degrees, and if I -get out I’ll have to ease out of it by slow stages. A gambling joint -would be the first step away. Then maybe something better after that. -This can all be threshed out later; we must not let our minds stray from -the Diamond Palace.” - -Sanc’s philosophy stood up under our bad luck with the near-ruby. “Kid,” -he said later, “this is the season of peace on earth and good will to -men. Who gives to the poor lends to the Lord, but when I give anything -to the poor I am going to have a better motive. However, we are not -givers; we are takers, and our taking should be reasoned out rationally. -We will reverse this ‘giving and lending.’ We will rob the rich and -discomfit the devil; thereby, perhaps, finding favor in the sight of the -Lord. And this brings us to the front door of the Diamond Palace. It’s -one of the city’s show places and visitors are always welcome. We will -visit it.” - -And we did. Separately, we made several visits in the evening to -familiarize ourselves with the inside, and to locate the trays of -stones. At night in my room Sanc drew diagrams of the interior and the -show cases. We rehearsed the thing in detail night after night. He made -a neat dummy parcel and drilled me in placing it over an imitation tray -of diamonds; showed me how to place it under my arm securely yet -carelessly and walk out of the store with entire nonchalance. - -He bought his black suit, white shirt, and black tie, put them on and -rehearsed his part. We put our rooms in order, cleaning out everything -that might look suspicious, protecting ourselves against a possible -“pinch.” The hotel keys I had made were put away carefully against a -rainy day—or night. Our money was taken from the safety box, changed -into bank notes, and secreted in our clothes. - -I asked him about the guns. “No gun for you, Kid. You might get -nervous. Leave yours somewhere. I’ll take mine along.” - -Christmas was ten days away. Every evening we dressed for our parts, got -barbered, shined, and slicked up, and walked about the block prepared to -go into the store when it looked right. We made sure every day that the -getaways I had located were still open. - -“I could make it now,” said Sanc as we stood across the street the third -evening, “but I’ll wait; it’s getting better every day.” - -His last instructions were: “Now, don’t get nervous. If you get your -hands on the ‘junk’ walk out quietly and away. If they ‘tumble’ me up -before I get the tray out you fade away. I’ll do the best I can alone. -If there’s a ‘tumble’ after you get the tray and you are chased, hang on -to it and get into one of the spots you have picked out and when you get -on the other street don’t run; walk briskly direct to the room. If I’m -not there five minutes after you, I’ll be in jail. I don’t like to think -of that, but the pitcher can go to the well once too often, and it’s -better to know beforehand what you are going to do when it breaks. If I -don’t appear you put the stones away safely and wait till I send you -word. Don’t try to connect with me.” - -The next evening as I stood looking at the window display Sanc came by, -glanced inside sharply, and snapped his fingers, which was the “office” -to me that he was going in. I went in about three steps behind him. All -I saw was a fine-looking, elderly man in a policeman’s uniform walking -up the center of the store, active, alert. When I passed him my heart -was pounding so with suspense that I was afraid he would hear it. - -Sanc walked straight to the back of the big room and sat on a settee. I -strolled about looking at, but not seeing, the wonderful display of -baubles. The place was fairly filled with Christmas shoppers and -sightseers. Beautifully gowned women and distinguished-looking men stood -at the counters inspecting rare stones and costly ornaments. Visitors -idled around and clerks stepped about briskly. Parties of shoppers were -coming in, the place was filling up with people laughing and chatting. - -There was a little pucker between Sanc’s eyes as he held his seat, and I -knew something was wrong. Looking closer I saw, facing him and but a -few feet away, an attaché of the place conversing with a party of women. -Sanc was stuck and couldn’t transform himself into a clerk under the -man’s eyes. At last he moved away. Sanc took off his hat, put it on the -settee, stood up, and stepped smartly toward the front, a clerk now, and -I right behind him with my dummy parcel. - -Sanc’s unavoidable delay in transforming himself into a clerk was fatal -to our plan. One glance along the show cases that contained the most -valuable stones showed us that they were all out and under inspection by -patrons who came in after we did. Time was precious, worth more than -money. He dared not hesitate. Turning quickly, he crossed the room and -stepped behind the long line of show cases, passed two busy clerks, and -stopped at a case that held a number of trays of small stones. - -“Now, here’s something, sir,” he said to me as he reached in and brought -out a tray holding one dozen rings, the best in sight that he could get -at. My parcel was on the show case and he did not wait for me to act; he -placed it on top of the tray and turned away toward the rear of the -store. Shaking with suspense I managed to pick it up and place it -properly under my arm, holding it closely to my side. - -On the sidewalk I wanted to run, expecting to hear a hue and cry from -the store. In turning the first corner I looked back. Sanc wasn’t more -than twenty feet behind me. I slowed up for him and we went straight to -the room. - -“Another bunch of rotten luck, kid,” he said, peeling off his black -suit. “This town has me hoodooed. I’m gone from it to-night, and you -had better come along. Wrap up that suit and throw it away along with -the shirt and tie. I’ll unharness these ‘rocks.’ We’re lucky if Mary -gives us two thousand dollars on them.” - -In an hour he had them out of their settings, which I threw away as -before. He went to his room for his few belongings. I threw mine in a -bag and we met at the ferry where we got a boat to Oakland, leaving -nothing behind us but the hotel keys I had made with such pains and -trouble. - -The theft was not reported in the papers. There may be a record of it in -the police archives, for all I know. “I can’t explain their silence,” -said Sanc. “This much is certain, and it’s the worst part of this -business of ours. Some innocent party is going to ride the blame. They -will never figure that as an outside caper.” - -The next day we got an eastbound train and in due time found ourselves -in the town of Pocatello, the stronghold of Salt Chunk Mary. Our knock -at her door was answered by a young and pretty Swedish girl, blue-eyed -and fair-haired. In answer to our call for Mary she laughed and her big, -innocent blue eyes danced. “Aye tank you have bad luck. Miss Mary she -bane on big yamboree.” - -We went downtown and rented a room. In Pocatello, as in every other -Western town in those days, it was the correct custom and usage for -sporting people to go on a big jamboree once or twice a year. A jamboree -was usually preceded by a run of good or bad luck. If the celebrant got -hold of a bunch of easy money he or she “went on a tear” to celebrate -the good luck. If the luck got too bad, the way to change it was to go -out and get drunk. The length of these celebrations was determined by -the size of the party’s bankroll or the strength of his constitution. - -Salt Chunk Mary’s bankroll had no bottom, and her constitution was -flawless. So it followed that her periods of relaxation were somewhat -extended. Being a very positive-minded person, inclining to action -rather than words, her procedure at these times differed greatly from -the ordinary. When she “went on a toot” the town marshal went fishing or -hunting, and her more timid business rivals closed their places and -remained in a state of siege like storekeepers in Chinatown when a tong -war was declared. It was her custom to visit her friends’ places first, -where friendships were renewed and emphasized by much spending and -drinking, and where obligations were acknowledged and discharged -promptly. She poured liquor into the bums, beggars, ragtags, and -bobtails that hung around the saloons till they were legless drunk, and -unable to follow her triumphal march through the town. She never let up -for the want of money, nor because of inability to “carry her licker.” -Her jamboree closed when she had “made” the last place in town and -that was always the joint of some one she held a grudge against. - -Sanc and I were fortunate enough to witness the wind-up of one of her -most memorable celebrations. Leaving her hack at the curb, she walked -into her victim’s saloon and ordered all hands to drink. When the drinks -were disposed of and paid for, she put both hands on the inner edge of -the bar and pulled it over on the floor. Out of the wreckage she -gathered an armful of bottles. One of them was accurately hurled into -the mirror, and the remainder at anybody in sight. The boss, bartender, -and saloon bums disappeared out the back way and Mary stalked out the -front. On the sidewalk she threw away her hat, tore up what money she -had left, and crawled into her waiting hack. Inside she kicked all the -glass out, lay down on the back seat, and, with her feet out through the -broken window, was driven home in state while the town stood mute. - -We allowed her a couple of days to recuperate before calling. When we -appeared she welcomed us as usual with an invitation to eat from the -bottomless bean pot. Sanc threw her the small parcel of stones which she -examined carefully with practiced eye, and a high-powered glass. -Commercial white diamonds were sixty dollars a carat, wholesale, then, -and when she offered us eighteen hundred dollars we took them, -satisfied. - -We jumped to Denver, where Sanc got the dice-game concession in the -“Chicken Coop,” a small gambling house. We had three thousand dollars -between us. Two thousand went into the bankroll and we opened up -bravely. “Soapy Smith,” gambler and bunko man, noted for his high plays -and big winnings and losings, won our two thousand in three successive -plays. Sanc wanted to continue with the balance of our money, but I -refused and stubbornly held on to my last five hundred. We had to quit. - -Sanc was a hard loser and followed “Soapy” around town for a week trying -to “elevate” him. He never got away from the bright lights, and Sanc -gave up the notion of sticking him up. - -We located a big poker game in a soft spot and decided to “line up” the -players. The biggest gamblers in town sat there nightly and there were -thousands of dollars in sight. After many nights of careful checking, we -were ready to go against it. - -Robbery has none of the complications of burglary. It is simple as one, -two, three. You get it or you don’t. - -Sanc with a gun in his hand opened the door softly. I was behind him. -The players, six of them, were in the midst of a “big play.” None looked -up. At the opposite side of the table, facing us, scrutinizing his -cards, sat Bat Masterson, the last of the real bad men, the fastest man -alive with a gun, and with a record of twenty killings while marshal of -Dodge City, Kansas. - -Sanc closed the door on the absorbed poker players as softly as he had -opened it, and “officed” me to follow him out. “What’s wrong?” I asked. - -“Nothing but this, Kid. Bat Masterson is sitting in the game. He has a -reputation as a killer and he earned it. When he was marshal of Dodge -City bad men rode from the Texas Panhandle and from Deadwood, Dakota, to -shoot it out with him, and he dropped them all. Nobody knows how many; -he probably don’t know himself. He beat them all to the ‘pull’ and even -now, when he is not exactly young, he is the fastest human being with a -gun. All he has left is his reputation, and he would die rather than -lose it to a couple of ‘stick-ups.’ If I had him in a dark street I -wouldn’t hesitate to ‘throw him up’ and he would ‘go up’ too, but he -would never stand for it with others looking on. I could have put the -gun on him, said: ‘Masterson, I know you; I’ll kill you if you bat an -eye,’ and you could have started to gather up their coin. So far, so -good; but if the brim of your hat or the tip of your shoulder had got -between Mr. Masterson and my eye he would have ‘pulled’ on us and I -would have had to let go at him. If I didn’t kill or disable him with -the first shot, he’d have slaughtered the pair of us. - -“I’m not afraid of him, but I am not knowingly going to put myself in -the position of killing anybody for his money. When Masterson sits in a -game, he lays a gun on his lap. His life is forfeit to any ambitious -young bad man looking for a reputation. Anybody but a ‘stick-up’ could -kill him and get away with it, if he were fast enough or dirty enough to -shoot him in the back. He has the right to sit with a gun on his lap, -and besides, it gives him just a slight psychological edge on the other -players. - -“In short, Kid, I don’t want any of Mr. Batterson Masterson’s money by -the stick-up route. There are a lot of bad men here getting by on gall, -but he has guts and I flatter myself that I’ve been around enough to -know the difference. That’s my philosophy, Kid; you can take it or leave -it,” he concluded. - -That was the tribute Sanc, who killed one man and was hanged, paid Bat -Masterson, who killed twenty and died peacefully in his bed at a ripe -and respected old age. - -Then came a night when the Sanctimonious Kid failed to show up at the -room. I was worried and made the rounds of the gambling houses, joints, -and hangouts, but failed to find him or anybody who had seen him. My -fears were put to rest later when Soapy Smith, who won our bankroll, -appeared in the “Missouri House” and told with the good grace of a man -who had lost fortunes how he had been “taken” by a “stick-up” man for -fifteen hundred dollars. - -“It was the first time in a year I had been off Larimer Street, and it -serves me right,” he laughed. “Anyway, I know him and told him so; and -I’m going to kill him on sight.” - -“Soapy,” Jefferson Smith, was a colorful character of the West, the -educated, refined, renegade son of a distinguished Southern family who -turned his wits to crooked ways. When his luck at the faro tables -switched and left him broke, he mounted his box on a corner and sold -nickel bars of soap for fifty cents and one dollar. The fifty-cent bars -were guaranteed to contain a five-dollar bill and the dollar ones a ten. -The bills were wrapped with the soap in plain view of the prospective -purchasers, and when he finished his “spiel” the rush was on. - -His “cappers,” “boosters,” and “shills” fought with the yokels for a -chance to get something for nothing and always beat them to the pieces -of soap containing the money. - -As a sleight-of-hand man Soapy had no equal off the stage. When the -Gentiles wrested the Salt Lake City government from the Mormons, Soapy -was brought out from Denver and sat as an election judge in the busiest -polling booth in the city. Equipped with a poker player’s “sleeve -holdout” he “went out” with enough Mormon ballots to swing a close -election in favor of a “clean city administration.” - -Always a pioneer, he joined the gold rush to the Klondike. He was killed -at Skagway, later, by a bully in the pay of the “Vigilance Committee.” - -After the robbery Sanc disappeared, and it was long till I saw him -again. I decided to leave Denver. I owed them fifteen days on the chain -gang, and had no wish to pay by shoveling snow in the streets. I bought -a ticket to Butte, Montana, regretting the money but not caring to “hit -the road” in the dead of winter across half a dozen of the coldest -states in the Union. I did it in after years, but it was from -necessity—not choice. - -Butte was never a “Wild West” town in the accepted sense. Cowboys were -seldom seen. Miners and gamblers ruled the town. The miners were -orderly, hard workers, deep drinkers, and fair fighters. They had none -of the cheap, shouldering swagger of the “gold-rush” miner. Nearly -everybody owned a gun, but the bullying, gun-toting, would-be bad men -and killers never flourished in Butte. When one of them got peeved and -started to lug out his “cannon” some hard-fisted miner beefed him like -an ox with a fast one to the jaw, and kicked his “gat” out into the -street where small boys scrambled for it. - -The mines were worked by Irishmen and “Cousin Jacks” (Cornishmen), who -settled their differences with good, solid blows and despised the use of -weapons. Gambling flourished and was licensed in Montana by an act of -legislature. The possession of any crooked gambling device was a felony. -Consequently the cheap cheaters and tinhorn, shoestring gamblers never -got a footing there. Many of the faro dealers never made a bet of their -own money, and many professional players were married men, who looked -after their families faithfully, feeding and educating their children -with money honestly and systematically won over the faro layouts. -Everybody gambled. Messenger boys stopped to make a bet. The copper on -the beat would walk in and bet “two and a half to win breakfast money.” -If he won his “two and a half” he went out satisfied. If he lost it, he -got “stuck,” forgot all about his beat, sat down, and “played in” his -bankroll. - -The town boasted of an all-night barber shop and a clothing store that -never closed, for the convenience of late-at-night winners who couldn’t -hold on to their winnings till morning. - -As I watched a game my first night in Butte, a seedy, torn-out looking -chap stepped up to the layout and made a bet. He won it, and, expertly -shifting his checks about, won a dozen more bets before the deal closed. -“Gimme money,” he said to the dealer, pushing his checks in, “I’m going -to get dressed up this time.” He took off his rusty derby hat and tore -the crown out of it. Putting his hands behind him, he grasped the tails -of his frock coat and with a jerk ripped it up the back clear to the -collar. Money in hand he sought the all-night store, and came back in an -hour, spick and span from head to heel. - -I experimented and soon laid a solid foundation for the faro-bank habit -which fastened on me later and kept me broke for years. - -Another night a player at the table who had lost steadily for an hour -placed his last stack of checks on a card, saying to the dealer, “Turn -the cards, Sam, that’s the last button on Gabe’s coat.” The cards were -turned and the player lost. - -As he was leaving, I looked at him closer, and was sure I knew him. I -got up and stuck my hand out to him. He took it curiously. “You are -George,” I said, “the gentleman who made my fight in the Kansas City -jail the night of my first ‘pinch.’” - - - - -CHAPTER XIV - - -George smiled and took a better grip on my hand. “Yes, I remember you, -young fellow. You’ve grown some. Have you gathered any wisdom?” - -“I’ve gathered enough to know that you are entitled to any part of -this,” I said, producing my small bankroll. - -“This is payable to-morrow night,” he said, taking twenty dollars. - -The money was returned promptly and a bond of friendship and confidence -was formed that remains unbroken. I came to know him as “Rebel George,” -prince of bunko men, the man who developed and perfected the -“gold-brick” swindle. After stealing a fortune and losing it at faro -bank, he quit in answer to the prayers of his faithful wife, who had for -years shared his vicissitudes in and out of prison. At the age of sixty, -prison bent and money broke, he started life on the level and when last -I heard of him he was in a fair way to succeed in his small business. - -From Butte I journeyed to Spokane, Washington, and then to Seattle. I -marvel now that I did not stop in one of those spots of golden -opportunity and go to work. With the money I would have saved in a -couple of years I could have bought land or lots that would have made me -independent in ten years. I think land hunger is inherited. I had no -desire then, nor have I now, to own land. The desire to possess land, -whether inherent or acquired, appears to me to be a sure safeguard -against a wasted, dissolute, harmful life. - -I had now become so saturated with the underworld atmosphere that no -thought of any kind of honest endeavor entered my mind. Fully realizing -their value, I passed by many splendid opportunities in the booming -Western towns; not that I was lazy or indolent, but that business and -the hoarding of money had no attraction. I will leave it to the -scientists and investigators to explain why Johnnie Jones lands in a -pulpit, and his chum next door, with equal opportunity, lands in a -penitentiary. It’s too deep for me. I know I never had any money sense -and never will have, and I know that had I been blessed, or cursed, with -land hunger and money sense I would to-day have more honest dollars than -I ever had crooked dimes. - -Twenty years of moderate application to his business will make most any -man independent. In twenty years a journeyman mechanic will handle more -money than a first-class burglar, and at the end of that time he will -have a home and a family and a little money in the bank, while the most -persistent, sober, and industrious burglar is lucky to have his liberty. -He is too old to learn a trade, too old and broken from doing time to -tackle hard labor. Nobody will give him work. He has the prison horrors, -and turns to cheap larcenies and spends the balance of his life doing -short sentences in small jails. - -In rare instances the broken thief finds friends, sympathetic, -understanding, and ready to help him. Strong and kindly hands at his -elbows ease him over the hard spots and direct him to some useful place -in the world. Some understand such kindness and respond by breasting the -current and battling upstream with their best strokes; others do not, or -can not understand, and, like dead fish, float down and away forever. - -My apprenticeship under the Sanctimonious Kid was all that could be -desired by either of us, yet my education was far from finished. At -Seattle, almost broke, and doubtful about being able to do anything -worth while by myself, I cast about for a “sidekicker.” Seattle was -rebuilding after her big fire. Money was plentiful, and I never saw such -an aggregation of beggars, tramps, thieves, and yeggs as were gathered -there. Gambling, prostitution, and the smuggling of opium flourished -unmolested. The thieves hung out in Clancey’s gambling house, and were -protected and exploited by him. They thought Clancey was a little “Hinky -Dink” in a little Chicago. - -Every time a thief showed up with a hundred dollars he was “pinched,” -but Clancey took him out in an hour—for the hundred. When it was too -late they found out that it was he who had them “pinched.” Clancey died -broke. - -In Clancey’s I found “St. Louis Frank,” a product of Kerry Patch, a poor -quarter of St. Louis, Missouri. I knew him from the bums’ “convention” -at Pocatello, where I met him first. He was clean looking and healthy -and I liked him. About my own age, he was an honest, industrious, -intelligent thief. - -One night as we were looking around one of the smaller gambling houses, -all the lights went out suddenly, but before we could get our hands on -any of the money, they came on again. This started us to figuring a way -to put them out at a given time when one of us could stand near a table -and grab the bankroll. We found where the wires entered the building, -and Frank volunteered to cut them if I would stand inside by the faro -game and snatch the bankroll which was lying exposed in an open drawer -beside the dealer. It looked so good that we enlisted two other -“Johnsons,” one to plant himself by the dice game, and the other by the -roulette wheel. All three of us were to be in readiness to make a grab -when the lights went out and make our way out of the building in the -darkness. - -Saturday night, when the biggest play was on, Frank made his way to the -roof and we took up our posts inside. - -I took a position by the faro game. The drawer that held the bankroll -was so situated that a right-handed man would be handicapped in reaching -for the money. Being left-handed, the spot fell to me. The drawer was -open and the big leather pocketbook containing the money was lying in -the bottom of it in plain sight, and not two feet from where I stood. -The second man, in charge of the game, the “lookout,” sat in a high -chair at the dealer’s right. One of his feet was resting on the edge -of the open drawer, and I saw at a glance that if he jammed the drawer -shut with his foot when the lights went out he would trap my hand. - -While I was thinking that over, Frank cut the wires and everybody in the -big room did just what we expected; they remained perfectly still for a -second waiting for the light to come on. - -My hand was on the big fat “poke.” I heard a jingle of gold coins across -the room, and somebody shouted: “Thieves! Thieves!” The drawer was -jammed shut on my hand. - -Reaching down with my right hand I got the poke and tore my left hand -out of its trap, leaving a piece of skin the size of a half dollar -behind. There were three exits and we all got out safely in the -scramble, and “weighed in” at my room. - -Frank was there ahead of us. My grab yielded two thousand dollars in -bills. The chap at the dice game put his hand on a stack of twenty -twenty-dollar gold pieces, but it was too heavy and he fumbled it, -getting only half. Our assistant at the roulette wheel got a couple of -stacks of silver only. - -The money was split at once, and our friends departed. Frank took most -of our money out and left it with a saloon man we knew. I stayed in my -room a couple of days waiting for my hand to heal. - -One great failing of the thief is that when he gets money he immediately -makes tracks for some hangout where he throws a few dollars on the bar -just to “give the house a tumble” and let them guess where he “scored” -and how much he got. - -He looks wise, says nothing, spends a few dollars, and goes out. Then -the guessing begins and it’s surprising what good guessers some poor -thieves are. - -Frank insisted that we go downtown a few nights later. I took the -bandage off my hand and went along. We dropped into “Billy, the Mug’s,” -bought a few drinks, and departed. Half a block away we were pounced on -by a couple of “dicks.” One of them jerked my left hand out of my coat -pocket where I had been keeping it to conceal the skinned place. -“That’s enough,” he said, looking at it. They marched us down to the -gambling house and showed us to the game keepers. They got no -satisfaction there, the gamblers either could not or would not identify -us. We were then taken down to the city “can,” where they searched us -thoroughly, finding nothing but a few dollars in silver. We were -questioned separately and together, but refused to talk—a guilty man’s -only refuge. The officers ordered the man on the desk to put us on the -“small book,” meaning to hold us as suspicious characters. “Maybe -Corbett can get something out of you,” one of them said to us as they -were leaving. - -John Corbett was the officer in charge of the city jail. He was feared -and hated from one end of the country to the other because of his -brutality to prisoners. I doubt if a more brutal, bloodthirsty jailer -ever flourished anywhere. He did not limit his beatings to underworld -people. He beat up rich men, poor men, beggarmen, and thieves -impartially. Anybody that didn’t crawl for Corbett got a good “tamping.” -He was repeatedly brought before the commission for his cruelty to -unfortunates falling into his hands, but for years mustered enough -influence to hold his job. Corbett’s treatment of prisoners was the -shame and scandal of Seattle, and he kept it up until the women of that -city got the right to vote. Then their clubs, in a body, went to the -mayor and demanded Corbett’s removal. He was removed. - -Corbett appeared and took me downstairs where the cells were, in a -moldy, damp, dark half basement. He was a powerful man, not tall, but -thick and broad. He was black-browed, brutal-faced, heavy-jawed. He -opened a cell door and I started to step in but he detained me. I sensed -something wrong. His brownish-red eyes gleamed like a fanatic’s. “You’d -better tell me all about that robbery, young man.” His voice was cold, -level, and passionless. - -“I know nothing about it, sir,” I answered very decently; I was afraid. -Like a flash one of his hands went to my throat. He pinned me to the -wall, choking me, and brought something down on my head with the other -hand that turned everything yellow and made my knees weaken. Still -holding me by the throat he lifted me clear of the floor and threw me -into the cell like a bundle of rags. There was about a half inch of -water on the cell floor. I lay there in it, and looked about me by the -dim light of a gas jet out in the corridor. There was nothing in the -cell but a wooden bench. - -After a few minutes I crawled over to it, and, pulling myself up, -stretched out, more dead than alive. If people can be corrected by -cruelty I would have left that cell a saint. - -St. Louis Frank, in another part of the jail, got a worse beating than I -did. - -Our friends outside were busy. At ten o’clock next morning James -Hamilton Lewis, affectionately called “Jim Ham,” later United States -senator from Illinois, then an ambitious fighting young lawyer who never -“laid down” on a client, came to see us. At two that afternoon he had us -out on a writ, free. - -From that day on St. Louis Frank smiled no more. He became snarly, -short spoken, and ugly. We got our money and parted. He went out on the -road “bull simple,” simple on the subject of shooting policemen. The -stories told about him are almost unbelievable. Years later I saw him in -the San Francisco county jail where he was waiting trial for the murder -of a police officer in Valencia Street. The day he went to San Quentin -where he was hanged, he sang out to me: “So long, Blacky. If I could -have got Corbett I wouldn’t care.” - -All Corbett’s beating did for me was to make me a little more careful. I -got a boat to San Francisco, not knowing just what to do, but with a -notion of killing time till old Foot-and-a-half George finished his time -in Utah, and meeting him. I dug up the hotel keys Sanc and I had planted -and experimented a little in hotel prowling. I hadn’t the sure touch -that came in later years with experience, and didn’t do much good. - -One night in the Baldwin Hotel Annex I got a roll of bills that rather -surprised me, and I was still more surprised when I read in the next -evening’s paper that George Dixon, the little colored champion fighter, -had lost his money to a burglar. At the Baldwin bar the next night -somebody asked him what he would have done had he been awakened by the -burglar. - -Dixon, always a good loser, smiled. “I’d ’a’ done just what you’d ’a’ -done. I’d ’a’ gone right back to sleep till that man went on out.” - - - - -CHAPTER XV - - -During my stay in San Francisco I lived at the Reno House, a small -workingman’s lodgings in Sacramento Street. It was owned by a man named -Rolkin, a carpenter, who invested his small savings in it knowing -nothing about the hotel business. He had a “crazy notion” that he could -put clean linen on every bed every day in this cheap place and survive. -His competitors said he was insane. He persisted, however, and on that -“crazy idea” he built a string of fine hotels that he counts to-day like -a barefoot Franciscan counting his beads. - -I brought a terrible cold out of the Seattle jail that hung on for -months. I got worried about it and went to a doctor. After looking me -over carefully he pronounced one of my lungs bad and said I was in a -fair way to fall into consumption. He advised me to go to a different -climate, not to worry and get into a panic about it, and to take -cod-liver oil. “Not the emulsion,” he said, “but the raw oil. It’s nasty -stuff to take, but it will save you. Take it for a year if you can -stomach it that long.” - -I followed his advice. The cold was gone in a week, and in a month I -gained ten pounds. I stuck to the nauseating raw oil for a year, and -to-day I firmly believe that if I hadn’t I would have long ago succumbed -to the dreaded prison scourge, T.B. - -One night as I was meandering over Kearny Street toward the Coast -somebody fell into step beside me. I looked around and saw Soldier -Johnnie. We were well met, and I asked about his visit home. “Hell, I -only got as far as ‘Chi.’ I bumped into a tribe of hungry bums, -winter-bound and starving there. They were living off the free-lunch -counters and the weather was so fierce they couldn’t stay out on the -street long enough to beg a dime for a ten-cent ‘flop’ in the -Knickerbocker Hotel. They were so miserable and forlorn that I went over -to the West Side and rented a housekeeping joint and gave them an indoor -‘convention.’ In six weeks my thousand dollars was gone and I put in the -rest of the winter hanging around Hinky Dink’s and Bathhouse John’s. -When the weather got right I rambled west to Salt Lake. I was going to -hold it down in ‘The Lake’ till George came out, but I met a beggar that -had put in the winter here in the city and he implored me to come out -here and take one look at the ‘box’ in the Wigwam Theater. I’ve looked -it over and it’s the softest thing I ever saw. It’s older than I am and -I can beat it with a fifty-cent hammer.” - -“Do you need any help?” - -“No. An outside man would only attract the cops. I’ll plant inside -before the place closes and get out some way after I get the coin.” - -Johnnie didn’t even waste fifty cents for a hammer. He found one in the -stage carpenter’s kit. He got something over a thousand dollars, all in -gold, and I persuaded him to let me buy tickets to Sacramento, where I -exchanged it for paper money. We got “under” a night passenger train and -held it into Truckee, where we spent a few days fishing and drinking -mickies of alcohol with some congenial bums we found by the river. The -weather was fine, and we journeyed through Nevada on slow freight -trains, sitting in the open side door of a clean box car, with our legs -dangling outside, looking for the scenery. - -If the brakeman came along and wanted fifty cents apiece from us, we -refused and got off at the next stop, where we drank cool beers in the -saloon and waited for another train. We waited a week at Ogden for -Foot-and-a-half George who showed up on the day. His head looked a -little more pointed, his eyes a little deader, and his limp a little -more pronounced. He was in good spirits and condition after “stopping -his jolt” in the stir and anxious to start “rooting.” - -Sanc failed to appear, and the three of us jumped into Pocatello to pay -our respects to Salt Chunk Mary. In a few days her hospitality palled, -and George voted that we move down to the jungle and celebrate his -release from prison. - -Bums, thieves, beggars, and yeggs appeared as if they had magic carpets. -In no time the thing assumed the proportions of a convention. Everybody -had money. The crowd soon split up into units. Each unit had its cook -and cooking outfit. The “captain” of each unit collected from the -individuals and sent the younger bums into the town to buy alcohol, -beer, and the “makin’s” of mulligans. There was drinking, fast and -furious, eating, washing, shaving, while some of the older bums mended -their clothes with expert needle. Cripples discarded their crutches and -hopped about the camp fires grotesquely. “Crawlers” with cut-off legs -swung themselves along on their hands drunkenly, like huge toads. - -Because of George our unit easily had all the class of the convention. -He sat in state on a coal-oil can by the fire, bottle in hand, royally -receiving the congratulations of bums from the four points of the -compass. - -Somewhere near by at another fire a bum sang in a raucous, beery voice, -“Oh, Where Is My Wandering Boy To-night.” “The Face on the Barroom -Floor,” “My Blue Velvet Band,” and “Ostler Joe” were alcoholically -recited by a fat, red-faced bum in a greasy coat, after which the -convention stretched out on the warm ground and slumbered peacefully in -the balmy summer air. - -The cook of our party was a stranger to me. A tall, lank man of fifty, -with a straggly black beard and matted black hair hanging to his -shoulder. He never spoke except when the bottle was passed to him. Then -he would hold it aloft and in a dead, empty voice offer his unfailing -toast. “The stool pigeon is the coming race.” - -“Kid,” said George, when I asked him about the cook. “He’s crazy as a -bed bug and the best ‘mulligan’ maker on the road. ‘Montana Blacky’ is -welcome at any bum camp anywhere, and he spends his life going from -jungle to jungle.” - -Each day the bums drank more and ate less. The cooks were drunk and -would prepare no food. The fiery alcohol had done its work. The bums -that could stand up were fighting or snapping and snarling at each -other. Many lay on their backs helpless, glass-eyed and open-mouthed, -while others crawled about on all fours like big spiders. No more -laughter, songs or recitations. Gloom settled over the camp and -Tragedy waited in the wings for his cue to stalk upon the stage. - -Just when the convention was about to close for the want of able -drinkers, a fresh contingent of bums arrived from over the Oregon Short -Line. They were brass peddlers and had a big assortment of “solid gold” -wedding rings. A big young fellow they called “Gold Tooth” seemed to be -“captain” of the outfit. Along toward dark they finished the last of -our liquor, and Gold Tooth and his tribe prepared to go into the town to -make a “plunge.” He detailed a couple of them to take the main “drag,” -another to make the railroad men’s boarding houses, another to the -saloons. - -“I’ll make the cribs myself. I’m dynamite with them old brums in the -cribs,” he declared, with a satisfied, confident air. - -The “brass” was portioned out and they started uptown to “tell the -natives how it happened.” There is no more industrious person than a -half-drunk brass peddler out on the street “making a plunge” for enough -coin to buy himself another micky of alcohol. The first peddler -returned in an hour with his quota of “Dr. Hall” (alcohol), and the -drinking began afresh. George, Johnnie, and I had enough; we drank -sparingly. One by one they straggled in with their bottles till all had -arrived but Gold Tooth. - -There was much speculation as to what had happened to him, and his -“tribe” finally decided he had been “yaffled by the town whittler.” In -the language of the bums “yaffled” is arrested, and the “town whittler” -is the constable, so-called because he is usually found sitting in some -comfortable place whittling a stick. - -When Gold Tooth did show up, it was evident that he would have been -lucky had the town whittler got him first. Blood was running down his -face from wounds on his head, his shirt was in strands, and he was -raving. - -“Look at me,” he screamed, “this is the rankest deal I’ve got in my ten -years on the road. And where do you think I got it? In Salt Chunk -Mary’s. I go in her joint and drop a hoop to one of her frowsy little -brums for nine dollars. I’m decent enough to buy her a bottle of beer -when she pays me for my brass. When she goes out for the beer she shows -the hoop to Mary. She comes in and deliberately orders me to blow back -the jane’s nine bucks. I tells her there’s nothing doin’ and starts for -the door. Mary hits me in the back of the head with a bottle of beer, -and when I go down she puts the boots to me.” - -George sat up and looked at the speaker curiously. - -Still standing by the fire, he continued: “That’s what I get for bein’ a -good bum. I’m goin’ back up there to-night and burn down her shack; the -dirty, big, red-headed Amazonian battle-ax. I’ll——” - -“Hey, you,” said George from across the fire, “you’re a liar.” His -little dead blue eyes were blazing like a wounded wild boar’s. “You was -a good bum, but you’re dog meat now.” A gun flashed from beneath his -coat, and he fired into Gold Tooth twice. Six feet away, I could *feel* -the slugs hit him. His head fell forward and both hands went to his -chest, where he was hit. He turned round, like a dog getting ready to -lie down and fell on his face. His hat rolled into the fire. His hands -were clawing the red-hot coals. - -Soldier Johnnie ran around and pulled him away from the fire by the -feet. George stood, with the gun smoking, glaring at the others of Gold -Tooth’s tribe. They slunk away into the dark, gibbering drunkenly. -Some of the drunken sleepers by the fire were not even aroused by the -shots. Johnnie kicked them awake; they got up and staggered away. -Montana Blacky, our crazy cook, reeled unsteadily into the circle of -firelight, wabbling like an old crow on a dead limb. Holding his bottle -aloft, he croaked: “Oh, then the bums began to fight, and there was -murder right and tight.” Waving his arm over the scene as if conferring -his benediction on the fire, the dead man, George, Johnnie, and myself, -he disappeared, muttering: “The stool pigeon’s the coming race.” - -George handed me his pistol. “Throw this in the river, Kid.” I broke it -open, took out the slugs and empty shells, threw them into the water at -one place, and the gun at another. We hurried away toward the railroad -yards. On the way up, we decided that Johnnie should stay in Pocatello -and intimidate any of the weaker bums who might talk, and also try to -shoo them all out of town. - -In the railroad yards, I had my eyes opened to one of the safest -getaways ever discovered—that of “springing” into a loaded box car. -Johnnie got an iron bar out of a scrap pile. Equipped with this, we went -through the long lines of loaded cars waiting to be routed out of -Pocatello, and in a few minutes found a car of merchandise billed to -Great Falls, Montana. The process of “springing in” was simple. With -the iron bar Johnnie lifted the bottom of a side door till it was clear -of the hasps that held it in place. Placing one foot against the car, -he pulled the bottom of the door out, away from its position, making -space enough for us to crawl up into the opening. When we were safely -inside, he sprang the door back into its place with his bar. Usually one -or both end doors were fastened on the inside, making it easy to get -out. - -In those days this was the bums’ best getaway, and it never failed -unless they went to sleep and snored so loud that the brakeman heard -them when the train was on a sidetrack. Supplied with food and water, -men have traveled across the continent in safety while sheriffs and -posses beat up the jungles for them in vain. - -Luckily enough, we got into a train that was already “made up” for -departure, and it pulled out in an hour. Making ourselves comfortable -on top of the cases of merchandise, we took turn about sleeping, and -after a ride of almost twenty-four hours, got into Silver Bow Junction, -where we opened an end door and crawled out, hungry and thirsty. Then a -walk of six miles, and we were in Butte City, where we got food and a -room. - -George was well known to the police in Butte, but took no pains to hide -himself, feeling sure that the masonry of the road and jungle would -protect him against the common enemy—the law. - -The next afternoon we were picked up on the street by plain-clothes men -and taken before the chief of police. - -“What’s wrong now, chief?” queried George. - -“Oh, nothing much, Foot-’n’-a-half, just a telegram from -Pocatello—murder charge,” smiled the chief. - -“What about me?” I asked. - -He looked at a telegram on his desk. “Hold anybody found with him.” - -They searched us thoroughly and held everything found on us. We were -locked up alone, in separate cells. “You’ve got plenty of money, boys,” -said the jailer, “you can buy anything you want in the way of food and -tobacco.” - -I sat on the side of my iron cot, wondering who had kicked over the bean -pot. A rat-eyed trusty came down the corridor and stopped in front of -George’s cell, directly across from mine. “What’s the trouble, -old-timer?” - -George looked at him coldly. “Oh, nothing much. I just bit a baby’s arm -off.” - -The trusty went away. Something told him to ask no more questions. - -Idaho officers came the next day and we went back with them to -Pocatello, not caring to waste our money fighting extradition, and -feeling confident there was nothing more than a suspicion of guilt -against us. We were taken straight from the train at Pocatello to an -undertaker’s. Every town official was there. Inside, in the back room, -they led George up to a table where his victim was laid out under a -white cloth. He knew what was coming, and so did I. The cloth was jerked -off the body and one of the officers pointed his finger at George. - -“There’s the poor devil you shot, you damned, murdering ———, and we’ll -hang you for it.” - -George coolly and calmly placed his right hand on the dead man’s brow -for an instant. Then, taking it away, he held his arm out full length -with the palm of his hand up, and said to the officer: - -“If I killed that man, there’s the hand that held the gun, and there’s -the finger that pulled the trigger” (jerking his index finger back and -forth), and, pulling up his coat sleeve, “there’s my pulse! Do you want -to feel it?” - -They weakened. The old yegg had beaten them at their own game. - -“Lock them up!” ordered somebody in authority. The marshal and -a crowd of citizens took us to the calaboose, a small, one-room -shack in the middle of a big lot. They waited around till a pair of -villainous-looking Bannock Indians appeared with rifles. They were -hired to watch us and took turn about, sitting on a box outside by the -door, day and night, silent, motionless. At evening the marshal brought -a basket of food from a near-by restaurant, and a bundle of clean, new -blankets. - -Pocatello boasted of two lawyers, brothers. One prosecuted cases in the -magistrate’s court, and the other defended anybody foolish enough to -hire him. Salt Chunk Mary sent the defender over to see us the next -day. He hadn’t influence enough to have us brought to his office, so he -talked to us through the calaboose-door wicket. We were not going to -waste any money on him. We decided to wait and see if we needed a lawyer -first. George thanked him for coming, told him we had done nothing, and -didn’t need an attorney. - -Every day for a week we were taken out and questioned. At the end of -that time, having exhausted their stock of questions and patience, the -marshal and his deputy had us into the justice’s court charged with -vagrancy. In ten minutes we were tried, convicted, and sentenced to six -months each in the county jail at Blackfoot. - -No matter how small the town is, somebody can be found to fix things. -Mary was on the job and got the town fixer to “see the judge.” He -consented to suspend the sentences if we would get out of the town and -stay out, warning us that if we ever came back we would automatically -start serving our time. - -We went over to Mary’s to get out of sight till train-time, and find out -what had caused our arrest. Soldier Johnnie had not appeared at her -place. He folded his tent and stole away with other members of the -convention, and so precarious was the life we led that it was fifteen -years till I saw him again. All Mary had gathered was that the marshal, -noting the scarcity of bums about town, had gone down to the jungle, -where he found a dead man sprawled beside a burnt-out fire. Searching -the jungle further, he came upon poor old Montana Blacky, raving mad. He -was taken in and later sent to an asylum. He was the only bum in -Pocatello the day after the convention’s tragic close. We never knew -what caused our arrest, but surmised that Blacky in his ravings might -have named George as the killer. - -When our train pulled out, the marshal was there to see that we got -aboard and to ascertain where we were going. We foiled him by neglecting -to buy tickets, and at the same time saved ourselves money by paying a -hungry conductor half fare cash to ride us into Butte. - -There I began my apprenticeship at the dangerous and fascinating -business of breaking open safes. As was proper, I did all the fetching -and carrying. I stole the dan, bought the drills, got railroad -time-tables, and guidebooks. I was sent out to make the preliminary -survey of the “spot” George had designs on. I reported to him whether -the spot was “flopped” in. I looked up the getaway, the all-important -thing. No place is fat enough to tempt unless some feasible getaway can -be figured out. - -I located the blacksmith shop, where heavy tools could be had if needed, -and the livery stable, where saddle horses could be got if required. I -learned what trains passed, and when. I checked the town whittler’s -comings and goings. I was careful to look over the place for dogs, the -bane of the burglar’s life. If my report satisfied George, he looked it -over once to make sure. When we went against a spot he did the -“blacksmithing” inside, while I covered the outside. - -We traveled on foot, on horseback, or on trains as the occasion -required. A hike of twenty, thirty, or even forty miles was not rare. We -never got any such great amounts of money as burglars get to-day. A -thousand dollars was considered a good “touch.” I believe a thief could -get more out of a thousand dollars thirty years ago than he could out of -five thousand to-day. Living was cheaper, police fewer and less active, -shyster lawyers not so greedy and well organized, and the fences and -fixers not so rapacious. “Justice” was not so expensive. - -Only the large cities attempted anything in the way of identification. -The Bertillon system was in the experimental stage and finger printing -unknown in police work. We jumped from one state to another, kept away -from the cities, lived almost entirely on the road except in the dead of -winter, and spent our money in the jungles with the bums or played it in -against faro bank in the mining towns. When we got a decent piece of -money we quit stealing till it was almost spent, but while we were -spending it we always tried to locate new spots against the day when we -would be broke. George, although past fifty, never spoke of quitting. I -doubt if the thought ever entered his mind. He was as much attached to -his trade as any carpenter or bricklayer, and went about it as -methodically as any mechanic. - -His cold-blooded shooting of Gold Tooth caused many bums to avoid him. -After he was dead, I learned by accident why he did it, but it was too -late then to shake hands with him over it. - -A year after we were banished from Pocatello, a letter from Mary told us -that the Sanctimonious Kid was arrested in Denver, charged with a tough -burglary, and wanted help. She wanted to help him, but didn’t know how -to go about it. I sneaked into Pocatello for her generous contribution, -and with what we could spare we went to Denver and got him the best -lawyer there—Tom Patterson, afterward Senator Patterson from Colorado. -We stayed in the state, turning every dollar we could steal into his -lawyer’s office, but in vain. Sanc got everything Patterson had in the -way of service, and finished with fifteen years at Canon City. - -A small post office in Utah yielded us a few dollars and a big bundle of -“stickers.” I had no fear of Pocatello after getting in and out of it -once, and we thought it only right that Mary should have the stamps and -get the profit on them. I got into her place with them, but she hadn’t -enough money and I had to wait till morning for her to get it from the -bank. Instead of staying quietly in her house, as she advised, I went -out for a look at the town and the whittler got me. - -He threw me in the calaboose, promising to take me to Blackfoot the next -day to start on my six months. He hired no Indians this time, but just -locked the door and went back uptown, probably to look for George. I -paced up and down the length of the calaboose, cursing my carelessness. -About midnight there came a rap on the door. - -“Are you in there, Kid?” It was Salt Chunk Mary. She passed in a small -bottle of whisky and some sandwiches. I implored her to go over by the -depot and try to find some bum that would break the lock and let me out. - -“No use, Kid,” she said. “The town has been hostile ever since the -convention. A bum can’t light here any more. I’ll try to get some -gambler to do it.” - -She hurried away. In an hour she came back alone, armed with a crowbar. -She put the pointed end of it into the neck of the lock and with a -mighty wrench twisted it off and threw the door open. I stepped out. -That pale, light-fingered ghost, “The lady that’s known as Lou,” would -have fainted in my arms. Not Mary. When I reached for her hand, she -pushed me away. - -“Don’t waste time thanking me. Here’s the coin for your stickers. I -borrowed it from the girls. You’ve got to hurry; there’s a train -leaving in ten minutes.” - -While I was still pouring out my thanks to Mary she turned away, and I -hastened to the railroad yards, where I hid myself till the train pulled -in. I didn’t go near the depot to buy a ticket, but crawled under a -coach and deposited myself on the rods. Before daylight I crawled out -at Ogden and hiked straight out of the town. I waited at the first -station out, and in a few hours got a train into Salt Lake, where George -was waiting for me. - -He had seen Judge Powers, who defended me when I ran away from the -verdict of not guilty. The judge assured him that there was no claim on -me and the worst I need fear was a charge of “vag” from some sore-head -copper. I at once told him of my troubles at Pocatello and my delivery -from the calaboose by Mary. - -“You don’t have to tell me what a grand character she is, Kid. I know -all about that. She’s righter than April rain. If you knew half what I -know about her you’d have put a couple of slugs into Gold Tooth -yourself. You probably thought I ‘smoked him off’ because I was full of -‘Hall’ (alcohol) and wanted to cut some crazy caper. I croaked him -because he was slandering the best woman that ever stood in two shoes. -I’m not lookin’ for a chance to kill anybody. I got my belly full of -that in the war, an’ that ain’t all. No matter what they say, dead men -do tell tales. Robbery and burglary are soon forgotten and outlawed, -but when you leave a dead man behind you they’ve got the balance of -your life to catch you and hang you. A couple of those bums could go -into the Salvation Army ten years from now and get religion and hang -me. - -“I’ve packed a gun for thirty years, and every time I fired it I was in -the wrong except, maybe, when I let that Gold Tooth have it. That’s -because my business is wrong. But it don’t include murder and I won’t -travel with anybody that deliberately shoots people. - -“When the town ‘bull’ interferes with you at night shoot at him, of -course, and shoot at him first; but don’t hit him. He thinks you’re -tryin’ to kill him and that’s enough. He’ll go after reënforcements and -you get away. If he shoots at you that’s just a common incident; if he -hits you it’s a rare accident. - -“You’re only beginning at this racket, Kid,” finished the veteran yegg. -“Take my advice and be careful with your gun. It’s a good servant, but -don’t let it become your master or it will hang you.” - -We hadn’t been in Salt Lake ten days till one of the “dicks” that put me -on trial in Smiler’s case came into the “Gold Room,” a gambling house we -hung out in, and took me off to jail. They held me all day and that -night, trying to dig up some charge to put against me. Judge Powers came -the following day, and after a lot of palaver they charged me with -vagrancy. He got me a bond and I was later dismissed. - -Harry Hinds, who kept the Gold Room, saw the police and came back with -the good news that we could stay in Salt Lake as long as we didn’t -“bother” anybody in the city and that they didn’t care what we did -outside the city limits. - -We made our headquarters in the city for more than a year. We hung out -in the Gold Room and our persistent attempts to beat the faro game kept -us continually jumping into the near-by towns to replenish our bankroll. -Dynamite was easy to get and we didn’t trouble ourselves to go to Ogden -for the parcel I had left in the safety vault. We became quite -established in Salt Lake and came to know many people. We lived at a -quiet, second-class hotel, and went about our business in a decent, -orderly manner. - -George lost all interest in bums and their gatherings after the -convention at Pocatello, and kept away from them. They still attracted -me, and occasionally I went down to the jungle on the banks of the river -Jordan that empties into the Great Salt Lake. - -On one of those visits I fell in with a crippled beggar who had been -down on the “poultice route” in southern Utah. He had formerly been a -very capable thief, but the loss of a leg under a train at once disabled -and reformed him, and he turned to begging, as many do when they can no -longer steal. I had a bottle of “Dr. Hall” and as we passed it back and -forth the beggar bewailed his misfortune in losing his leg and having to -“dingdong” his way about the country for a few “lousy dimes.” “There’s a -box,” he wailed, “in the county treasurer’s office in the courthouse at -the town of ——— that I could chop the back out of with an ax, if I was -able-bodied. The town whittler goes to bed when the general store closes -at nine o’clock at night. There ain’t five hundred people in the town -and they’re all in bed before ten o’clock. I went in to beg the county -treasurer and he gave me four bits. The ‘box’ was open and I saw a stack -of ‘soft stuff’ (paper money) that would make Rockefeller’s mouth -water.” - -He drank himself speechless and went to sleep mumbling his misfortune. - -I told George about it and we looked it up on the map and found it was -twenty miles off a railroad. “I don’t like the way it’s situated, Kid,” -said George, “but there’s three or four thousand dollars there now while -they’re collecting taxes, and we’d better look at it.” - -We got a small roll of blankets each, and bought tickets to a town forty -miles distant from the county seat. George went first, and I followed -the next day. At this base he hired a saddle horse, and departed to -look the spot over. He got back in a few days and reported that it was -even “softer” than the cripple had pictured it. - -“We’ll hike the forty miles into the town, Kid, by easy stages, beat off -the box, and get a couple of horses out of the livery stable. By -daylight we ought to be thirty miles away, where we will ditch the -horses and plant in the jungles till night. After that we will have to -hike nights till we get back to ‘The Lake.’” - -The following Sunday night we got into the town, but found there was a -social gathering in the church, next door to the courthouse. That -delayed us till twelve o’clock. At one o’clock we went into the stables -across the street, and saddled two gentle horses, leaving them in their -stalls. The town was dark, dead, and we went into the courthouse and to -a rear room where the safe stood. - -The master coolly removed his coat, throwing it on top of the safe. On -the coat he laid a big “cannon.” I opened the small parcel containing -the “dan” and “stems” (drills). From the blacksmith shop we had taken a -carpenter’s hand brace and a pinch bar. With this primitive outfit -George attacked the box in a most workmanlike manner. I went outside, -but there was nobody in sight, and the only sound was the pawing of a -horse in the stable across the street. At two o’clock George came out to -look around himself. He was ready to “shoot her.” The make of the box -required that the door be blown entirely out of place and the explosion -seemed tremendous in the dead, quiet night with nerves on edge. But the -town slumbered on. - -George waited outside, but there was no alarm, and he went back, -returning in five minutes with a small but heavy bag of gold pieces that -clinked sweetly when he dropped it into his coat pocket. - -“You carry this head of cabbage, Kid,” passing me a pack of greenbacks -about the size of a brick. - -Dawn was graying the east as we went into the stable and bridled the -horses. George went out first, pulling his reluctant horse by the bridle -rein pulled over his head. In the door his horse stopped, and George, -standing outside on the inclined platform, tugged with both hands while -I slapped the horse on his rump. Suddenly George dropped the bridle rein -and his hand went to the waistband of his trousers for a gun. - -A voice shouted, “Here, you damned horse thief,” and a shotgun belched -murderously, then again. George got both barrels. He was almost blown -off his feet. He toppled over sidewise and his body rolled slowly down -the incline to the ground. - -The man with the shotgun knew his bloody business. I plainly heard the -sinister click of the breech-lock as he snapped it shut after reloading. -Neither of the horses was gun-shy; they stood still. The gunshot echoes -died away. A whiff of powder smoke drifted above and across George’s -body. The silence was awful. I could feel the shooter outside standing -at “ready” with his murderous gun. I was trapped; my pistol was useless -against such odds. Somewhere in the stable a horse, heaving heavily to -his feet, shook the floor and roused me from my trance of fear and -shock. I remembered having seen a door in the side of the barn opposite -where the man with the gun was. I ran to it and out into a lot. Across -the street was the courthouse and the general store. There was a cellar -beneath the store. I had looked into it while George was working on the -“box.” Its old-fashioned inclined doors were open and it was piled full -of farm implements, empty boxes, crates, kegs of nails, etc. - -Half panicky, I dashed across the street and into the cellar, where I -hid amongst the junk at the end farthest from the door. In a half hour -the town was on fire with excitement. The store was opened and I heard -loud voices and the tramp of many feet above me. There was a clattering -of horses’ hoofs in the street, and I knew the hue and cry was on. I -burrowed deeper into boxes and bales, prepared for a long wait. - -When daylight came I saw a pair of stairs leading up to a trapdoor in -the store floor. There was much coming and going all day, and the steady -hum of voices. I strained my ears, but couldn’t make head or tail of the -talk. I put in a long, hard day, and when night came and the store was -closed I was famished for food and water. All day I had been debating in -my mind whether I should sneak out at dark and try to hike away, or hold -down the cellar for another twenty-four hours. I had just decided to go -out and chance it when I heard the cellar doors banged down from the -outside, then the click of a padlock. I was locked in. - -About midnight I went up the steps and found the trapdoor unfastened. -The store was dark, but I soon found the cheese and crackers and -carefully “weeded” out a good portion of each. There was a bucket of -water in the back of the store, and I filled an empty bottle from it, -after drinking all I could. - -Letting myself out of a window at the back, I closed it carefully after -me, and hiked out of the town. Before daylight I carefully planted my -“head of cabbage” in a field and crawled into a clump of bushes a -hundred yards away to sleep and rest up for the next night. - -Between hunting in fields, gardens, and orchards at night for food, and -walking as fast as I could, it took me four nights to get to the main -line of the railroad sixty miles away. Counting the money, I found there -was three thousand dollars of “green and greasy,” worn paper money, in -small bills. - -During my long hike I had plenty of time to decide what to do. I made up -my mind not to go near Salt Lake, where I was known. This money had been -the death of poor old George, and I felt that he would turn over in his -grave if I lost it and my liberty, too. I took out a hundred dollars -and buried the rest with the utmost care. - -At Provo, Utah, I got some fresh clothes and settled down to wait till -the business cooled off. From the papers I gathered that George was -killed by the livery-stable owner, who had got up early to go duck -shooting. Going to his stable to get a horse, he found the back door -open and waited to see what was going on. He thought he had a horse -thief, and only fired when George reached for his gun. Two thousand -dollars in gold was found in George’s coat pocket, and returned to the -county. The hunt was still on for the burglar with the big end of the -money. Nobody claimed the dead man’s body and he was buried unnamed and -unknown. - -After a miserable month’s wait, I dug up my money and bought a ticket to -Chicago by the way of Denver and Omaha, going a roundabout way for fear -of meeting my father and having to face his clear, cold eyes. If it had -been honest money I would have gone to him and offered him any part of -it, but I was afraid to face him with a lie. - -I got into Chicago safely and immediately put my fortune in a safety -box. Then I bought plenty of good clothes and got myself a nice room -near the corner of Clark and Madison Streets. That seemed to be the -center of the night life, and I instinctively anchored there. I put in -the winter investigating the cheap dives, hurdy-gurdies, and dance -halls. The tough Tenderloin district attracted me also. The beer bums -and barrel-house five-cent whisky bums came under my notice. Not very -different from the winos of San Francisco. I visited the five-cent -barber shops of lower Clark Street and the ten-cent “flops” and dime -ham-and-bean joints. Nothing escaped me. I nibbled at the faro games, -but was careful and never got hurt. Every night I looked into Hinky -Dink’s and Bathhouse John’s bars and heard the same old alarm, “here -comes the wagon.” But those two kings of the First Ward were “Johnnie on -the spot” and never allowed any of “their people” to languish in the -“can” overnight. - -I discovered the saloon of “Mush Mouth” Johnson, a negro politician of -power, and, fascinated, watched his patrons, each in turn trying to make -the bone dice roll his way. - -I stumbled upon the hop joint of “California Jack,” an old Chinaman from -Sacramento, who was waxing fat in his make-believe laundry in South -State Street. Thieves, pickpockets, and pimps and their girls smoked -unmolested day or night. Now and then a tired waiter or bartender threw -himself wearily on a bunk. - -I fell in with a wolfish-eyed girl of the streets, hungry and shivering -in a doorway, so shabby that men would not throw an appraising glance at -her. Like Julia she was almost “ready for the river.” I bought her food -and clothes and a room. I gave her no advice and sought no profit from -the transaction. With better clothes and food she plied her trade -confidently and prospered. I saw her often on the streets. One night -she paid me the money I had spent for her. - -Then came a midnight when she knocked at my door, pale, panting with -fear. “You must help me,” she implored. “I have no friend but you. A man -is dead in my room. If he is found there the police—you know—they’ll say -it’s murder.” - -On the street we got a hack and in ten minutes were at her place. A -shabby parlor fronted on the street; in back of it was a bedroom. On the -bed, fully dressed, lying crosswise with feet on the floor, was the body -of a man. Well dressed, about fifty, he might have been a clerk. I went -out the back door and to the alley. There was no one in sight. When I -came back she was shivering in a chair. I put the dead man’s hat in my -pocket and asked her to help me lift him to my shoulder. She refused to -touch “the thing.” With an effort I got it to my shoulder, the head and -arms hanging down my back. Clasping my arms around its legs, I staggered -out the back way toward the alley. - -Stumbling up the dark alley over tins, wires, broken boxes, and other -rubbish, I carried my dangerous burden almost to the cross street and -threw it down, leaving the hat beside it. Annie Ireland, or “Irish -Annie” as she was called by the street girls, was still huddled in the -chair in a corner of the room farthest from the bed when I returned. - -“Where did you leave it?” she whispered. - -“Up the alley,” I told her shortly. I had no stomach for this business, -and wanted to be away and done with her. I felt sure she had dealt the -man a jolt of chloral or some other stupefying drug. - -“Look here, Annie,” I warned her, “if you’ve got any of that guy’s junk -around here you’d better ditch it. They will find him in the morning, -and every crib in the block might be searched.” - -“No, no,” she protested. “I didn’t touch him. I picked him up on the -street. When we came in here he stretched out across the bed and went to -sleep. I took my hat and coat off and tried to wake him, but couldn’t. -After a while his hands turned cold and I saw he was dead. Then I went -for you.” - -I went out, and she followed me. “Where are you going now?” I asked. - -“Oh, I don’t know—outside, anywhere. I can’t stay in there. I’ll go down -the line and get drunk, I guess.” - -I left her at the corner, resolved to see no more of her. But that -wasn’t to be, for there came a day, years after, when she held up her -hand in a court and perjured me into prison. The next day I moved to -another part of the city and kept away from the blocks she walked at -night. I met her no more, and she soon fell into the background of my -memory. I watched the papers, but saw nothing except a few lines -reporting the finding of the body of an unidentified man in an alley. A -dead man in an alley didn’t mean much in Chicago then and his body -probably went to the potter’s field or a medical college. - - - - -CHAPTER XVI - - -Summer came and the memorable World’s Fair. I saw it all, but it put an -awful dent in my bankroll and winter was coming. I heard wonderful tales -of New York City and its opportunities, told by the hop smokers in -California Jack’s, and had almost made up my mind to go there for the -winter when I met an intelligent young chap who knew all about it. He -advised me to stay away from New York. - -“It’s the toughest town in the United States for an outsider to get by -in,” he said in answer to my questions. “I’ll tell you what you’re up -against. You go in there single-handed. If you get by the wise coppers -and the hungry fences, you’ve still got the gangs to beat. Almost all -the thieves belong to gangs—the Irish, the Jews, and the dagoes. They -fight each other, but they make common cause against an outsider, -especially if he’s from the West, and they’ll know you in a minute with -your soft hat and your Western talk. - -“The gangs are made up of natives and ‘home guards,’ and some of them -are not above snitching on you if you go in there and get too -prosperous. If you show up in any of the hangouts with money they will -beat you up and take it away from you like any sucker. Of course if you -got into a gang they would protect you. The gang protects you, and the -ward alderman protects the gang, see? But even then you’d never have -anything, for the money’s split too many ways. - -“Those hop fiends are raving when they tell you New York is a simple -spot to make a living in. Everything is simple and easy and rosy to -them when they get a few pills under their belts; but you take my advice -and stay away from it. I can get dollars in the West where I couldn’t -get dimes in New York, and I wouldn’t go back there on a bet. I’m for -Chicago and points west where you don’t have to wear a derby hat to get -by a policeman,” he finished in disgust. - -Turning this gloomy picture over in my mind for a few days, I decided to -let New York alone and go back West. My spare clothes were left with the -landlord, and after a soft, easy year I went back to the hardships of -the road almost gladly. I made long jumps under fast trains into St. -Paul and then on to the Dakota harvest fields. - -Thousands of harvest hands were leaving with their season’s earnings and -a horde of yeggs, thieves, gamblers and their women beset them on every -side. Some of the more wary and experienced laborers bought tickets and -got out of the danger zone unscathed; others dallied with the games of -chance and were shorn, or fell into the yeggs’ clutches and got “catted -up.” - -Harvest workers were called blanket stiffs or gay cats, and the process -of pistoling them away from their money was known as catting them up. -Train crews flourished by carrying the gay cats over their divisions in -the box cars at a dollar each. Bands of yeggs worked with the brakemen, -who let them into the cars, where they stuck up the cats, took their -money, and forced them to jump out the side doors between stations. By -the time they walked into a town and reported their losses, the train -was far ahead, the money split with the train crew, and the yeggs were -holding a convention in some safe jungle. - -After several seasons the cats began buying tickets out of the harvest -fields and the profitable industry of catting up went by the board. - -I traveled along slowly now, uncertain where to go or what to do. -Meeting many who had seen me and Foot-and-a-half George on the road, I -told them freely the story of his finish and my getaway. My prestige -grew and I came to be accepted everywhere as “Stetson,” which, in the -language of the road, means first class. - -Being young I naturally got puffed up and superior. I looked wise and -mysterious, said nothing, and “connected” only with the higher-ups among -the knights of the road. Stepping out on the street one morning at Great -Falls, Montana, an icy wind out of the north reminded me that winter had -come. I was almost broke, and fearing a Montana winter without money, I -made a dash for the coast. I traveled north through Lethbridge, at the -Canadian line, and into Calgary, Alberta; then west over the Canadian -Pacific toward Vancouver, where I hoped to spend the winter. The snow -had piled up in the Selkirk range, delaying trains for days and making -life on the road uncertain and very unpleasant. My money had dwindled -till buying a ticket was out of the question. Riding the rods of -passenger trains meant freezing, and I was forced to take the slow and -infrequent freights with their open box cars. At one of the larger towns -in British Columbia I stopped off to rest up, get a decent night’s -sleep, and thaw myself out. - -In the office of the hotel I went to stood a safe that attracted me. It -was of a make that George always favored, and we had beaten a half dozen -of them in the two years we were together. - -No explosives were needed. It could be got “on the quiet.” I put down my -last dollar for a week’s board and room, and began planning an assault -on the ancient “box.” - -I was alone, almost broke, and here was opportunity. Opportunity not -only to fortify myself with money, but to test myself and prove whether -my years with George and the Sanctimonious Kid had fitted me to make my -way alone at the profession I had drifted into. I went over the -situation carefully. A westbound passenger train passed through the town -at one o’clock A.M. The hotel closed at midnight. An hour was time -enough for the mechanical work on the box. The time-tables showed that I -could be on the “American side” in twelve hours if I got out on the -night train. Here was a feasible getaway. - -The next thing was to make sure that no one entered the hotel office -between the hours of twelve and one. Several nights’ watching satisfied -me that I would not be interrupted in that way. The week was almost -gone, so was my money, and I saw that more would be needed for my board -and lodging before the arrival of my first big night alone. This forced -me into a small room burglary that was almost fatal. - -Prowling through the one other hotel in the town I found a room door -unlocked and stepped inside. There were two beds in the room, both -occupied. On a chair by the bed nearest the door was the sleeper’s -trousers, from which I got a purse. Pocketing it, I moved to a chair by -the second bed, where I could distinguish something dark that appeared -to be a bunch of clothes. - -Right there I learned that a fair-sized, healthy dog sleeps sound as a -human being. Instead of putting my hand on a pair of pants, it touched -something furry that came to life with a start and a growl, and fastened -a pair of strong jaws on my forearm. Both sleepers stirred. Before I got -to the door, dragging the snarling, clawing brute that wouldn’t let go -his grip, the man whose purse I had sat up in bed. I was without a gun, -but threatened to blow his head off just the same. Being a sensible man, -he remained quiet. - -I had put out the only light in the hall. Still burdened with the -tenacious, growling dog, I was forced to feel my way with my feet toward -the back stairway. I couldn’t stop in the hall to choke him loose; my -only hope was to drag him downstairs and deal with him outside the -place. - -At the top of the stairs his struggles and weight overbalanced me, and -we rolled and bumped down the long, dark stairway to the landing below. -On our way down he weakened, let go his grip on my arm, scrambled to his -feet, and tore out into the alley, howling piteously. I gathered myself -up and ran in the opposite direction. In my room, I took stock and found -he hadn’t injured me, and that I had enough money to carry me for -another week. - -I now moved into a small lodging house and paid for my room each night. -As a transient roomer I could leave at any time without causing comment. - -Curious to learn something about the dog I was tangled up with, I went -into the office and barroom of the hotel, looking for him. One evening -while I was getting a drink I heard a low, threatening growl across the -room, and a look in the big mirror back of the bar showed me a good, -big, husky shepherd dog standing under a card table. The hair on his -neck and back bristled as he eyed me suspiciously. I thought he was -going to attack me, and turned around to face him. When I did this, he -backed still farther beneath the table, but never took his eyes off -me. The room was crowded with loungers and card players, but none of -them appeared to notice his actions. I went out of the place and -stayed out. - -At last the night came that I had decided was to be my last in the town. -I had done everything possible in the way of precaution and protection. -The stormy night favored me and the box gave up its contents after a few -sturdy blows from a short-handled sledgehammer. The train arrived on -time, and when it pulled out I got aboard without a ticket. That was -part of my plan. I didn’t want to be seen at the ticket office, where I -knew inquiries would be made the next day. - -The safe contained nothing of value to me but a roll of paper money. I -had no chance to count or examine it while waiting for the train, but -before the conductor got to me I fished out a worn twenty-dollar bill -from which I paid my fare, about fifteen dollars, to Vancouver. I had no -intention of going into that city now, but paid my fare there to mislead -any one making inquiries from the trainmen. I planned to leave the train -at a junction and take another across the border. Well satisfied with -myself, I was reviewing the night’s work when the train slowed down -between stations, about twenty miles from where I got aboard. - -After a long wait, the conductor appeared with the information that the -train was blocked by an avalanche of snow and rock. “Make yourselves -comfortable,” he said, “we won’t get out of here before noon to-morrow.” - -My carefully laid plans crumbled. I wished myself back in the town. I -thought of the bill I had given the conductor. I could see the -constables with their heads together in the morning “deducing” and -“inferring” with the result that they would deduce and infer that their -burglar had left on the night train. I could see them arriving at our -stalled train some time in the forenoon and buttonholing the conductor. -I could see him pointing his finger at me. - -It was suicide to leave the train. Not a hut or habitation within miles -and a terrific storm raging. I went over every possibility and finished -with a helpless, half-trapped feeling. I went into another coach, and, -finding an empty seat, cut a slit in the cushion and planted the roll of -money, keeping only the change from the twenty-dollar bill. There was -nothing else I could do to protect myself. I tried to sleep in a seat, -but couldn’t, so I sat around, apprehensive and nervous, till morning. -The storm abated at daylight and an hour later a work train pulled in -behind us, prepared to dig us out. I got ready for a shock. - -Sure enough, in a few minutes, two constables from the town I had left -came slowly down the aisle behind the conductor. When he came to my -seat, he stopped and nodded his head toward me. One officer stood by me, -but said nothing. The other said something aside to the conductor, who -took a roll of bills from his pocket, peeled off the top one and handed -it to him. He turned the bill over, looked at it carefully, and then at -a piece of paper he had in his hand. After more talk with the conductor -that I couldn’t hear, he turned and faced me with a gun in his hand. - -“Put the irons on him, Mr. Stevens,” he said to the officer beside me. -“He is our man.” - -I protested against being handcuffed, pushed “Mr. Stevens” away, and -demanded an explanation. - -“You’re arrested in the queen’s name,” said the officer in charge, “and -anything you say will be used against you. You had better submit -quietly. If you want force you can have it.” He waved his big, -serviceable-looking gun in my direction. - -I submitted. They took me forward to a baggage car, removed my shoes and -nearly all my clothes, and went through them slowly and thoroughly, but -found nothing incriminating. When the train was dug clear it pulled out, -carrying my roll of bills with it in the seat cushion, and I -congratulated myself on getting rid of it. I was taken back to the town -I left so suspiciously the night before, and thrown into the jail -wondering what they had on me. They hadn’t asked me any questions; that -looked bad. They seemed too well satisfied with the thing. - -All my speculations were put to rest the next morning when I was brought -before the magistrate. - -When I hear the word “technicality” I think of American jurisprudence. -If there is any such term used in British courts I never heard it. The -procedure in this magistrate’s court was simple, alarmingly simple. The -hotel man proved the burglary. The next witness, an old prospector who -was wintering at the hotel, testified that he had changed a -twenty-dollar bill at the hotel bar the evening before the burglary; -that it was the only bill of that denomination he had; that he had -carried it with him for six months and had looked at it so many times he -remembered the big serial numbers on the back of it. He swore further -that he went to the hotel man the next morning and gave him the numbers. -The arresting officers now told of following the train, getting the -conductor’s statement, and arresting me. They produced the fatal -twenty-dollar bill, the only one in the roll that could have hurt me, -the prospector’s bill. They testified that they got it from the -conductor, who told them I had paid my fare out of it. - -The prospector now identified his bill. On top of this it was shown that -I had suddenly and suspiciously left the town, avoiding the ticket -office and paying cash fare with the deadly twenty. - -I hadn’t a leg to stand on in the way of defense, but managed to get up -and object to hearsay evidence and ask to have the conductor brought -into court. The magistrate and Crown prosecutor laughed. “He’ll appear -when you go on trial at the next term of court,” said the “cutor.” “Any -defense?” asked the magistrate. - -I saw they had me right. “No, your worship, I’ll save my defense till I -get into a court where I will not be laughed at.” He laughed again and -made the order to hold me. This court proceeding didn’t take an hour. I -went back to the jail wishing the thing had happened in the good old -U.S.A., where, with a smart lawyer, I would have got a continuance and -sent somebody to the conductor who might listen to reason and not be so -cocksure about getting the bill from me. - -At the provincial jail I found a drunken Scotchman in charge. He was -assisted by two half-breed Indian boys serving six months each. One of -them cooked for the jailer and any prisoners that came in; the other -scrubbed the jail. Both of them watched me faithfully and fed me -regularly when the jailer was drunk. I was locked in a cell and never -got out except for a bath once a week. The Indian boys slept on the -floor in front of my cell by a big stove that was always hot and kept -the jail warm. - -There was not a fixture in the cell but a bucket. I had plenty of -blankets and slept on the floor. My clothes were taken and I was dressed -in a pair of white duck pants and a hickory shirt. They left me my shoes -and hat. I was never so bare and helpless before or since. Not a smoke, -nor a paper, book, nor magazine was allowed in the jail. When I asked -the Scotchman for something to read, he got me a Bible, which I read and -re-read with much interest but no profit. I was pestered daily for weeks -by the Crown prosecutor to return the balance of the money taken from -the hotel safe, eight hundred dollars. He offered me a short jail -sentence if I would give it up, but I mistrusted him and decided to let -some car cleaner find it rather than admit anything and get myself in -deeper. - -I gave my case a good thinking over and concluded there was no way out. -Judge Powers, J. Hamilton Lewis, and Tom Patterson of Colorado, all -rolled into one, couldn’t have acquitted me. All day, every day, I read -my Bible and prayed that the conductor might fall under his train before -the day of my trial. - -A priest visited the jail one day and gave me a pamphlet on which he had -printed the Chinook language. In answer to my question he told me it -contained about three hundred words—nouns, verbs, and adjectives. It was -created by the Hudson Bay traders, years before, and taught to all the -Northwest Indians to simplify trading with the different tribes. - -I soon mastered Chinook, practicing on the two “breed” boys and any -Indians that happened into the jail. I had given up hope of escape. I -was bare-handed. Even the tin spoon I ate my stew with was taken away -when the meal was finished. The jailer disliked me from the first. He -would come into the jail corridor roaring drunk at night, rout out the -two “breeds,” and have them unlock my cell and search “the damned Yank,” -while he stood away brandishing a big gun. They never found anything; -there was nothing there. - -One day he came in with a scared-looking China boy about twenty years -old. “Yank, here’s a cellmate for you.” He locked the Chinese in, -thinking he was punishing me. The China boy later proved the jailer’s -undoing and my deliverance. He knew some Chinook, but not one word of -English. I learned from the Indian trusty that he was held for trial, -charged with stealing a considerable sum of money from his employer, and -that his case was about as hopeless as mine. - -We got along great. I taught him the alphabet and many words of English -while he instructed me in Chinese. I even humbled myself to ask the -jailer for pencil and paper to teach the Chink writing. He went down -to his office at once and brought me a lead pencil and pad of paper. I -was surprised, and so grateful I thanked him half a dozen times. - -Inside of a week he got drunk and ordered his Indians to take them away -from me. I asked him no more for anything, and to this day I believe he -gave them to me anticipating the warm, grateful, pleasant thrill he -would get from depriving me of them. - -The China boy’s company got him a lawyer. When he came to the jail he -called me out and offered to take my case. I could have got money by -writing to Salt Chunk Mary, but it looked like waste to fight it. When -I asked him straight out if he could do anything with the conductor, he -was shocked, indignant. “Oh, ah, but, my man! Tamper with the Crown’s -witness, what?” He left as if I had the plague, and I don’t doubt he -reported me to the prosecutor. - -I’ve had a lot of dealings with Chinamen and never got the worst of it -from one. If a Chinese doesn’t like you he will keep away from you; if -he does like you he will go the route. By signs and a few words I -conveyed to my cellmate that our only hope was to beat the jail. There -was a barred window in our cell, the outside was not guarded. All we -needed was a hack saw. He was for it. His “cousins” visited him -regularly every week and if they could be made to understand what we -needed they would get it. - -There was but one hardware store in the town and to buy the saws there -might cause talk. I had him tell his “cousins” to send to Vancouver to -their company for them. After weeks of anxiety and uncertainty and much -negotiating with their friends at Vancouver the precious saws were put -into my cellmate’s hands under the drunken jailer’s nose. My plan was -simple. Wait till spring when, if we got out and failed to get a train -we could take a chance on foot in the country away from the railroad. -Night after night we listened to the trains arriving and departing, -checking the time. A freight train departed immediately after the one -o’clock passenger. If I could “spring” into a box car, we could make -Vancouver in safety. I secreted the saws and we settled down to wait for -softer weather. - - - - -CHAPTER XVII - - -When spring came, my Chinese “tillicum,” which is Chinook for friend, -and I were the only felony prisoners in the “skookum house,” or jail. -The two half-breeds had finished their time and a couple of others had -been brought in to take their places, four prisoners in all. The Indians -watched us and we watched them. The tough end of our job was not to beat -the jail or the drunken jailer, but the watchful trusties, our fellow -prisoners. - -I decided to cut the bars in the daytime and have my cellmate keep a -lookout at the door against the appearance of our jailer or the Indians. -The saws were dug up out of a crack and day after day, slowly, -noiselessly, they bit into the thick bars. At night I put them away -safely in their hiding place, and we slept as usual. Our jailer drank -more and more, and we were searched oftener, but never once did he or -his Indians look at the bars in our window. We were so closely watched -and the jail was so tight the thought of our getting anything to “crush -out” with never entered his foggy mind. - -Strangely enough the China boy’s “cousins” never appeared at the jail -after the day they brought him the saws. Whether they were afraid or -thought they had done enough for him I never knew. To all my queries -about them he “no sabied.” At the start I had figured on help in the way -of money and food from them. Now I had to dismiss this. I determined not -to go near the Chinese if we got out, but to get into a train and stay -in it till hunger forced me out. - -After weary weeks the work was done; the bars cut so nearly through I -was afraid they would fall out every time the cell door was slammed -shut. I hid the worn saws, and waited patiently till our jailer got -drunk and gave us our searching. On those nights he never made a second -appearance. Satisfied, he always went direct to bed and we could hear -his alcoholic snores in another part of the building. The Indian -trusties went to sleep and I rolled our blankets into dummies that -looked passable. At twelve o’clock the freight train pulled in and went -on a side track to get a fresh engine and allow the passenger train to -go by at one o’clock. I broke the bars out and hid them under the -blankets. The China boy’s knees were shaking as he crawled out and -dropped to the ground. I followed him, not any too calm and cool myself. -He had no hat, otherwise he was dressed as I was—duck pants and a thin -shirt. - -There was no time to try to steal clothing, food, or money. As we -hurried toward the freight yards where the train stood I had but one -comforting thought—we wouldn’t be missed till seven in the morning. - -The Chinaman was helpless. At the side track I ran frantically about in -search of something to spring a car door with. At last I found a pile of -scrap iron and dug a fishplate out of it. The train was an all-through -freight, billed to Vancouver, the terminus. I soon discovered a -battered box car that suited, and sprang a side door away from its -bearings. Then I showed the Chinaman the end door and tried to explain -to him, mostly by signs, that he should get in the side door while I -pulled it out, and then unfasten the end door from the inside to admit -me after I put the side door back in place. He refused to budge. At last -I made him pull the door out while I got into the car. When I got the -end door open I had to get out, go down, and get him and put him in. -Then I sprang the side door back in position, went to the end door, -crawled in, and fastened it on the inside the way I found it. - -We didn’t have a pocketknife, not a dime, not a match; but we were safe, -and I wouldn’t have exchanged the security of that box car for a soft -berth in the sleeper on the departing passenger train. We were barely -settled inside when there was a bumping and jolting of cars and our -train slowly got under way. We were in a car loaded with barrels of -lime. They stood on end and it was painful to stretch out on them. The -ride was a nightmare. Hungry, thirsty, cold, racked with fear and -suspense, we got into Vancouver after twenty-four hours. - -Clothes were the first problem, any kind of rags to cover our jail -uniforms. I got out of the car with the half-dead China boy at once, and -went directly back to the caboose on the train we rode. The conductor -and brakeman were already gone. The caboose was deserted. The boy hid -between box cars while I went to the top of the caboose, through the -cupola, and down inside. In a locker were greasy coats and pants, and a -cap for the Chink. The clothes were too big for him and the cap too -small. He knew Vancouver and wanted to take me to his “cousins” in -Chinatown, but I was afraid we couldn’t get by a copper together, so he -struck out alone after making me promise to hunt him up at his company’s -headquarters. I crawled into an empty car to wait for daylight, when it -would be safer to go through the streets. - -It was Sunday morning. I heard a church bell ring and knew it was -somewhere around six o’clock. When I looked out of the car I saw that a -heavy fog had settled over the city like a blessed benediction. I melted -into it, making my way out of the freight yards and into the streets. -The fog was so dense that I couldn’t have found my way if I had known -the town. After walking blocks along a street I saw that the stores -were getting smaller and farther apart. Vacant lots became more numerous -and everything indicated that I was going in the wrong direction. A few -doors ahead of me an old, rheumatic, mongrel dog appeared out of a -hallway. He was the only living thing in sight, and when I got abreast -of him I stopped and looked at him idly. He came over to me, gave me a -rather doubtful look, and sat back on his haunches. After balancing -himself carefully, he lifted a stiff hind leg and made a futile effort -to dislodge the hungry fleas from under his collar. Failing at this, he -got up slowly, gave me another looking-over, and limped back to his -doorway. As he went in he glanced at me out of the tail of his eye. - -It sounds strange to say that I was suspicious of a mangy, old cur dog; -but it’s true. There was something so human in his glance that I -followed him into the doorway to see what he was up to. - -In the entrance behind the door, with his head on the lower step, a man -was sprawled. A second look convinced me that he was a Saturday night -drunk who had got that far and no farther. He was lying on his back, -open-mouthed, and breathing heavily. The old dog stood beside him -watching me. - -I could see he was a workingman and ordinarily wouldn’t have given him a -look, but I was now broke, hungry, wolfish. The dog growled a feeble -protest as I began exploring his master’s clothes. He had money in every -pocket. I left some silver in his vest for him to get a drink with when -he woke up. The devoted old mongrel stood in the door as if to bar me -from going out, and eyed me reproachfully when I gently pushed him -aside. - -Out in the street I cleansed my conscience by repeating the -Sanctimonious Kid’s favorite parody: “Oh, room rent, what crimes are -committed in thy name!” - -Turning the nearest corner, a glance over my shoulder showed me the -loyal dog out on the sidewalk, still accusing me with his tired old -eyes. The town was awake now and I soon found a sailor’s boarding house -where I got a couple of bracing drinks and sat at a long table where -sailors and stevedores were breakfasting in free-for-all, family style. -I didn’t join in the conversation, didn’t have to. The quantity of food -I put away convinced them I belonged on the water front. Paying for a -room in the place, I got into it and took stock. There was enough money -to get an outfit of clothes and feed me for a couple of weeks. I made a -bundle of the jail pants and threw it off a wharf at once. The next day -I bought new clothes, shoes, and hat, got cleaned up, and, dismissing -the burglary charge and broken jail from my mind, proceeded to look -about me. - -I had not been photographed or measured in the small town I escaped -from; it didn’t look reasonable that the authorities would travel five -hundred miles on the chance of finding me in Vancouver, so I decided to -stay there till I could get hold of something worth while. Moreover I -was curious to know how my Chinese cellmate had fared, and being young -and somewhat fond of myself, perhaps I wanted to meet his “cousins” and -be admired by them. - -After looking over the town, my experience told me the police were not -to be feared and I went into Chinatown in search of my friend. Finding -the company store he described, I went in and bought a small package of -ginger candy. About a dozen Chinese were sitting around, talking or -playing dominos, but the minute I appeared the dominos quit rattling and -the Chinese stopped talking. I looked as mysterious as I could without -making it too strong and surveyed them one by one. Not one uttered a -syllable till I went out; then they all fell to talking and -gesticulating at once. The following night I went back and bought more -candy. A smart-looking, middle-aged Chinaman in European clothes was -behind the counter. - -“What you come here for?” he asked in very good English. - -“I look for Chew Chee, China boy, my friend. We come Vancouver Sunday -morning in box car. Before—we stop skookum house. Skookum house not -very ‘skookum’ we come Vancouver—very cold, very hungry. Chew Chee tell -me come this house. All right—I come. Now I go. Good-by!” - -He remained silent, his face expressionless to me. I knew the Chinese -mistrust of white men, and many of their good reasons for it, and was -not offended or discouraged. He was protecting his countryman; I admired -him for it. At the door I gave him a final dig. “My friend tell me come -your house; I come. You think me ‘luc zhe.’ You very smart man. You -think me policeman. All right. Good-by!” - -This was too much for the stoical Chinaman. He followed me out and, -catching up, said in a low voice: “You no ‘luc zhe’; you good man. You -come ‘fi fi’ (quickly).” - -I followed him into the next block, then down a narrow, dark lane -between buildings and up shaky stairs where he knocked on a door. An old -man admitted us and barred the door. The place was a big loft. The foggy -air was hot, stifling, and laden with every Chinese smell—opium, -tobacco, fish, and damp clothes drying. Chinamen were cooking, eating, -smoking hop, gambling, or sleeping in curtained bunks that lined the -walls. My conductor was evidently a considerable person. Silence fell on -the room, and many Chinamen stood still in submissive attitudes. - -He threw a mangy old cat out of a broken chair near the big stove in the -middle of the room and told me to sit. After a few jerky gutturals to -the old man that let us in, he disappeared in the haze of smoke. The -gambling and chatter started again. Some of the younger Chinese passed -and looked at me curiously. - -I sat by the stove and watched the scene with interest. An old -Chinaman—he must have been sixty—shuffled by me hastily with a hop -layout and spread it in a near-by bunk. He was shaking with the “yen -yen,” the hop habit. His withered, clawlike hands trembled as he -feverishly rolled the first “pill,” a large one. His burning eyes -devoured it. Half cooked, he stuck the pill in its place and turning his -pipe to the lamp greedily sucked the smoke into his lungs. Now, with a -long, grateful exhalation, the smoke is discharged, the cramped limbs -relax and straighten out, the smoker heaves a sigh of satisfaction, and -the hands, no longer shaking, turn with surer touch to another “pill.” -This is smaller, rolled and shaped with more care, better cooked, and -inhaled with a slow “long draw.” Each succeeding pill is smaller, more -carefully browned over the lamp, and smoked with increased pleasure. At -last the little horn container, the “hop toy,” is empty. The last pill -is finished with perfect stroke and flourish, the bamboo pipe is put -aside with caressing touch, the lamp blown out with gentle breath, and -the devotee, sighing softly, curls himself up for pleasant dreams. - -I was so intent on watching the old man’s magic transformation from a -shattered wreck into a sleeping cherub that the boss Chinaman’s return -escaped me. He touched my shoulder and I followed him into a small room -in a rear corner of the loft, where I found Chew Chee. He shook my hand -awkwardly. His English was almost forgotten. All he could say was, “You -good man, you good man.” - -The boss Chinaman was full of business. He drew out some American gold -pieces. “I pay you. Chew Chee pay me some time.” - -I explained to him that I had not come for money; that I was there to -see Chew Chee and make friends of his friends, and that if I ever needed -money or help I would ask for it and expect it. - -“Well, then,” he said, returning the gold to his pocket, “I give you -China letter to my company man. You come my store to-morrow night.” - -He went away and Chew Chee insisted that I go with him and meet his -“cousins.” We walked across the city to a laundry where I was royally -received. Chew Chee was the only Chinese that had a word of English, -but the party was a success anyway. They produced their finest liquor, -their lichee nuts, their daintiest cakes, and choicest tea. The hop -layout was spread, and Chew Chee rolled and toasted me a pill that I -smoked just by way of being a sociable, good fellow. The pill made me -drowsy. A bunk was prepared and I slept out the night peacefully and -safely in the midst of my friends. I bade Chew Chee good-by in the -morning, and never saw him again. - -That night, having nothing else to do, I went down to the China store. -The boss had my letter ready. I thanked him for it, and putting it in -my pocket gave it no further thought. And yet that letter snatched me -clear of the law’s clutches on a night when I was caught in a burglary, -overpowered, hog-tied, and waiting for “the wagon.” - -I marvel to this day I did not quit my stealing right then and there. I -had all the best of it. I had escaped a sure conviction and sentence. I -could have returned to the “American side” and the Canadian authorities -would have given me good riddance. Yet the thought of turning to the -right, squaring myself, and starting anew never entered my mind. -Probably youthful egotism, which is nothing but confidence born of -ignorance, whispered to me that I could beat a game I knew to be wrong -and full of dangers. So without stopping to cast up accounts or take -stock, I blithely looked about me for fresh endeavors. My money was fast -dwindling, more must be had; and nightly I prowled the town with the -single purpose of locating anything I could do by myself. - -It’s difficult to explain to a layman the pride of a professional thief. -Nevertheless he must have pride or he would steal his clothes, beat his -board bills, and borrow money with no thought of repaying it. He doesn’t -do those things day after day, but day after day he takes chances and is -proud that he can keep his end up and pay for the things he needs. All -wrong, of course, but there it is. If I had had brains enough to -grease a griddle, I would have taken a hundred dollars from the boss -Chinaman in the matter of Chew Chee and gone off somewhere, got a job, -and tried to do the right thing by myself and others. But no, I was a -journeyman; I had served a long and careful apprenticeship; -professional pride—I don’t know what else to call it—would not permit -me to take the Chinaman’s money for rescuing him from our common -enemy, the law, and I went out to get money in my own way. - -I was wrong. I knew I was wrong, and yet I persisted. If that is -possible of any explanation it is this: From the day I left my father my -lines had been cast, or I cast them myself, among crooked people. I had -not spent one hour in the company of an honest person. I had lived in an -atmosphere of larceny, theft, crime. I thought in terms of theft. Houses -were built to be burglarized, citizens were to be robbed, police to be -avoided and hated, stool pigeons to be chastised, and thieves to be -cultivated and protected. That was my code; the code of my companions. -That was the atmosphere I breathed. “If you live with wolves, you will -learn to howl.” - -In my rambles about Vancouver, I met an acquaintance from Salt Lake. He -and his wife were exiled from the Mormon city and could not return in -safety till they got a “bunch of trouble fixed up.” He fell on my neck, -saying: “Just the party I’m looking for. I’ve got something soft for -you; you can’t go wrong.” He invited me to his quarters, a cottage they -had rented. They were both “smokers,” and over the hop he explained the -“soft” thing. - -His wife, in buying a can of hop, had tendered the Chinese storekeeper a -large bill. When he went into a rear room for the change, she saw that -he had his money in a box concealed beneath the floor. He made a -purchase later and verified her story. - -“That’s all there is to it,” he said. “All you’ve got to do is go get -it.” - -I investigated and found that his story wasn’t altogether the rosy dream -of a hop fiend. The storekeeper, an elderly Chinaman, did keep his money -in a box under the floor, but he slept on top of it at night and in a -room adjoining about a dozen Chinese laundry hands slept in bunks. It -didn’t look a bit soft to me. I convinced myself that the money was -there, and that I could get into the place, but that was all I could be -reasonably sure of. - -My friend’s wife was a resourceful woman. “Chloroform him, that’s easy. -I’ll get you the chloroform,” she cried. - -I hesitated about that. I was practical, I knew nothing about -chloroforming people. Sanc had never once mentioned chloroform and what -he knew about burglary was plenty. In searching my mind for something to -guide me I recalled having met a talkative chap in Chicago at California -Jack’s hop joint, who told me in great detail about his “ether outfit,” -how he injected the fluid through keyholes, putting his victims out -before going into their rooms, how he chloroformed women sleepers by -holding a saturated handkerchief to their noses, and how he stripped -their fingers of rings while they were stupefied. I remembered his talk -didn’t ring just right and that he borrowed two dollars from me at the -finish and never paid them. I had long since dismissed him from my mind -as a magazine burglar, a reader and rehasher of crime stories, -embellished and embroidered by daily devotion to the bamboo pipe. - -Still his talk kept in my mind. There might be something in it. The old -Chinaman had money there; I needed it. I was ambitious to learn. -Chloroform seemed to be the only way and I decided to try it. I gave -the place a final looking-over. It was a one-story shack between two -larger buildings. A storeroom in front with its long counter, and -shelves on both sides filled with merchandise, a small room directly -back of it where the storekeeper slept on his pallet. I made sure of -that by rousing him early one morning to make a purchase. The big rear -room accommodated the Chinese laundry hands. - -My friend’s wife delivered the chloroform and a clean handkerchief. I -rehearsed the whole business in my mind, and, feeling reasonably safe, -put it to the touch. An open window let me into the bunk room, where I -unfastened the back door, for a getaway. - -On a long table in the center of the room a metal lamp in a dish burned -dimly. The tired laundrymen snored or breathed heavily. Here a muscular -brown arm hung limply over the side of a bunk below the curtain, and -there a foot protruded. The door to the old man’s room was open, and I -stood there a long time till I could pick out his gentle, regular -breathing from the chorus of wheezes, grunts, and snores in the bunk -room. I had hoped to find him lying on his back. I don’t know just why, -but that was the way I had him in my rehearsals. Sure enough he was in -that position, sleeping like a baby. - -Holding the handkerchief at arm’s length, I saturated it liberally with -the chloroform and returned the bottle to my pocket. Then I knelt beside -him and held the handkerchief above his nostrils. With the first breath -of it he stirred uneasily, and slowly turned over, facing the wall. Here -was something I hadn’t anticipated. I was sure he hadn’t enough; he -breathed regularly again. I must give him more. Reaching over him, I -held the stuff near his nose as before. One whiff, and he floundered -away from it, turning over, facing me, but still asleep. - -I grew alarmed. This tossing from side to side would soon wake him. I -thought of giving it up and going away quietly. My heart was pounding -with the suspense. It seemed to grow and expand till it filled my chest -and almost stopped my breath. I must go through with it. Carefully this -time, I held the handkerchief near his face with both hands. His body -twitched nervously now. His breathing was labored. I was sure of him, -and held it closer. - -With a scream that woke every Chinaman in the bunk room, he sat bolt -upright, and throwing his arms out fastened his clawlike fingers in my -clothes. - -Believing he was about to be murdered, the old man fought and screamed -in a frenzy of fear. I saw red-handed capture in front of me, and tried -desperately to throttle him. The noise of our struggle had roused the -sleepers in the back room and I could hear their startled cries as they -dropped out of their bunks. I had no thought of the money now; it was a -question of getting away. Just when the old man was exhausted and I was -in a fair way to get out of his clutches, some of the more daring -Chinamen from the back room rushed in. I got a blow on the head that -knocked me half out, and they fell on me like a pack of wolves, -smothering me with kicks, cuffs, digs, and scratches. The whole thing -was over quicker than I can write it. I was stretched out on my back on -the floor with two Chinamen holding each of my arms down, two sitting on -each leg, and another with both hands in my hair. They all chattered at -once. Then one came with a lamp, and I was inspected curiously, like -some strange, fearsome monster that had been trapped. - -The old man, now recovered from the battle, gave a sharp order. A short, -muscular, knotty-legged China boy went to the back room and returned -with a rope. I was carefully raised to a sitting position and my arms -held to my sides while the boy threw a couple of half hitches around my -body, pinioning me safely. The rope was then run to my ankles, where he -deftly tied some more strange and wonderful Chinese knots, and I was -secured; scratched, bruised, bleeding, and asking myself if they were -going to send for the police or execute me on the spot. - -Another order from the boss and they lifted me bodily and sat me on a -box in the corner of the little room. They stood by, eyeing me in -silence now. The old man sat on his pallet. There was an odor of -chloroform in the room, but he did not appear to be any the worse for -what he had inhaled. Our struggle had probably worn it off. He picked -the handkerchief from the floor where it had fallen and sniffed it. - -Holding it out toward me, he asked in fair English: “What for, him?” - -Something told me I had a chance yet. I decided to tell the old man the -truth. “Him medicine,” I answered. - -“What for medicine?” - -“Make you sleep.” - -“What for sleep?” - -“I think maybe take your money.” - -“How you know me money?” - -“I come your store; I look see.” - -He got up, rolled his blankets away, and, raising up the small trapdoor -in the floor, opened his box and made sure that it had not been -disturbed. They all began talking again. I heard the fatal words “luc -zhe,” “luc zhe,” which means policeman. - -In desperation I cried, “No, no, no luc zhe. Him no good. I got plenty -good China friends. Me good friend Chew Chee, China boy. Before—Chew -Chee stop ‘skookum house’ I bring him Vancouver. Me good man.” I -remembered my Chinese letter and cried out desperately: “You look my -pocket; you see China letter; him good letter. You look my pocket.” - -The name of Chew Chee was like magic on them. They became silent and -listened closely to my talk. I was tied up so that I couldn’t reach the -vest pocket the letter was in, but I managed to touch it with a finger. -“You look my pocket,” I cried frantically to the old man. - -He came over to where I sat on the box and gingerly put his fingers into -the pocket, bringing out the letter. By the lamplight he studied it -long and carefully. Others then read it, and the powwowing started -again, while I sat listening for the fatal “luc zhe,” and picturing -myself back in the jail I had so lately escaped from. The boss now got a -box and sat opposite me with the letter in his hand and a thoughtful, -puzzled look on his leathery, wrinkled old face. The other Chinamen -stood behind him, silent again. I saw I was going to be tried or -examined, and hoping for an out, I began to figure some kind of a -defense. - -His accusing words bit into me like an acid. They were laden with scorn. -I turned hot with shame and confusion. Tapping the letter with a long, -bony finger, he said: “Him letter talk you good man. What for, you good -man?” - -These were short, plain words and called for a plain answer. No use -trying to deceive this old man after trying to rob him. No use putting -up a crying talk for mercy. I could see he scorned me as a robber, a -thief in the night, and made up my mind not to bring more contempt upon -myself by pleading weakly and in fear. I answered him as I imagined he -would have answered me if by any chance our positions had been reversed. - -“Maybe me good man,” I said. “Maybe bad man, I no know. Long time -policeman make me plenty trouble. Long time I stop jail house. Then I -come Vancouver. No more money, no more eat. I look see your money, I -come your house steal your money. No can do; you catch me. You send me -jail house, long time me no come home. More better you kill me now. -Policeman talk me bad man; plenty Chinaman talk me good man. Maybe good -man, maybe bad man; I no know.” - -I spoke firmly, looking him in the eyes frankly, and finished my -argument for the defense with as much force and feeling as any barrister -ever put into a plea for a client’s life. His face was blank as a board. -His little brownish-black eyes were fastened on mine, but I saw no hope -in them. I couldn’t even tell whether he had understood what I said. -After studying me for a long time he turned and said something to one of -his boys. The boy went into the bunk room and came back with a heavy -meat cleaver that the Chinese use to chop pork and fowl. Another order -and I was lifted, box and all, out of the corner and placed in the -middle of the room. The China boy with the cleaver stepped behind me. - -Something in the pit of my stomach seemed to collapse. I tried to say -something to the old boss, but the words wouldn’t come; they just -rattled around in my throat. The old man bored into me with his eyes -like a blacksnake “charming” a bird. Suddenly he uttered a short, sharp -exclamation that sounded like “Chut.” I snatched my eyes away from his -and closed them, prepared for the fatal blow that my guilty mind told me -was about to fall on my head from behind. The blow did not fall, but I -was almost dead anyway and swayed on my box till the China boys had to -support me. I felt a fumbling at my ankles and opened my eyes to find -the knotty-legged boy kneeling at my feet, untying his knots. When the -rope was taken off me, I turned my head and saw the boy standing behind -me, holding his cleaver at “ready,” prepared to strike me down only if I -started anything rough. One of them handed me my hat. I put it on, and -stood up slowly and with an effort. The old man waved his arm toward the -back room. - -“You go ou’,” he ordered sternly. - -“My letter?” I asked meekly and respectfully. - -“No more letter,” he said, crumpling it in his hand. - -The Chinese boys stood aside as I started into the bunk room to go out -the back door. I was shamed, humiliated, covered with confusion. Turning -back, I took off my hat, and facing the old man held up my right hand. - -“If I ever rob another Chink I hope to rot in the gutter.” I was so -intent on expressing my gratitude that I forgot my Chinese lingo. - -He understood no word of it, I’m sure, but pointed again to the back. -“You go ou’.” - -I went out, humble and crestfallen. In the alley I threw the bottle of -chloroform against a building, and its crash somewhat relieved my -feelings. That was my first and last experience with chloroform as an -aid to burglary. As an agent for stupefying a sleeping person without -waking him, I maintain, in spite of the opinions of fiction writers and -romancing thieves, “it can’t be done.” Making my way to the cottage of -my Salt Lake friends who had promoted me, I reported my disastrous and -humiliating failure. Had they been inclined to entertain any doubts -about my story, my appearance would have set them at rest. I was -scratched, clawed, bruised, and had a big lump on my head. - -They were very sympathetic. I was invited to “stick around a few days” -till they could look up something else for me. I excused myself as -tactfully as possible, resolving to locate my own work from there on. I -went to my room and to bed, and stayed there several days because of the -terrible mauling the Chinamen had given me. Yet, with all this, I -couldn’t but respect them for letting me go free, heaping coals of fire -on my guilty head. I remembered Smiler and our resolve never to pester -another Mormon when we had been captured in the Temple yard and -released. I vowed never to molest another Chinaman, and never since have -I imposed upon one except on one occasion, and that was under great -necessity. - -Years after, I got out of a train at Cheyenne, racked with the opium -habit, after an all-day ride to escape the Denver police. Making a hasty -survey of the gambling houses and joints I failed to find anybody I knew -who could direct me to a place to “smoke.” It was almost midnight, cold -and storming, and I set out to find a laundry. There was one near by, -the laundrymen were resting after the day’s toil, and through the glass -door I saw one lying in his bunk, smoking his day’s ration of hop. The -door was locked, and they refused to open up for me. - -No hop fiend’s wits ever fail to work when the “yen yen” arrives. In -desperation I hastened to one of the gambling houses, and going into a -rear room took off my vest and wrapped it in a newspaper. Hurrying out, -I got a messenger and gave him fifty cents to take the bundle to the -Chinese laundry. I was at his heels. The Chinamen seeing what they -thought was a parcel of laundry opened the door and I shouldered myself -in behind the boy. Once inside, I took my vest away from him and going -directly to the bunk where the smoker lay threw down some silver, -explaining what I wanted. The smoker turned out to be the boss -laundryman. The sight of my money mollified him somewhat, and after much -protesting and objecting he let me lie down on his bunk and smoke my -fill. In an hour we were friends. He explained that he refused to open -the door because he thought I was a “ketchum money man”—a robber. - -In the days of my sad experience at the Chinese store, Vancouver was a -much smaller town than it is now. There were few opportunities worth -while, and I decided to leave. Moreover every Chinese store, laundry, -and business house reminded me of that disastrous night. I was afraid -of bumping into Chew Chee or the boss Chinaman that had given me the -letter. I was sure they had heard about it, and didn’t want to face -them. I was nearly broke again, and had to bestir myself. - -The American side seemed the only place to go, and not having enough -money to buy a ticket, I went down to the railroad yards to get a train. -The blind baggage, or “stormy end” as the bums call it, was so crowded -when the train pulled out that I saw they would all be thrown off at the -first stop. I didn’t want to get underneath on the rods and ruin my -clothes for a short jump of fifty miles to the junction, so I got on top -of a coach. Something must have been wrong with the engine, for there -was one continual shower of red-hot cinders falling on me that burned -holes in my clothes, ruining them and blistering my skin. - -At the first stop I got down, intending to go in a coach and steal a hat -check, or crawl under a seat out of sight. Looking about I saw that the -last coach was in darkness, and thinking it was a dead, empty car, I -waited till it came along and boarded the front end, hoping to find the -door unlocked. The door opened to my touch, but when I went inside I -found myself in a luxuriously furnished private car instead of a dead -coach. - -There are only three degrees of tough luck—bad, worse, and worst. When -you reach the worst you have the satisfaction of knowing that if your -luck changes it has to change for the better. I considered my Waterloo -at the Chinese store the direst degree of bad luck. Not only had I lost -a big bunch of money; I was hurt somewhere else. - -At that time I thought it was my professional pride that suffered -because of failure. Now I know I was hurt because the old Chinaman had -shown himself so superior to me. If he had sent me to jail I would have -done my time and forgotten him, but to this day thinking about him and -writing about him make me feel uneasy. I wonder what I would have done -had he made me promise to quit stealing? - -But I was in this private car, feeling that my luck was due for a -change, and with a chance to heal my wounded pride. The air inside the -car was warm, live, vibrating. I sensed an occupant. Making my way along -the aisle toward a stateroom at the far end, I looked about closely for -an attendant but there was none in sight. The stateroom door was open, -with a chair against it, probably for better ventilation. A heavily -shaded lamp was burning, and by its soft light I saw the form of a big -man rolled in the blankets on a broad berth. His back was toward the -door, and nothing but a shock of coarse gray hair showed above the -covers. A glance told me I was in the presence of power, wealth, -affluence. I hadn’t enough money to pay for that man’s breakfast. - -On a small table at the head of the sleeper’s berth there was a large -silver pitcher, a glass, two books, a fat leather pocketbook, a thick -bill fold, a pocket purse, and a heavy gold watch, with a small, black -ribbon guard. I took all the articles except the pitcher, glass, and -books, and started for the door I entered, praying that the attendant -wouldn’t appear. I saw nothing of him, and concluded he was somewhere -forward, gossiping or shooting dice with the porters. - -It was but a minute’s work to get back upon the top of a coach, where I -lay and let the cinders do their worst. The next stop was a junction, -where I intended to get off and cross the line into Washington. The -only train in sight was a westbound passenger waiting on a sidetrack. I -was afraid to hang around, and when it pulled out I went underneath on -the rods and got back into Vancouver after an absence of five hours. I -planted the watch in the railroad yards, and never saw it again. - -On my way uptown to get a room, I emptied the bill fold and purse, -throwing them away. In the room I looked over the money, and found I had -enough to keep me six months, if I kept away from the faro tables. - -The fat pocketbook held no money, but was bulging with valuable personal -papers. Looking through them I saw that their owner was one of the -higher officials of the Canadian Pacific Railway. I realized there would -be a terrific roar in the morning, and was on the point of burning the -papers and destroying the pocketbook when the thought came to me that I -could gain nothing by that, while I would be causing the owner an -immense loss and no end of inconvenience. I secreted the pocketbook in -the rear of the hotel, and went to bed trying to think up some safe way -of returning it to the owner. No use in inflicting a profitless injury -on him; and its return might take the sharp edge off his resentment. - - - - -CHAPTER XVIII - - -Discarding my cinder-burnt clothes for a new outfit the next day, I -bought a ticket for Victoria, B.C. On my way to the boat that evening I -dropped the fat pocketbook into a mail box, where I knew it would be -found, then examined, and returned to the loser. - -When I first began stealing I had but a dim realization of its wrong. I -accepted it as the thing to do because it was done by the people I was -with; besides, it was adventurous and thrilling. Later it became an -everyday, cold-blooded business, and while I went about it methodically, -accepting the dangers and privations it entailed, I was fully aware of -the gravity of my offenses. Every time I stole a dollar I knew I was -breaking a law and working a hardship on the loser. Yet for years I -kept on doing it. I wonder how many of us quit wronging others for the -best reason of all—because it is wrong, and we know it. Any thief that -can’t or doesn’t put himself in his victim’s place, in the place of the -copper that pinches him, or in the place of the judge who sentences him, -is not a complete thief. His narrow-mindedness will prevent him from -doing his best work and also shut him off from opportunities to help and -protect himself when he is laid by the heels. - -Nobody wants to live and die a criminal. They all hope to quit some day, -usually when it’s almost too late. I will say right here to any thief -who thinks of quitting that if he can put himself in the other fellow’s -place he has something substantial to start on; and if he can’t do it, -he’ll never get anywhere. - -I always figured that when I had a man’s money or valuables he had -suffered enough. What sense in destroying his personal papers, or -keeping heirlooms of no value except to him, or subjecting him to any -loss that would be profitless to me? In the case of this sleeper in his -private car, I saw the money and watch meant little to him. The papers -meant much. On top of that, his peace of mind was disturbed, and his -sense of safety and security shattered. He would probably lock his doors -and sleep in a stuffy room the balance of his life, another great -hardship. I had his valuables and intended to keep them. I could not -restore his peace of mind or his sense of safety and security. I could -restore his papers, and, at some small risk, did. Had I been chased or -suspected I would have thrown them away, or in the fire without a -thought. I took his property coolly, impersonally, as a picker removes -the feathers from a fat goose. I returned his papers as the last touch -to a workman-like job, as the cabinetmaker softly gives the last nail -its last light tap. - -To any thief who reads this and criticizes me as being over-thoughtful -of the “sucker,” I reply that he is probably one of those guys that -beats his victim up after robbing him; who strikes down women and -children if they get in his way; who destroys paintings, vases, -tapestries, and clothing wantonly, and winds up by letting some -housewife chase him under a bed, where she holds him with her broomstick -till the coppers arrive. He is not a thief, but a “mental case,” and -belongs in a psychopathic ward. - -At Victoria I put in a few very pleasant months. I joined the colony of -Chinese and opium smugglers who ran their freight across the line in -fast, small boats at night into Port Townsend, Anacortes, or Seattle, -Washington. The manufacture of smoking opium was then a legalized -industry in Canada, and the smugglers were welcomed and harbored because -they brought much American gold to the Canadian side. Being in the -company of these characters I was accepted by the police as one of them, -and went my way unmolested. - -One fatal evening, as I stood watching a faro game making mental bets -and winning every one, the devilish hunch came to me that I was lucky -and ought to make a play. My resistance reached the vanishing point. I -made a bet, lost it, got stuck, and feverishly played in my last dollar. - -This gambling habit is the curse of a thief’s life. He loses his last -dime and is forced to go out in haste for more money. Like a mechanic -broke and out of a job, he takes the first one in sight. He has no time -to pick and choose, or calculate carefully what he is about; he must -eat, and the minute he goes broke he gets hungry. Gambling keeps him -broke, forces him to steal small money on short notice and take -prohibitive and unnatural chances. - -I could have borrowed money enough to expense myself to Vancouver where -I had the valuable watch planted, but there had been such a cry in the -papers about the car burglary, the loser was so powerful and -influential, and the danger of trying to sell it so great, that I -decided to leave it there till later, and take it to the American side. - -During my stay in Victoria I had strolled through the residence district -and noted several homes that looked prosperous and easy of approach. -House burglary was almost unknown there then; there was almost no police -protection, none was needed. Householders left windows open and doors -unlocked. - -One o’clock found me in one of the most pretentious places on my list, -but instead of picking up trifles right and left as I expected, I found -but one room occupied. Later I learned the family, with the exception of -the man of the house, was away for the summer. He was a good sleeper. I -took nothing but money, and not much of that—less than fifty dollars in -silver and bills—leaving his watch and some small articles of jewelry as -not worth the chances I must take in trying to dispose of them in a -strange town. - -I went straight downtown to the only all-night bar and lunch counter to -eat before going to bed. Before I had my meal finished two officers and -two civilians came in and spoke to the sleepy bartender. He nodded -toward me and they all came over to where I sat eating. One of the -civilians looked at me closely and said to the other: “Looks very much -like the man; same clothes, same hat, same build, same height.” - -“What do you mean?” I asked. - -“This,” spoke up the other. “If I am wrong you have an apology in -advance; if I am right you are in for it. I was robbed not an hour ago -in my bedroom in my house. This man, my servant, had occasion to get out -of bed and, while standing at a window in his room, saw the prowler -leaving stealthily by the rear way. Suspicious, he alarmed me, and I -discovered my loss. I brought these officers here on a bare chance that -the burglar might be here. You are the only one who has entered here, -except us, in the last hour. I do not accuse you. I ask you if you will -permit the officers to search you. If you are an honest man, you cannot -take offense.” - -He was the man I had robbed; he was an Attorney; he was a smart man. I -was in a bad hole. If I objected to search it would look bad, and they -would do it anyway. “Certainly. Go ahead and search me,” I said, making -the best of a bad position. When the officers had finished searching me, -they counted the money. - -“Lock him up,” ordered the lawyer. “He has the exact amount of money I -lost. The paper corresponds, and so does the silver.” - -They handcuffed me. “You’re arrested in the name of the Crown, and -anything you say will be used against you.” - -I was taken to the city prison where I gave the booking officer a very -brief and misleading biographical sketch. The jail I had fled from with -the China boy loomed before me and my only thought was to cover up. I -put in the balance of the night going over my case. It looked hopeless. -The next morning my cell was not unlocked when the other prisoners were -let out to wash. Later a jailer opened it, and a Siwash Indian boy -handed me a bucket of water and a towel. - -When I reached for them the boy looked at me and I turned cold. He was -one of the watchful trusty prisoners at the jail I had escaped from. He -knew me. This was the first of a long and bitter series of experiences -with stool pigeons, and in all my life I never witnessed a more -gratuitous, barefaced, conscienceless exhibition of snitching. - -Without waiting to walk out of my sight he grabbed the jailer by the arm -and began pattering away in Chinook, pointing at me. He didn’t “spill -the beans.” He just kicked the pot over and put out the fire. - -“To understand is to forgive,” it is said. I have long since forgiven -the numberless, noisy stool pigeons that beset my crooked path because I -don’t want any poison in my mind, but as yet I am unable to understand -them. - -Immediately the jailer came back with another officer and they put a -very hefty pair of leg irons on me. At ten o’clock I was taken into the -magistrate’s court. The attachés and loungers crowded close and stared -at me curiously. The magistrate briefly and coldly remanded my case for -three days. A photographer waiting at the jail took a number of pictures -of me and I was locked up again. The jailer, a sad-eyed, solemn-faced -Scotchman, gazed at me a long time through the barred door and smacked -his lips as if enjoying the flavor of some delicious morsel or rare -wine. - -In a voice that seemed to come out of a sepulcher he said: “You escaped -from the provincial jail in the town of ———.” - -I already knew I was lost, but his solemn face and melancholy voice -conveyed to me, as he probably intended, the full force and effect of my -predicament. He made me feel like one buried alive; his measured words -sounded to me like cold clods dropping on my coffin. I wasn’t taken out -of my cell and “sweated” or third-degreed, or beaten up. That looked bad -for me. The more a prisoner is questioned the less they know; the less -he is questioned the more they know. If he is not questioned at all -they know it all, or enough. My captors asked me no questions; they -knew enough. - -At the expiration of the three days I was remanded again. Then came -another remand, and before it expired the Scotch jailer I escaped from -appeared to take me back for trial where there was a cinch case against -me and the charge of jail breaking to boot. The lawyer whose house I -entered and who so neatly trapped me came to the jail before I was taken -away. He was a fine fellow, an Englishman, and to use an English -expression in describing him, I’ll say he was “a bit of all right.” He -brought me a book from his library, Charles Reade’s “It’s Never Too Late -to Mend.” He waived claim to the money found on me when I was arrested; -told the jailer to see that I got it and wished me luck with my case. He -neither lectured me nor asked any embarrassing questions. Shaking my -hand heartily when he was leaving he said: “Do read that book, old man. -And, I say, I’m not intimating that you’re an authority on burglary, but -I thought you might tell me how I could prevent it in future.” I told -him to buy himself a dollar-and-a-half dog, and let him sleep in the -house. - -He shook my hand again and thanked me. He was so downright decent and -charming that an outsider, observing our interview, would have thought -he had come to ask a favor of me, and was departing under a heavy -obligation. I was ashamed of going into his house and would have taken a -pledge not to rob any more Englishmen but it didn’t seem necessary. From -what I could see, there was a judge waiting in the jurisdiction I -escaped who would attend to that. - -The Scotchman loaded me with irons, put me on a boat to Vancouver, then -on a train, and finally landed me back safely in his jail. He took the -Englishman’s book from me on the train and never gave it back. I had no -chance to read the story till I got out of his clutches. Later I got it, -read it, and was fascinated and read every other book by the author that -I could lay hands on. - -During my absence a new and securer cell had been built in the jail -because of our escape. It adjoined the jailer’s office, and its barred -door was directly in front of his desk, not six feet away. He moved a -camp cot into his office and slept where he could watch me. Day after -day and night after night he drank his whisky, smoked his pipe, and -rustled his paper under my nose. - -Chew Chee, the Chinese boy, had stolen two thousand dollars cash from -his employer. He told me he gambled it away before he got arrested. At -any rate, the money was never recovered. My jailer spread the report -around that I took the Chinese boy with me so I could get the two -thousand, after which I had murdered him and secreted his body. Whether -he believed it or only pretended to, I never knew. He never questioned -me about Chew Chee, and now when he got drunk instead of calling me just -plain “damned Yank,” he chucked in another adjective, “murderous.” To -get even with him I began sleeping in the daytime and walking up and -down the cell all night, clanking the leg irons to keep him awake. He -retaliated by prodding me with a long stick every time he caught me -sleeping in the daytime, and I gave it up. - -He took my Bible away and when the Salvation Army came on Sunday I -reported it to them. Somebody regulated him, and he grudgingly returned -it. - -I had some thought of taking a jury trial. One never can tell what a -small-town jury will do. Sometimes they carry their neighborhood feuds -into the jury room and the defendant gets a disagreement. But after my -jailer spread his story about my murdering the China boy, I dismissed -the jury from my mind and decided to go before the court under the -Speedy Trials Act. A defendant electing for a speedy trial dispenses -with a jury and saves time and money for the community. A speedy trial -is almost equivalent to a plea of guilty, but when the defendant is -found guilty the court, in passing sentence, considers the fact that -there has been no expensive jury trial and is more lenient. - -The Crown counsel called at the jail to ask what I wanted in the way of -a trial. I told him, and he had the witnesses subpœnaed for a certain -day. I could have got a young lawyer of the town with the money I -brought from Victoria, but it looked to me like a willful waste, and I -held it. - -In due time the judge arrived at the town. My irons were struck off, and -I went into court. I got a brief, dignified, orderly trial. The train -conductor appeared and identified me and the fatal twenty-dollar bill I -gave him. All the other witnesses testified, word for word, as they did -at my examination. I removed any doubts there might have been as to my -guilt by declining to go on the witness stand. This trial consumed -almost an hour. - -Then I was tried for escaping from Her Majesty’s jail. That consumed -fifteen minutes. - -Having no lawyer, the judge asked me if I wanted to go over the points -in the case. I thanked him and said I could not presume to instruct His -Lordship on law points. He gave his verdict then, “Guilty, both -charges.” - -“Anything to say before sentence?” he asked. - -Thinking he might be feeling better after lunch I asked till one o’clock -to prepare a very short statement. He adjourned court. At one o’clock I -stood up and said: “Your Lordship, my trial was fair; your verdict -just.” - -He looked at me a long time. “Two years in the provincial penitentiary -for burglary; six months for jail breaking. Sentences concurrent—and -thirty lashes.” - -The prison sentence was no surprise to me. I expected a heavier one. I -had long before admitted to myself its possibility, even its -probability. But I had accepted that as a business man accepts a chance -of bankruptcy, or as a laborer foresees an injury. The court’s order -that I be lashed was a surprise and caused me no small concern. I -couldn’t get it off my mind. I wondered if I could stand it; day and -night I could feel the lash on my bare back. After turning it over in my -mind I decided to make the best of it, and found some consolation in the -thought that if the judge hadn’t ordered the flogging he would have -sentenced me to five or ten years. - -I dismissed all thought of escaping again from the jail. Even if I had -my saws that were planted in the cell I got out of, I couldn’t have used -them, for my jailer was determined to land me in the penitentiary and -watched me closer than ever. I was wretched and almost lost hope. I -envied poor dead Smiler and Foot-and-a-half George. I wished myself back -with the larcenous-eyed Tex and his crew of cheap gamblers. My mind ran -back to Madam Singleton and Julia and the overworked widow at my -boarding house. I thought of the Sanctimonious Kid doing his fifteen -years in a tough “stir” and wondered what had become of Soldier Johnnie, -and how Salt Chunk Mary was faring in far-away Pocatello. - -I was the most miserable of them all, and human-like I tried to fix the -blame for all my troubles on some one else. I started in with the judge -who sentenced me, then back to the Indian that pointed me out, then to -the lawyer who had me arrested, and on back and back and through it all -till I got to my father. The Sanctimonious Kid, who was something of a -philosopher, said to me once: “Kid, ours is a crooked business, but we -must not allow ourselves to think crooked. We’ve got to think straight, -clearly and logically, or we are lost. Of course we’ll lose anyway, -sooner or later, but let us not hasten the day by loose and careless -thinking.” - -His advice had not been altogether wasted on me. I got into the habit -of thinking things over carefully. The trouble was I didn’t always -follow out my conclusions. I knew I was taking a chance staying in -Canada after my escape; yet I stayed. I had long realized that my every -act was wrong and criminal; yet I never thought of changing my ways. -After thinking it all over with all the clarity and logic and fairness I -could command, I was convinced that nobody but myself was to blame, and -that I had just drifted along from one thing to another until I was on -the rocks. I hadn’t been forced into this life, and this predicament, by -any set of circumstances or any power beyond my control. I had traveled -along this road largely of my own free will, and it followed that I -could get on the right road any time I willed it. - -Strangely enough, I didn’t will to do it then and there. It seemed -enough to know and feel I could do it if I wanted to. No use making -resolutions until my sentence of two years was in. I would wait and see -what that brought forth. - -The same train that I was arrested on, in charge of the conductor I gave -the bill to, carried me to the prison at New Westminster. My Scotch -jailer loaded me with irons and handcuffed me to a seat to make sure of -me and he delivered me safely. At the town of New Westminster I looked -about me with interest; it was my birthplace. My parents were married in -the United States, but spent the first year of their married life in -British Columbia, where my father had some small business interests. He -was a British subject and never took the trouble to become an American. -That left me a subject of Great Britain, which I still am. - -Like ninety per cent of the men arrested for felonies I had given a -fictitious name and birthplace. My jailer called me a “damned Yank” -because I registered at his jail as an American. At the prison a more -complete biographical sketch was demanded of me, with the result that -just so much more fiction found its way into the prison statistics. I -was bathed, shaved, uniformed, measured, weighed, photographed, -questioned at great length, and at last put in a cell by myself. I was -notified that I would get fifteen lashes next day and that the remainder -would be “laid on” one week before my sentence expired. I was further -told very distinctly that by good conduct I could greatly soften the -severity of the last installment, but that the first would be -administered as the law provided. - -Prisoners passing my cell looked in. Some gave me glances of sympathy, -others grinned. One, a big, tough-looking gorilla, out of the British -Navy, stopped and taunted me gleefully. “Oh, aye, Yank, I reckon an’ -calculate as ’ow you’ll get a fawncy tampin’ in the mornin’.” I abused -both him and his native language. - -The convict librarian came along with his catalogue. I selected a book -and he got it for me immediately. - -My cell was furnished with an iron bed, a small table, a bookshelf, a -three-legged wooden stool, and a galvanized iron bucket. On the bed, -folded, were a heavy, clean pair of blankets and two sheets. On top of -the folded blankets was a straw pillow in a clean slip. Later on a -trusty brought me a gallon bucket of water, a tin cup, a small wooden -vessel to wash in, and a clean towel. Every movable article in the cell -had my prison number on it, and I kept them till the day of my -discharge. On the wall was a card of “Rules and Regulations for the -Guidance of Prisoners.” My first act was to read the rules. This was -prompted by curiosity to learn just what I was up against, rather than a -desire to learn and obey. - -I sat on my stool and tried to read, but my mind was on the morning. -Every hour of the long night I woke up with the sting of the lash on my -back. - -In the morning, after the prisoners had gone to their tasks, a guard -came and took me to a room in another part of the building where we -found the prison physician waiting. He examined me, pronounced me “fit,” -and told me to take off my shirt. The room was bare, except for a bench -along one wall, and an arrangement in the center of the room that -resembled a photographer’s tripod, only it was higher and stronger. Its -three legs were secured to the floor. - -A short, thick man in uniform, with a bristly brown beard and cold blue -eyes, came in with a strap very much like a barber’s strop, except it -was longer and heavier and had a different handhold. He sat on the -bench, eyeing me speculatively. The deputy warden now appeared and gave -an order. The physician sat down beside the man with the strap. Two -guards led me to the triangle. My wrists were strapped to the top of the -tripod where the three pieces joined and my ankles lashed to the -tripod’s legs, leaving me with my arms up in the air and my legs far -apart, helpless as any sheep in the shambles. - -“Now, Mr. Burr,” said the deputy warden. - -The man with the strap got up off the bench and stepped behind me a -little to my left. Out of the tail of my eye I saw him “winding up” like -a ball pitcher. Then came the “woosh” of his strap as it cut the air. - -It would not be fair to the reader for me to attempt a detailed -description of this flogging. In writing these chronicles I have tried -to be fair, reasonable, and rational, and rather than chance misleading -anybody by overstating the case I will touch only the high points and -leave out the details. No hangman can describe an execution where he has -officiated. The best he can do is to describe his end of it, and you -have but a one-sided case. The man at a whipping post or tripod can’t -relate all the details of his beating fully and fairly. He can’t see -what’s going on behind him, and that’s where most of the goings-on are. -Furthermore, he does not approach the subject with that impersonal, -detached mental attitude so necessary to correct observing and -reporting. Mentally he is out of focus, and his perspective is blurred. - -If I could go away to some lonely, desolate spot and concentrate deeply -enough I might manage to put myself in the flogging master’s place and -make a better job of reporting the matter. But that would entail a -mental strain I hesitate to accept, and I doubt if the result would -justify the effort. - -All along I had my mind made up to take my “tampin’” in as manly a way -as possible and to bite my tongue rather than cry out. Also I had tried -to hypnotize myself up to a pitch where I could bow my back out toward -the blows and hold it there till the thing was done. The first blow was -like a bolt of lightning; it shocked and burned. Looking back at it now, -it seems to me I jumped six feet in the air. But I couldn’t have jumped -an inch, I was too securely trussed up. I got through it without -squawking, but fell down sadly on the business of bowing my back out. -With each succeeding blow I shrank farther away from the blistering lash -and when it was all over my back was concaved, my chest was bowed out, -and I was trembling like a helpless calf under the hot branding iron. - -It made no difference how I wriggled and squirmed, I got the full force -and effect of every blow, and each one fell on a different spot. “Mr. -Burr,” God bless him! served his apprenticeship as a flogging master in -the British Navy, and he knew his little book. - -I was untied and stood there a little bit weak in the knees. My back was -blistered, but the skin was not broken. The doctor took a look at it and -went away. One of the guards threw my shirt over my shoulders and, -holding it on with one hand, and my trousers up with the other, I was -marched out and up a flight of stairs to the prison dispensary. The man -in charge was dentist, apothecary, hospital steward, nurse and guard. He -was a big, brawny, muscular Irishman with arms like an iceman’s. While -he was applying a liquid to my back, probably to prevent infection, I -asked him what it was he was using. “You will speak when you’re spoken -to,” he growled severely with a brogue that was triple X positive. He -fixed my back in silence and locked me in a cell in the hospital. - -It was a year before I spoke to him again and I waited till he spoke to -me first then. Going into his place one day I found him tugging at a -Chinaman’s tooth. After he got it out and sent the patient away he came -over to see what I wanted. He was puffing and perspiring, and, feeling -rather pleased with his job on the tooth, wanted to talk to somebody. -“Man,” he said, “that was an awful tooth in that Chinaman. Sure I -thought the jaw was comin’ off of him.” - -“Yes?” I inquired. “Was it a molar?” - -“No, man, ’twas no molar; ’twas a back tooth.” - -He was our prison dentist. He wasn’t a bad fellow at that. He brought me -a worn volume of Shakespeare and let me take it to my cell. I kept it -for months and read it all, and often wondered while reading it what -would have happened to the British Empire if the spirited Will -Shakespeare had been flogged when he stole Mr. Lucey’s venison. - -I’ve heard a lot about the humiliation and degradation of flogging. If -anybody was humbled and degraded in my case it was not I. It may sound -strange when I say I am glad now, and was glad then, that they lashed -me. It did me good. Not in the way it was intended to, of course, but in -a better way. I went away from the tripod with fresh confidence, with my -head up, with a clear eye and mind, and sustained with a thought from -the German, Nietzsche, “What does not kill me strengthens me.” - -After three days I was returned to my cell and assigned to work on the -farm gang. Mr. Burr, the flogging master, who turned out to be a very -chatty Scotchman, came to my cell door the first night to have a talk -with me, “so there would be no misunderstanding or hard feelings.” I -don’t think he was afraid I would try to do him violence; he just came -in a straight, manly way to explain the thing and his part in it. I -didn’t gather from his talk whether he was in favor of lashing or -against it. He appeared an intelligent, fair-minded man. - -“You’ll find me bark is worse than me bite,” he said when he was -leaving. I had already made up my mind I ought to hate somebody over the -flogging and had about settled on Mr. Burr. But when he was gone I -thought it all over again and saw there was no more sense in hating him -than any machine I had carelessly got my fingers into. - -I settled down to my work and had a chance to look about me. The prison, -a stone building, was on the finest site in New Westminster, a gently -sloping eminence overlooking a broad sweep of the Fraser River where it -widens to its delta. The prison contained one hundred single cells and -the silent system obtained. There was never any overcrowding or -haphazard makeshifts. When the cells were all filled, a batch of -prisoners was at once shipped away to the eastern prisons at Kingston, -Ontario, or Stony Mountain, Manitoba, to make room for newcomers. We -were closely watched and guarded by the officers, who were nearly all -ex-army and navy men, iron disciplinarians and sticklers for the -enforcement of rules. I looked about for some way out of the place, but -it seemed hopeless and I gave it up, settling down to do my time. - -The prison population came from the four corners of the earth. Sailors -and ex-soldiers, deserters from the navy, a few “Yanks,” fugitives from -the “American side,” Indians from the Arctic Circle brought down by the -Mounted Police to do time for violating laws they never could -understand, and a sprinkling of Chinamen and Japs. The sixty acres of -prison land were farmed intensively, yielding an abundance of fine -vegetables, hay, and grain. Clothing, shoes, and socks were made by -prisoners. The food was coarse but wholesome. An American prison -commissary would not believe a penitentiary could be run without beans. -In my two years at this prison I did not see a bean. An English prison -warden would not believe a prison could exist without peas. I never saw -a pea in an American prison. I never saw a cup of coffee in the place. -We had pea “coffee” twice a day. It was made from peas grown on the -farm, threshed out on the barn floors with flails, roasted and ground -like coffee. It was very nutritious and not at all unpalatable. We had -plenty of vegetables, mush and pea soup, lots of bread, not too fresh, -and not much meat. The food ration, even to the salt and pepper that -seasoned it, was regulated by law. Every prisoner got just what the law -allowed him and no more. We always had good appetites, never quite had -them satisfied, had no smoking tobacco, no coffee, very little meat, and -plenty of sleep—the hospital was always empty and there was not a death -in the prison in my two years’ time there. - -The place was clean and well ventilated. We had coarse, warm clothing, -enough blankets, plenty of light, lots of good books, and nothing to -distract us when reading. I never saw a bug, flea, or mosquito while -there. The guards were not brutal or overbearing. I never saw one strike -a prisoner; I never saw a prisoner strike a guard. - -One morning I glimpsed a familiar face and figure; it was Soldier -Johnnie. I forgot the rules, and sang out, “How long are you doing?” -Before he could answer I was snatched out of the line and locked in my -cell. - -The warden was a hardened man, old, sick, and cynical. His motto was -“Break them first and make them over.” The guard submitted a written -report of my misconduct, talking. My punishment was three days on bread -and water. The prison had no dungeon. The prisoner under punishment was -kept in his cell, which was stripped of its furniture and darkened by -placing a blank, wooden, movable door against the outer side of the cell -door proper. - -In my dark cell I thought of Soldier Johnnie, and wondered if he -remembered how they bored a hole and fed me through it in the Utah -prison. All the yeggs and “Johnsons” in Christendom couldn’t have put a -crumb of bread into this dark cell in this backwoods prison—it was -English. In all the time I was there I never had a chance to talk to -Johnnie. He was discharged before me, and we had no chance to compare -notes for years. - -My cell was darkened many times and I lived many days on bread and water -before I got my time in. I came to learn that a satisfying meal may be -made of two ounces of stale bread if it is eaten slowly and chewed -thoroughly. I was chewing my ration of bread two hours, taking small -bits and chewing them to liquid in my dark cell years before I heard of -Fletcher and his system of Fletcherizing food. My experience with short -rations in many places has convinced me that we would all be healthier -and better nourished if we ate half as much food and chewed it twice as -long. - -I soon got into a feud with the officers and guards. I talked and -laughed and whistled and sang; all of which outraged the ironbound -system of silence. The Fourth of July came along, and as I was -registered as an American I refused to work on that glorious day. This -was a very serious offense, and I was sentenced to twelve days bread and -water. They opened my cell every fourth day, put in the furniture, and -fed me the regular prison fare. No prisoner may be kept on bread and -water for more than three consecutive days. That’s English, also. - -When the Queen’s birthday, the big holiday, came around, I wrote a note -to the warden asking permission to work; twelve days more, in four -installments. - -I read about hay fever in the encyclopedia, and when haying time came I -refused to make hay on the grounds that I was a hay-fever addict. The -doctor disagreed, and my cell was darkened again. When I was sentenced -there was a law under which all prisoners got a plug of “black strap” -chewing tobacco every week. While I was in prison the law was repealed. -Newcomers got no tobacco, but those sentenced while the law was in -force, even if they were life-timers, continued to draw their ration -every week. A rule was posted forbidding a prisoner who drew tobacco to -give a chew of it to one who didn’t. That’s English, too. I was caught -throwing a chew to a chap that arrived too late, and got another dose of -bread and water. - -At last I tired of bread and water, got on my good behavior, and took to -reading. The prison had a splendid library, not a worthless book in it. -All the best English authors were there and I went through them -hungrily. I became so immersed in reading that I was careful not to -break the rules lest I lose three days or more from the books. I got -schoolbooks and studied them. Remembering my poor arithmetic, I tried -mathematics but couldn’t get anywhere. Then the grammar, but the rules -seemed to have been made for no other purpose than to confuse the -beginner and “repress his noble rage,” so I gave that up, got intensely -interested in a small dictionary, and almost went into the dark cell for -carrying it out with me to work and looking into it when the guard’s -back was turned. I read the best books in the library, except the Bible, -and would have taken that only I already had six months with it in the -Scotchman’s jail. - -I went through *Chambers’s Encyclopedia* from A to Z. Read all about -acids and paper, metals and metallurgy, dies and molds. I studied the -history of locks and lockmaking, poring over the pictures of locks and -their escutcheons—all kinds of locks and keys, door locks, padlocks, -combination locks, nothing was neglected. I read a most interesting -paper on picklocks and lock-picking by a famous lock-maker of London. I -followed the history of explosives from gunpowder down to nitroglycerin. -I found a passage that told clearly and concisely which explosives did -the greatest damage and made the least noise. What a mine of -information! I was fascinated. I studied guns and pistols, drills and -saws and files, braces and bits and drilling machines of high and low -pressure and fast or slow motion. - -I investigated poisons, herbs, and drugs. I discovered that the finest -quality of morphine may be obtained from lettuce and proved it in the -prison garden by extracting it and eating it. I read up on sleeping and -dreaming and learned just what kind of noise is most apt to wake a -sleeping person; just when he sleeps the deepest and at what hour of the -night his courage is at its lowest ebb. I can sit in a hotel lobby -to-day and pick out the sound sleeper, the medium sleeper, and light -sleeper. I got it out of the encyclopedia, and proved it in practice -later. - -The time flew by. I read away the long evenings, Sundays, holidays, and -rainy days. We ate in our cells and I always had a book propped up -behind my pan of pea soup. My feud with guards was forgotten. I had no -trouble with fellow prisoners; the silent system and single cells -prohibited that. There was no whispering, plotting, scheming, and -snitching as there is where the congregate system prevails. The stool -pigeon, so fostered and encouraged in American prisons, did not flourish -there. The silence obliterated him, made him unnecessary. - -There was a little cloud on my mind that began to grow. My time was -getting short, some of my credits had been forfeited, and not being able -to find out how much, I was uncertain about the day of my discharge and -expected to be called out any time for the last installment of my -lashing. This made me very nervous, restless, and irritable. The books -no longer held me. - - - - -CHAPTER XIX - - -At last I was sent for by the prison tailor to be fitted into a -discharge suit, and knew that I hadn’t more than a week or ten days to -do. A day or two later the same guards took me to the same room, where I -found the doctor, the deputy warden, the flogging master, and the -triangle all ready for me. I saw I was in for it. The atmosphere was a -little more “official” than on the former occasion. Mr. Burr’s beard -bristled more, and his eye was a little harder. The doctor looked me -over with more interest. The guards turned their eyes away from mine -as they trussed me up to the tripod, and the deputy warden’s “Now, Mr. -Burr,” was ominously soft, smooth, oily. - -The lashing is regulated by law as is every other detail of British -penology. The strap is just so long, so wide, so thick, and so heavy. -The flogging master can swing it just so far and no farther. Mr. Burr -did the best he could with those limitations and reservations, and it -was plenty. - -To make an unpleasant story short, I will say he beat me like a balky -horse, and I took it like one—with my ears laid back and my teeth bared. -All the philosophy and logic and clear reasoning I had got out of books -and meditation in my two years were beaten out of me in thirty seconds, -and I went out of that room foolishly hating everything a foot high. I -had a chance to cool off during the remaining week of my time, and the -day of my release found me halfway rational again. - -On my way out of the prison grounds I passed the deputy warden directing -a gang of prisoners. I had nothing against them; I was going out and -feeling good. I waved them a farewell. He turned on me savagely, -snarling, “Be on your way.” I stopped, gave him my best dirty look, and -turned my back on him and his prison forever. - -I was in perfect physical condition; the regular sleep, regular work, -and short ration of food had done that for me. I still had the money the -lawyer at Victoria did not claim on me, the discharge money, and fare to -the town I was sent from; in all enough to last me a month by careful -management. My mind had been so unsettled during the last weeks of my -time in prison that I hadn’t decided where to go or just what I would -do. There was no hurry about anything; it was a fine day; I had my -liberty. I bought some tobacco and papers at a near-by store and lay -down on the warm ground in the green grass under the Indian summer sun -to think it over, take stock, and look to the future. - -This would be a good place for me to say that I would have quit stealing -then if the terrible lashing hadn’t embittered me and sent me out -looking for revenge, but that would not be the truth. I don’t know to -this day whether the law contemplates flogging as punishment, as a -deterrent measure, or partly both. As a punishment it’s a success; as a -deterrent it’s a failure; if it’s half and half one offsets the other -and there’s nothing gained. The truth is I wouldn’t have quit, no matter -how I was treated. The flogging just hardened me more, that’s all. I -found myself somewhat more determined, more confident, and with a -feeling that I would play this game of violence to the finish. I had -taken everything they had in the way of violence and could take it -again. Instead of going away in fear, I found my fears removed. *The -whipping post is a strange place to gather fresh confidence and courage, -yet that’s what it gave me, and in that dark cell I left behind many -fears and misgivings.* - -I got up and went my way with the thought that I had got more out of -that prison and its keepers than they got out of me. I think the same -to-day of every prison I went into. There were times when I thought I -got a bit more punishment than was coming to me, but I don’t regret a -minute of it now. Each of us must be tempered in some fire. Nobody had -more to do with choosing the fire that tempered me than myself, and -instead of finding fault with the fire I give thanks that I had the -metal to take the temper and hold it. - -I have hopes that these lines will be read by many convicts and -ex-convicts, and they are nothing if not critical readers. I am not -trying to lay down any “rules and regulations” for their guidance on the -outside, but I want to say this—any prisoner who comes out of prison -saying to himself, “I can’t quit; it’s too late; I’m wrecked and ruined; -every man’s hand’s against me; if I get a job some copper will snitch on -me to my boss, or if that don’t happen the other ‘cons’ will blackmail -me; there’s no use trying, I can’t quit”—any “ex-con” who says that is -sentencing himself to a jolt that the most heartless and hard-boiled -criminal-court judge couldn’t conceive of. - -The other “con” who comes out time after time saying to himself -cold-bloodedly and calculatingly, “I won’t quit,” might change his mind -some time and say, “I will quit.” When he wills it, he does it, and no -copper snitches him out of his job. If there is any such animal as the -blackmailing “ex-con” he gives the “will” chap a wide berth. - -I now went to Vancouver and took it easy for a week, resting up, reading -papers, and trying to get my bearings. I saw nothing of Chew Chee, the -China boy. He didn’t show up in the prison while I was there, and I have -no doubt he quit stealing while he was all to the good and went on the -square. - -Falling in with an outfit of bums and beggars at Vancouver I heard -glowing reports of the prosperous mining towns in the interior of -British Columbia and decided to visit them. A week’s journey over the -Canadian Pacific Railway and down the Columbia River found me in the -Kootenai mining district. Everything I touched turned to money. The -sudden change from no liberty at all in prison to all the liberty in the -world almost wrecked me. I didn’t think of saving the money so -dangerously earned, but squandered it drinking, gambling, and making -many trips across the line into the states where there were more -opportunities for spending and dissipating. - -At last a very valuable parcel of stones found its way into my hands. It -was suicide to try to dispose of them on the Canadian side, and I bought -a ticket to Pocatello and Salt Chunk Mary. I had been away from there -almost four years, and had no fear that the town whittler would remember -me, even if he was still on the job, and besides I was hungry for a look -at Mary and for a feed of her beans and salt pork. - -Arriving at Pocatello I hastened to her place. There was no change in -its appearance except that it looked more forlorn and weather-beaten by -reason of its contrast with the new buildings that had sprung up around -it. In answer to my confident knock on the door a very genteel and -refined colored woman opened it and asked me to step in. She looked at -me strangely when I asked for Mary. “Why, Miss Mary Howard went away -more than three years ago. She sold me the place for almost nothing, -settled her affairs, and disappeared. Nobody in Pocatello knows why she -left or where she went.” - -I inquired at the bank, but they knew no more about her than the colored -lady. I asked no more questions, but got the first train out for Butte, -Montana, where I disposed of my stones and made the bums’ hangouts -determined to find out the whys and wherefores of Mary’s disappearance. -I remembered the night she crushed the calaboose for me, and if trouble -had come to her I wanted to shoulder my end of it. - -The bums all knew of Mary’s disappearance, but none of them would even -make a guess as to what became of her. Almost ready to give up, I met -one of the oldest and best informed bums on the road. His “monoger” (a -corruption of monogram), “Hannibal,” was carved on every water tank -between the two Portlands. I made his acquaintance in the Utah -penitentiary, and had met him later on the road. He knew my connection -with Foot-and-a-half George, but did not know I was with him when he was -killed. I had not seen Hannibal since George’s death, and naturally the -talk turned to it. - -The burglary was long since outlawed, there was no need for me to -conceal my part in it, so I told him all about the caper. He listened -very attentively, and when I was done said: “You must have been there, -for that tallies exactly with what I heard. Over three years ago I met a -bum by the name of ‘Rochester Red’ at ‘Stew Junction’ (Puyallup, -Washington). Red was five miles outside of that county seat the night -you and George got that box. This is what he tells me. - -“He’s just finished a long stretch in the stir at Canon City. His health -ain’t none too good, so he jumps over into Utah and down on the -‘poultice route,’ where he won’t be pestered by bulls while he’s -recuperatin’ on good fresh air an’ green vegetables an’ plenty of bread -and milk. He flops in a haystack five miles out of the town where you -people cut the caper. At daylight the next morning the hoosiers drag him -out and he thinks they’re goin’ to lynch him. They take him into the -town an’ give him a look at the stiff laid out on the courthouse floor. -He raps to George, an’ just as you say, he is almost cut in half by the -two shotgun loads. Red don’t see any use in givin’ himself a bawl-out by -identifyin’ any dead burglars, so he dummies up on the natives an’ in a -couple of days they let him go, an’ he keeps on goin’, for they are -proper hostile. When Roch’ Red tells me this, I dash into Portland and -out over the Short Line into Pocatello, an’ tells Mary.” - -“What was all your hurry about?” I asked. - -“Hah,” Hannibal replied. “That’s somethin’ Red didn’t know, an’ -somethin’ you don’t know. But you’re all right, an’ I don’t mind tellin’ -you. - -“George and Mary was raised in my home town, Hannibal, Missouri, an’ -George was her brother. They was a mysterious pair, an’ there’s no use -tryin’ to figure what become of Mary.” - -When my breath came back, I said: “Well, that explains to me why George -‘sprayed’ Gold Tooth with all that lead at Pocatello.” - -“Oh, yes. Tell me about that, Blacky. I never got the straight of it.” - -In return for Hannibal’s tale, I ordered a fresh bottle, and over it -told him the story of Gold Tooth’s death at the hands of Foot-and-a-half -George. - -Unable to gather any more information about Mary, I turned to work -again, making the towns of Spokane, Portland, Seattle, and Tacoma, -confining myself strictly to house burglary, which is “one man” work. -This kind of thievery is fast becoming a thing of the past. Better -lighting, policing, and locking systems; the apartment house; the -building of “tighter” residences; the better treatment of dogs which -makes them more intelligent; and more efficient and careful servants -have combined to put the old-time house burglar almost out of business. -And that is well, for of all manner of theft it is the most -nerve-racking on both the burglar and the householder. - -I never crawled into a window that I didn’t think of Smiler. I never -stepped in or out of a door without thinking of old George. Yet I kept -it up for years, and quit it only because I got tired of playing the -peon for crooked pawnbrokers and getting “fifty fifty” from the -professional “fences.” The fences’ notion of “fifty fifty” is to put a -lead dollar in the Salvation Army tambourine and ask the lassie for -fifty cents change. - -In the midst of plenty I found myself starving, and in self-defense -turned to the more direct business of highway robbery. My experience -with house burglary in the small hours of the night left me a nervous -wreck and an opium smoker. Almost every house prowler turns to booze or -drugs. Reader, I’ll ask you if you wouldn’t take a jolt of booze or hop -after an experience such as this? - -You are a burglar; you have put in a week “tabbing up” a residence. You -decide to “make” it; it looks all right; no children, you haven’t seen a -dog. The night arrives. You jump into the yard. It’s two o’clock. You -look the house over. Every door and window fastened, not even an open -coalhole, no porch to go up. You go back to a kitchen window and -perform a very delicate operation—taking a pane of glass out piece by -piece. Then you put your hand in, release the catch, and raise the -window slowly, noiselessly. You find inside on the windowsill bottles, -boxes, corkscrews, can openers, and a toothbrush. These you pick up, one -at a time, and place outside, below the window. - -Now you are in the window, and you find that below, inside, is the -kitchen sink. You get in without disturbing dishes or pans and open the -kitchen door, so you will have a getaway in case anything causes you to -hurry out. You have been almost an hour getting in the house and you -haven’t started on the job yet. - -It is very dark in the house, but you light no matches, nor do you use a -flashlight; you are an expert, you know your business. Your years at -this work have developed a “cat” sense in you. You can sense an object -in front of you without seeing or feeling it. You feel your way slowly, -silently into the dining room. Your eyes are getting accustomed to the -dark and you distinguish a few objects—table, chairs, sideboard. You sit -in a chair and remove your shoes, shoving them down in your back -pockets, heels up. - -You are going upstairs where the sleepers and valuables are. You button -your coat and pull your hat down over your eyes to hide your face from -the sleeper should he wake up on you and switch on a light. It takes you -fifteen minutes to get up the stairs; they creak frightfully and you -must find solid places to put your weight. You know your business, so -you keep as close to the banister as possible, where the step boards are -nailed down tight and can’t shift and creak. You know the creaking won’t -wake sleeping people, but you don’t know yet whether they are asleep. -If they should be lying in bed awake, they would know what the creaking -meant and you might get shot. - -Now you are at a bedroom door, it’s latched but not locked. You take -hold of the doorknob in a certain way and turn it slowly till it won’t -turn any farther. The hall you are in is dark and dead silent. You push -the door open an inch and you can hear the gentle, regular up-and-down -breathing of the healthy sleeper. You wait a long time, maybe five -minutes, with your hand on the doorknob, listening intently. Yes, there -are two sleepers in the room. - -Then out of this awful silence comes a coughing from a room at the back -of the hall. You stiffen and your hand goes to your coat pocket. You -hear a glass clink against a pitcher, and you know that man is awake. -You hear him turn over in bed, and straighten out for another sleep. You -remain rigid for another five minutes and then feel your way down the -dark hall to make sure he has gone back to sleep. - -His door is ajar, and now he is snoring. You wish he wouldn’t snore; he -might wake somebody else, he might wake himself. Snorers do wake -themselves. The expert burglar doesn’t fancy the heavy snorer; he likes -the sleeper that wheezes gently, softly, regularly. You feel your way -back to the front room. You want that first. That’s where you have -decided the best stuff is to be found. Your hand is on the doorknob -again, and you open the door another inch, slowly, noiselessly. - -Now something soft, yielding, obstructs it. - -This thing that softly blocks the door is probably a rug or an article -of clothing. That’s easy. You release the doorknob, stoop slowly, and -put your hand around inside. Yes, it’s a rug, a fur rug. You nip a few -strands of hair in your fingers and tug at it gently. The thing comes to -life with a scared howl that turns your blood to ice water. You jump up, -pull the door shut with a bang, and hasten to the top of the stairs with -sure and certain step. It took you fifteen minutes to ascend that -stairway. You know every inch of it. You straddle the banister and slide -down—it’s quicker and safer. In the dining room you slam the door shut, -and none too soon. The man upstairs has released the big mastiff and -he’s roaring at the dining-room door. You made no mistake when you left -the kitchen door open. You dash through it, pulling it shut behind you -just as the man inside opens the dining-room door for his dog. - -You take the back fence, tearing your clothes. The big dog is in the -back yard now; you hear his ferocious growls plainer than ever. You run -into a vacant lot, toward the next street. You hear the master urging -his dog to follow you, but he is too well trained and refuses to leave -his own yard. - -The householder is a regular man; not to be balked of his burglar he -opens up with a six-shooter and empties it at you. After the first shot -you instinctively begin making side jumps like a bucking broncho. You -don’t make as much distance, but you reduce your chance of getting hit. -Every time the gun goes off you can feel the slug boring a hole in your -back. You don’t realize it has already passed you when you hear the -pistol crack. His gun empty, his shooting stops. - -You feel like throwing a few slugs in his direction; but, well, you are -in the wrong. You are safe now, it would only make matters worse if you -hit him, and besides, he and his pistol and his dog have made enough -noise already to rouse the neighborhood and you’re lucky if you can get -out of the block without bumping into Mr. “John Law.” - -You make a big detour and get downtown safely, so exhausted from the -intense physical and mental concentration that you are barely able to -drag one foot after the other. Yes, reader, I’ll admit you might go to -your room and to bed and drift off into sweet, refreshing slumbers; but -I never could do it. I always had to hunt up a hop joint and roll -myself a few pills, “just for the good of my nerves.” - -You are still a burglar, reader. You get up the next evening, put on a -different suit and hat, and go out for your “breakfast.” You dismiss -from your mind the incident of last night as lightly as a gambler would -forget the loss of a few dollars. You remember the dog that recognized -you in the hotel barroom years before, and with the thought that it -would be well to keep out of this mastiff’s neighborhood you turn your -mind to the business of the night. You take a long time to eat, looking -through all the papers. You read about a burglar “shivering somewhere in -his lair after escaping in a panic of fear from Mr. ——— and his mastiff -and pistol.” - -This makes you mad. You say to yourself: “What do those reporters expect -of a man? Do they want him to shoot everybody in sight, cut the dog’s -throat, carry out everything valuable, and burn the house down? Can’t -they understand that the burglar’s first thought is the loot and his -second thought is to get out of the house as quietly and quickly as -possible without harming people when they wake up on him? And what -madness for the householder to try to corner a burglar in the dark, -prepared to resist capture but not to kill for loot. When he senses a -burglar in his house, why can’t he say in a loud voice, ‘Is that you, -Percy?’ and give him a chance to fade away quietly? He’ll do it. He -knows there are plenty of other houses.” - -You give it up, put these idle speculations out of your mind, and go out -into the street. You have been busy locating “prospects.” Your thoughts -turn to the most likely one. There’s the gambler that runs the poker -games in back of the cigar store. He turns the game over to an assistant -at twelve o’clock, takes the bankroll, and goes home. You decide to -“take him home” to-night. You hang around till he comes out and get in -behind him. You “tail” him to a genteel-looking place with a “private -board” sign in a downstairs window. He lets himself in with a key. You -are across the street; you wait a while and observe that a dark room on -the second floor has been lighted. Your man is at the window pulling -down its shade. You have his room located, and you go away to kill the -next two hours. - -Two o’clock; you are in the dining room downstairs. You were lucky -enough to find an open window. You don’t open any doors here, you decide -to retreat by the window, if necessary. This is a boarding house with a -number of people in it, and you don’t have to creep around so carefully. -A noise on the stairs or in the hall of a boarding house doesn’t mean -much. - -You go upstairs quickly and find a light in the hall. You put it out; -not by pushing the button, but by unscrewing the globe a little. You are -an expert; you don’t want any light; you don’t want any one to get a -look at you in a lighted hallway. You prefer darkened rooms, because in -the dark you have the best of the situation. - -You find his door; more luck, it’s not locked! You must be careful with -this chap; he is a bad sleeper, thin, nervous, “touchy,” an incessant -smoker and a heavy coffee drinker. You step into the room and close the -door but don’t latch it. He is asleep, breathing, as you expected, very -softly. His clothes are on a big rocker—nothing in them but some silver -and a watch. You take the silver, “heft” the watch and leave it; it’s -not solid. You’re disappointed, the roll of bills should have been in -his trousers’ pocket. You feel on the table by the head of his bed; it’s -not there. On the dresser; not there. Oh, well, you’ll have to go under -his pillow after it, that’s all. This operation calls for your best -professional touch; your perfect technique is needed here; he’s a light -sleeper. - -You are on one knee beside his pillow. You lay a gun on the floor within -easy reach. If he wakes up on you that’s his bad luck; you’ll stick him -up, take his money, and lock him in his room. He is lying on his side -facing you and not eighteen inches away. You can feel his breath -against your face. You pull up your right coat and shirt sleeves to the -elbow, your left hand lifts the outer end of the pillow ever so little -while your right, palm down, slowly, carefully, worms its way beneath -his head. Your ear notes his breathing. So long as it is regular, he -is asleep; if it breaks off he is waking up. While he sleeps he has no -more control over his breathing than over his heartbeats, and you can -plainly hear it, and when you cannot hear it you know he is awake. -With your ear alert for the danger signal and your hand under his -pillow your mind is racing all over the universe. - -“No wonder,” you think, “they hang men in some parts of the world for -this kind of burglary—going into a man’s sleeping room with a gun and -taking his property from under his head while he sleeps. No wonder your -hair is graying above your ears, and wrinkles showing up in your -forehead.” - -You make up your mind to quit this racket—it’s too tough—but your hand -goes further under the pillow. Careful as you are, the slight movement -beneath his head seems to disturb this catlike sleeper. His breathing -catches, halts, and no longer reaches your ear. You become petrified, -your mind on the gun beside you. With a jerky movement he turns over, -and you wait till he goes sound asleep again. - -His back is to you now, and his head on the farther end of his pillow. -This makes it easier. You explore and explore, but feel nothing. Slowly -you withdraw your arm. You must look farther; in his shoes, his hat, the -dresser drawers, the clothes closet, and, that failing, you will put the -gun on him, wake him, and make him dig it up. You have been there almost -two hours. It will soon be dawn; you must hurry. You search everywhere, -but no bankroll. You go around the bed and your arm is quickly thrust -under the other pillow in the last hope of finding it. It’s not there; -no use looking farther. You decide to wake him and demand it. - -Having made up your mind to stick him up, you must now transform -yourself from the silent, stealthy prowler into the rough, confident, -dominating stick-up man. You walk around to the back of the bed and stop -to plan your new move. Now you have it all straight in your mind. You -will go to the side of his bed where you first started in on him. That -puts you between him and the door and leaves him no chance to get out -into the hall. You will touch him gently on the shoulder. He will wake -up in alarm. - -“Eh, what? What is it? Who is it? Turn on the light.” - -Then you will say to him in a firm, kindly tone: “Listen to me and don’t -get excited.” You will put the cold muzzle of the gun against his neck -and now your voice will be cold, hard, threatening. “Do you feel that? -That’s a gun. If you move I’ll let it go. You just keep cool and don’t -get yourself killed over a few lousy dollars. I want that bankroll of -yours; I know it’s here. Tell me where it is and make it easy on -yourself—and be quick about it.” - -Yes, that’s the way you will handle him. You start on around to the side -of his bed. You remember you have been in the room almost two hours and -a half. It will soon be daylight. You look at the window. Yes, there -it is; a faint line of gray down the edge of the curtain, the dawn. You -must hurry. You are by his side now. You take a better grip on the gun, -reach out to touch him, and—pandemonium breaks out in the adjoining -room. - -It’s only an alarm clock going off, but it petrifies you standing up and -tears every nerve in your body up by the roots. You don’t bolt out of -the room in a panic; you remain perfectly still. Your mind jumps into -the other room. Your sleeping gambler kicks out his legs, turns over -with a jerky movement, mutters a string of curses, pulls the covers over -his head, and settles himself for more sleep. - -You don’t pay much attention to him now. The next room concerns you -more. The noise of the alarm clock changes to a dull, empty, hollow -protest. You know somebody has his hand on the bell, smothering it till -he can turn it off. Now it stops. You hear somebody lumbering about, -every step shakes the floor. He must be a big, heavy man who puts his -heels down first when he walks. You hear him push a button and a -vertical crack of light appears at the head of the bed you are standing -by. You know what that is. This is an old house, and that’s a folding -door. - -The man now unlocks his door and steps out into the hall. You step -softly to your door and listen. He goes heavily down the hall, -muttering to himself. You hear him push the light button a couple of -times but he gets no light—you unscrewed the globe; he thinks it’s burnt -out. You hear him open and shut a door; he is in the bathroom. You turn -back to your man. Then a window is thrown up with a bang in the room on -your other side. Daylight is racing on you. You can see clearly now. You -hear other noises. The place is becoming a hornet’s nest. You must give -it up and get out. You’re not broke. You don’t have to risk everything -here. You step out of the room, close the door softly, go downstairs, -and out the front way. - -Yes, reader, you went down the street and into a restaurant where you -ate heartily. Then to bed for a good, healthy, sound sleep. - -Not me! I went back to the hop joint. - -You get up the next evening, go to the same restaurant, get something to -eat, and look over the papers. You find nothing about your doings; you -didn’t expect to. You know the gambler missed his silver. You know he -will suspect somebody around the boarding house and lock his room door -in future. You take stock and decide to lay off for a few nights and -give your luck a chance to switch. - -You are slowly making up your mind to get out of this burglary racket; -it’s too tough. Suppose you had stuck up the gambler. Maybe his money -was downstairs in a safe and you wouldn’t have got it. You would have -had to dash out into the street whether you got it or not. How could you -tell who would be in the street when you went out? The cop on the beat -might be sitting on the front steps. You might bump into the milk man, -the bread man, or the ice man. You decide that the whole thing is very -uncertain, after all. - -For the first time you see clearly this dangerous angle of this business -of yours. You can plan and plot and scheme; you can figure out just what -you’ll do from the minute you step into a place till you step out of it, -but the great weakness of it is—you can’t tell who or what is going to -be outside when you go out, and all your ingenuity can’t overcome it. -You toss the whole thing out of your mind and go to a theater. After -that you go to your room. It’s a warm night, you’re in no hurry about -going to bed, so you sit in the dark by the window getting the cool air. - -You wonder who will occupy the transient room directly across the light -well from you. Last night a woman and two children were in it. They -talked all during the forenoon and kept you awake. You hope they have -gone away. Just as you are ready to go to bed a light is switched on in -the room across the way. Idly you look over. The window is open and the -curtain is up. A fat man with a pink complexion and gray hair is -standing in the middle of the room. His door is still open, you can see -through his room and out into the hall. He stands facing you, his legs -apart, hands in his pockets, and his hat on the back of his head. - -You decide he is about half drunk. He takes his hat off and throws it -out of your line of vision, probably at the dresser. Now he turns -around, goes to the door, and kicks it shut with a bang. Back in the -middle of his room he puts a fat hand in his capacious pants pocket and -comes up with a small roll of paper money. He unrolls the bills, looking -at them with a mysterious smile on his fat face. You don’t understand -his smile and wonder if he is thinking how he cheated somebody in a -poker game; he looks like a gambler. - -The roll interests you, the outside one is what you call a “salmon -belly.” It is a yellowback—a big bill. The fat man now gets a chair and -places it directly in front of his window, but instead of sitting down -he stands up on it unsteadily. You get alarmed and watch him intently. -Surely he’s not going to jump out? No, he takes the string and pulls the -curtain halfway down. All you can see of him now is his bulky -midsection. The upper part of him is silhouetted against the curtain. He -raises one hand above his head, the hand that holds the bills. You can -see its blurred shadow as he runs it along the roller at the top of the -curtain. He takes hold of one edge of the curtain now, pulls it down a -little till the ratchet is released, and lets it go up with a rattle and -bang. He puts both hands on the windowsill to steady himself as he gets -off the chair. - -He is still smiling, but there’s no mystery about it now. You sit in -your room not fifteen feet away, open-mouthed in amazed admiration. What -a fox he is, to roll his money up in the curtain! What a plant! What -chance would a prowler have of finding his money? - -He sits down with his back to you and you hear him drop one shoe on the -floor; in about a minute you hear the other one drop. Then he goes over -to the door, turns the key, and snaps the light out. In fifteen minutes -you can hear him breathing like a blacksmith’s bellows. - -He is healthy, he is a good eater and drinker, he is a sound sleeper. -But the thing looks suspiciously soft to you and you wonder if the fat -man might not be a smart dick framing for you. You decide he isn’t -because he locked his door. - -“Well,” you say to yourself, “bad luck or good luck, I’m going after -that dough.” - -You don’t mind his door being locked. You know your business; you have -three ways of opening it. You go out and down the hall to a small room -where the Chinese bed maker keeps his brooms, buckets, mops, and other -things, and get a small parcel of delicate instruments you keep planted -there. You go back to your room and wait till, say, four o’clock, when -everything is dead and all the guests are in and abed. Then you go -around into the fat man’s hall, put out the light, and go to work on his -door. - -You go about the opening of his door confidently, and with a sure touch. -You know he is sleeping, you can hear his gusty breathing from where you -stand outside. Now you have it unlocked, you open it, step in, and close -it. The chair is still in place by the window. Your ear follows his -regular breathing. You don’t creep around this room as you did in the -gambler’s. You walk over to the chair, step upon it lightly, put one -hand up against the roller, and pull the curtain down with the other. It -makes a little noise. Your back is to the sleeper, but your ear tells -you he is safe. When the curtain is about halfway down, your fingers -touch the roll of bills, another little pull and you have it. - -You step down off the chair and find his vest and trousers. His watch -“hefts” heavy. You take it, and you take the silver out of his -trousers—just to penalize him for trying to be foxy. - -You go out, closing the door carefully behind you. Back in your room -you examine the bills and silver carefully—you remember the -twenty-dollar bill that cost you two years and two lashings. You find -you have more money than you would have got out of both the places you -failed in; enough to last you six months if you are careful and don’t -gamble. - -You plant your instruments in the little room down the hall. Then you go -out the back way to dodge the night clerk, and down to an all-night -saloon where you put the bills away in your compartment in the big safe. -The night bartender is “square”; he knows you and your business. You -want to get rid of the watch as quick as possible. It’s worth a hundred -dollars. You sell it to him for a twenty-dollar note, glad to be done -with it. - -Yes, reader, I know what you say to yourself now. You are saying: -“Well, he doesn’t have to go to the hop joint this time.” - -You are right. I didn’t have to go, but I went just the same. The opium -smoker can always find a good excuse for an extra smoke. I went to the -joint to celebrate my changed fortune and to propitiate whatever -deformed deity it is that is supposed to look after the luck of a -burglar. I must have propitiated to some purpose, for within a week -another stroke of dumb luck more than doubled my bankroll, and I decided -to take a lay-off. - -Always in the back of my mind was the thought that some day I would go -back and see my father. It was ten years since I ran away from him. Many -things had happened to me. Something may have happened to him. He might -need money or help. I was free to go; I had no associates to cling to; I -was under no obligations to anybody. My time and money were my own. The -hop habit was getting fastened on me, and this trip would give me a -chance to break away from it. The notion of being respectable and -feeling safe and secure for a few months took my fancy, so I started in -to do the thing right. - -My gun and burglar tools went to my bartender friend as presents. I was -glad to get rid of the gun for a while. I could get another any time for -ten dollars, and for another ten I could order by mail more instruments -from an ex-burglar at Warsaw, Illinois, who manufactured them and -advertised them in the *Police Gazette* as “novelties.” - -I had always followed the Sanctimonious Kid’s advice in the matter of -wearing careful clothes, but now I satisfied my hankering for a gray -suit and hat. I thought of the leather trunk too, but it had no appeal -any more. I remembered old Cy Near, and smiled to think how I had -worshiped the twenty-dollar gold piece that dangled from the watch chain -across his ample paunch. - -I soon discovered that being respectable imposed many hardships and -obligations I hadn’t thought of. One of them is paying railroad fare. I -played the game square while I was at it, and gave up my money for a -ticket and a berth in the sleeper. Here I encountered another hardship. -My professional eye told me there were many fat pocketbooks beneath the -pillows of my fellow travelers that my professional hand could have -taken when the porter was out of sight, but I forebore. - -At Kansas City I prowled about the neighborhood I had lived and worked -in, but asked no questions. The crabbed, cranky widow’s boarding house -was closed. Tex of the larcenous eye was gone, and so were the card and -dice sharks. Cocky McAllister, the hack driver that helped me rescue -Julia, was not around his old stand. The milkman I worked for, -collecting bills from “them women,” was not at his place. The theater -where Julia worked was still going, but she was not there. I passed -Madam Singleton’s old place, but there was another name on the -red-lighted pane of glass above the door. Still I asked no questions; -they were all nothing to me. I could easily have found somebody to tell -me what became of them all except, perhaps, Julia, but I was a stranger -in my own town and preferred to remain one. My father was the only one I -asked about. At the railroad offices, in the department where he had -worked, I learned that he was dead. - -A talkative old pensioner on the company who tended a door told me he -had been dead three years; that he died after a long siege of sickness -and had barely enough money left to bury him decently in the village -graveyard beside my mother. I was not shocked to learn of his death; we -had been too far apart for that. I wondered if my long silence and -absence mightn’t have aggravated his illness and hastened his end. I was -sorry not to have been with him when he was sick and needed me. I was -glad he died without knowing what I had done to my life. - -That was many years ago, but I wasn’t thoughtless even then, and I -recall now, distinctly, how I realized with shame and regret that I had -never done one thing to repay him for caring for me till I was able to -shift, no matter how lamely, for myself. Looking back now, as I did -then, I am forced to admit that the only consideration I ever showed for -him was this: I never put his name, which is my name, on a police -blotter or a prison register while he was alive, or after his death. - -I had been dallying with the opium pipe almost daily for a year, yet I -had no trouble when I gave it up—just a few restless days and nights and -I forgot it. I gave this no thought then, but later when I saw an opium -smoker doubled up with cramps and pleading for hop, and learned he had -been “on the pipe” only three months, I got interested and began -thinking it over and observing. - -My observations and experience have convinced me that the drug habit, -like most of our other habits, is largely mental. In another chapter I -shall submit a few facts in support of this opinion. - -Kansas City had nothing of interest for me now, and I left it, never to -return. A cheap excursion ticket took me back west to the town of Los -Angeles, where I finished the winter, fraternizing with the bums and -yeggs from the road, polishing up old acquaintances, and gathering -gossip from the four quarters of the underworld. - - - - -CHAPTER XX - - -Spring came. For me that meant moving, and while I was trying to decide -where to go I made by chance the acquaintance of a coal miner who had -worked in a small mine in one of the middle-west provinces of Canada. In -the course of our talks I learned by asking a few casual questions that -the mine worked between thirty and forty men; that it was on a short -branch road off the Canadian Pacific; that the pay-off was in cash, on -or about the first of every month, and that the money was shipped by -express from the city of Winnipeg, Manitoba. The fact that the payroll -had to be held one night at the point where it was transferred to the -branch road into the mine interested me. I knew the place, and that -there was little or no police protection. There were four or five -thousand dollars that had to lie somewhere in a small town overnight, -practically unprotected. The two thousand miles I would have to travel -meant nothing. If the thing couldn’t be handled, I would still be in -the midst of fertile fields where I could make a living without taking -tough chances against wised-up city police and the busy stool pigeon. - -Bidding farewell to the bums and yeggs at “Mother Moustache’s” wine dump -in “Sonora Town,” where they all hung out and did their drinking, I -discarded my gray suit for a pair of overalls, a rough coat, a blue -shirt, and a cap, and took to the road for a three-week jump. Through -California, across Oregon, and into Spokane, Washington, where I found -my bartender friend and recovered my “instruments,” which had been lying -unused in the safe. The gun I left with him, as it was cumbersome and -useless to me on the road. I could get one when I got nearer my -destination. - -On through Butte, Great Falls, and to the Canadian line I traveled; on -north to Calgary again, but this time I turned eastward and soon arrived -at the town where the mine payroll had to be transferred. - -I had managed my money carefully during the winter and still had enough -to carry me for a few months by economizing. The first thing I did was -to take a look at the “box” in the depot, which was the express office -as well. I had confidently expected to find a safe of cheap or obsolete -make, such as was generally in use then in the smaller towns. - -One look at this “box” made me regret that I had ever met the talkative -coal miner. It was of the latest make and belonged in a bank instead of -an express office in a town of two thousand people. It was as near -burglar-proof as any safe could be, and in addition to this it was -“chested,” which, in terms of burglary, means it had a steel chest -inside—a safe within a safe. I was dismayed. I saw at a glance that it -was too much for me. It was the kind of safe that discourages the “heavy -man” (safe breaker). He looks it over and says to his mob: “Yes, I can -beat her all right,” and explains to them in detail just how it can be -done. “But,” he finishes, “it would take three or four shots to get into -the guts of her and, you know, the first shot wakes the natives up. If -they don’t hear another they don’t know what woke them, and go back to -sleep; but when they do hear the second shot they get up to find out -what it’s about. Then comes the last one, and they’re on top of you with -shotguns and pitchforks. You’ve got to stand them off and dash out. -Where? Why, nowhere. There’s no getaway here, and I don’t want the coin -bad enough to go against it.” - -I knew if they put the payroll in that “box” it would be as safe from me -as if it was in the bank at Winnipeg. I couldn’t have opened it if I had -it in the town blacksmith shop for twenty-four hours. Discouraging as -the business looked, I decided to stay in the place and have a look at -the money when it arrived. - -I got a room at the hotel, hung my coat up on a rack, and went about in -my shirt sleeves trying to appear like a miner or ranch hand and attract -no attention. Every night at nine o’clock, when the train came in from -the east, I was on the depot platform with the town loungers and did as -much staring around as any of them. At last the end of the month came, -and with it the payroll. This night the station agent, who was telegraph -operator, express agent, and everything else about the depot, was a bit -more alert, walking around with an air of importance, responsibility. -When the train pulled in, he was at the door of the express car, and, -sure enough, out came the payroll in a small leather container, about -the size of a woman’s hand bag. - -When the train departed, the agent, with a firm grip on the leather -pouch, returned to his office escorted by the depot loungers. The -payroll was locked securely in the inner compartment of the big safe, -and then the heavy outer door closed upon it, shutting out any hopes I -had of getting my hands on it that night. I went off to bed sad and -thoughtful. - -The next morning at ten o’clock I followed the payroll aboard the -jerkwater train that carried it to the waiting miners. At twelve o’clock -I sat on the sidewalk across from the mine office and gloomily watched -the paymaster portioning it out to the joyful miners. In the afternoon -I rode back to the main line with my mind made up to let the thing go -and look elsewhere for something not so tough. - -There was a Chinese laundry in the town and I had often thought of going -into it for a smoke to kill off the dull hours, and now, both dull and -despondent, I made my way to it and into the confidence of the boss -Chinaman, who made me welcome. He was hospitable and kindly as all -Chinese are who have not become sour and suspicious under the -impositions of their white brothers. - -A moderate quantity of opium will not inflame or distort the -imagination. I do not say it is an aid to clear thinking, but it is a -fact that I left the laundry with what I thought, and still think, was -nothing less than an inspiration. - -The next day I went over the town thoroughly and looked at every “box” -in it. There was not one that I couldn’t beat. My “inspiration” told me -that if I could put the depot safe out of business a few days before the -payroll arrived again, the agent would be forced to lock it in one of -the other safes in the town and I might get a chance at it. After -traveling the great distance and spending so much time and money, I -hated to quit without making a try for this money. - -I jumped fifty miles farther east, where I got dynamite and drills, -stealing them at a mine, and returned to wait another month before I -could do anything more. A week before the payroll was due, I went into -the depot one night with a sledge hammer, knocked the combination knob -off the “box,” battered the spindle in, and smashed the handle on the -door. Adding another touch to the “burglary,” I left a couple of -crowbars behind, broke open the till, smashed things generally, and -threw cigarette and cigar snipes and pipe scrapings on the floor. When -the station man opened up the next morning, his office looked as if it -had been raided by a tribe of yeggs that had tried to wreck it when they -failed to open the “box.” There was a tremendous hue and cry, and a -fruitless man hunt. An inspector of police came, looked at the safe, and -declared the job was done by a band of thieves that had been ravaging -depots and post offices farther east. The battered safe was shipped to -Toronto to be opened and repaired by its makers. - -I waited with much anxiety and not a little curiosity to see what would -be done with the leather pouch when it arrived at the end of the month. - -Two days after the safe and express office were wrecked, a “redcoat,” as -the Mounted Police are called, was killed by a drunken Indian. Every -idle able-bodied man in town joined the man hunt that lasted ten days, -and my “burglary” was forgotten in the new excitement. I kept a careful -watch on the depot agent, and saw he was taking the day’s small receipts -home with him every night. I looked over his house and prepared to enter -it in case he did the same with the payroll instead of leaving it in one -of the safes. My most careful check on his residence showed he had no -children, no dog, no old people in it. He and his wife were all I would -have to contend with. - -On the evening the money was due I went over the whole thing carefully -and satisfied myself that nothing had been left undone in the way of -precaution and protection. Not a glance of suspicion had turned in my -direction so far, and I was sure that if I got my hands on the money I -could plant it, stand pat, and weather the storm. - -At last the train pulled in. A mail sack was thrown out to a small boy, -who ran off to the post office with it. The leather pouch was put into -the agent’s hands and a few of the “regulars” at the depot followed him -to his office. As usual he at once put out the lights, locked the place -up, and walked across the street to the post office, surrounded by the -depot loungers. The small mail was distributed in five minutes, and he -turned toward home with the payroll under his arm, a neighbor on each -side of him, and I half a block behind. - -His neighbors left him at his front gate, and his wife met him at the -front door. I was relieved when the business resolved itself into a -house burglary, for forcing safes with explosives is an uphill job for -one man and is seldom attempted. The house was new, well built, and -small—three rooms downstairs and two above. It was in a large lot with a -few small trees and some plants around it. I took up my watch at once, -and from the vacant lot adjoining I saw them sit down to dinner. After a -half hour at the table, they got up and I could hear them shutting -doors, putting windows down, and fastening them. For a minute the house -was dark, then a light appeared upstairs, which meant they were going to -bed. Another half hour and the upstairs light was doused. I walked -away. I had “put them to bed” and could do nothing more till after -midnight. - -In the city the burglar finds most people asleep at dawn; in the country -most people wake with the dawn. I knew I must start early and set one -o’clock as the hour to begin. Allowing myself two hours to get in, get -action, and get out, I could have it over by three o’clock, which would -give me time to plant the money and be in my room before daylight. My -parcel of instruments and a gun were planted a few blocks away. I went -after them, returned to the house, and found a place in the yard where I -could watch and wait without being seen by any chance passer-by. With -two hours to kill, I went over the thing again and could think of -nothing more in the way of precaution. I had even picked a place in a -lot near by to plant the money. - -At one o’clock I took off my shoes and put them in my back pockets. -There in that house was a big piece of money. I had put in almost two -months planning to get it, and now that I was ready to “step” I summoned -everything in the way of professional skill that I had acquired in the -years since the Smiler gave me my first lesson. I found the kitchen door -locked. The key inside was soon displaced and the door unlocked with one -of my own. Once inside I shut the door; this was in the country and I -could not chance stray, hungry dogs or cats coming in for food and -knocking pans around while I was upstairs. The door to the dining room -was shut, but not locked. There was a rocking-chair in line between the -front and back dining-room doors. I carefully pushed it to one side, -making the way clear in case of a hasty leaving. - -At the foot of the stairs in the hall I could hear the man breathing. -The bedroom door upstairs was open. The stairs were solid, well put -together, and did not creak, but I took a long time in doing them, -wondering all the while where I would find the leather bag. No such luck -as getting it off the dresser. No, he would surely have it under his -pillow. After a long wait at the door of their room my ears picked up -the woman’s gentler breathing. They both slept the sleep of young, -healthy, tired workers, and I could wish for nothing more. There was -light enough from the window to enable me to look over the dresser. The -pouch was not there and I prayed it wouldn’t be in one of the drawers, -for of all the abominable obstacles that balk the burglar of a sleeping -room the bureau drawer is the first and worst. - -After wasting the better part of an hour going through the room, I -concluded the thing was under his head. Kneeling beside his pillow, I -put the gun beside me on the floor, ready to my hand, where I could get -it and stick him up if he woke up on me. The sleeper was lying on his -back. His head was on the middle of his pillow, and directly beneath it -was the leather bag. - -A watch or purse may be taken from under a pillow with ease, but an -object the size of this bag I wanted will shift the pillow when it is -withdrawn. It pulls the pillow with it, the pillow pulls the sleeper’s -head with it, and he wakes up. When the burglar gets up against this, he -has to put one hand against the end of the pillow, holding it in place, -while he tugs gently at the spoils below. - -Whether it was my pulling on the pouch I don’t know, but the sleeping -man stirred uneasily and his regular breathing stopped. I shrank down -lower beside the bed, one hand under his head and the other at the -pillow, breathless from the intense concentration and suspense. He -stirred again and then floundered heavily over on his side, his back to -me and his head off the leather. I could not hear him breathe. I was -sure he was awake, but not alarmed. After a heart-breaking fifteen -minutes his sleep became natural again, and I slowly, softly pulled the -pouch free from under his pillow. It was mine now, and it was my -business to hold on to it. - -I took as long going downstairs as I did going up, and at last made my -way out of the house, closing the kitchen door softly behind me. Putting -my shoes on, I hastened away to plant the money. In the neighborhood was -a big vacant lot, its boundaries marked by a row of broken and leaning -fence posts from which the boards had been taken for firewood or other -uses. Pulling one of the loose posts from its place, I threw the pouch -in the hole and jammed the post down on top of it. The gun and -instruments I threw into a small stream near by. I wanted to be entirely -clean of anything incriminating in case I was suspected, arrested, and -searched. - -In the security of my room I went over the night’s work. After an hour’s -thought I could think of but one more thing I ought to do. My socks -might have picked up dirt or dust around the house. A particle of dust, -a piece of thread or lint or raveling of cloth might convict me if -suspicion fell on me. Taking the socks off my feet, I went out and threw -them in a lot. - -Fully satisfied that I had done everything possible to insure safety, I -returned to the hotel. Daylight was coming on. Going upstairs I met the -porter coming down to open up. He gave me a sleepy “good-morning,” and I -went on to my room and to bed, but not to sleep. I was in the dining -room as usual about seven o’clock. The room was noisy, every one was -talking at once. A tall man got up from the table, saying in a loud -Western drawl: “Waal, I’m fer lynchin’ ’em if we git ’em.” A -quiet-spoken Englishman next me at the long table told me all about the -burglary. Out in the street I saw with some concern that the town was on -fire with excitement. - -I got through the forenoon all right, standing around the street -discussing the burglary with acquaintances I had made in the town, doing -more listening than talking. At noon, when I went into the hotel for -dinner, the constable, the hotel men, and the porter I met on the stairs -in the early morning were standing at the bar with their heads together -talking earnestly. When they saw me they quit talking and went out on -the sidewalk. One glance from the constable told me I was suspected. I -saw that the porter had done his deadly work; I was due for a lot of -questioning. Along in the afternoon the superintendent of the mine -where the payroll belonged got into town and took charge of things. -There was a powwow in the magistrate’s office. I saw the hotel porter go -in, and braced myself to take the blow. - -In a few minutes the constable came out and over to me where I stood -with a crowd of natives. “Please step inside, young man,” he said. -Inside a group of men were seated and I was given a chair. I was -determined to answer no questions. No use in going into long, detailed -explanations of my movements and have them exploded and discredited on -investigation, and thus strengthen the case against myself. - -The magistrate began on me. “Young man, we want you to explain your -business here. Who you are, where you’re from, and what you do for a -living? You are suspected as the burglar who last night entered the -express agent’s house and made off with four thousand and eight hundred -dollars cash. You were seen entering your hotel at daylight this -morning. Explain that to us.” - -My mind jumped back to the floggings, the dark cells with their bread -and water, to my escape from jail, and to every other hardship I had -accepted without weakening, and I laughed at him. Here was a little, -pompous fat man blustering under his black skullcap behind a cheap table -with a few legal papers on it, trying to make me talk. - -I said to him: “Did you ever sleep in my hotel?” - -“Yes,” he answered, forgetting his dignity. - -“Well, then, you know that the wash room and toilet are in a covered -space between the two wings of the building, outside and at the rear, -and to get to them you go down the back stairs and out a back door.” - -“Very well,” he replied, “now tell us why you were at the depot the last -two times the payroll was left off. Why you followed it up to the mine, -and why you followed the agent home last night.” - -I brazened it out with all the indignation I could muster, reminding him -that I was a British subject and it was my right to stand mute and -answer no questions. The mine superintendent said to the others so I -could hear him: “My men want to lynch somebody; I don’t know whether I -can control them.” I knew all about miners and knew they never lynched -anybody anywhere. I knew I was in Canada where lynching never -flourished. - -I turned to a group of miners at the back of the room. “This man says -you want to lynch me. Before you do it, I want to know why.” - -One of them, a giant, red-headed Irishman with shaggy, white eyebrows -and pebbly blue eyes, said: “Don’t worry, me boy, there’ll be no -lynchin’ here.” - -Turning to the magistrate, I said: “You telegraph, at my expense, the -Minister of Justice at Ottawa that this man,” pointing to the -superintendent, “is trying to incite these miners to lynch me. And I -want a copy of the telegram and my request made a matter of record in -your office.” - -The magistrate looked confused. The superintendent said, “I’ll make the -complaint. I want this man held.” The constable arrested me “In the -queen’s name,” searched me and locked me in the town jail, a one-room -affair in a lot back of his house. He brought me blankets and supper, -and left me to meditate in silence and privacy. I went over everything -again. The shoe was on the other foot this time; they hadn’t a thing on -me. No court in Christendom would convict me on those shreds of -suspicion. I rolled up in the blankets and went to sleep with the -comfortable thought that the forty-eight hundred dollars might help me -to forget the awful lashing I took at New Westminster when I got to San -Francisco or Chicago with them. - -Next morning in court it was shown by witnesses that I was at the depot -twice when the money arrived; that I went to the mine once on the same -train with it; and a woman testified that she saw me walking behind the -station agent and his neighbors as they went home the night of the -burglary. The porter who spilled the beans finished the trial by -testifying that he met me on the stairs in the early morning; that I was -nervous, acted suspiciously, and tried to avoid him. - -I made no defense, but set up a loud and long protest that did no good. -I was held for trial and whisked away to the provincial jail. I was -convinced that the mine superintendent had engineered the thing on the -theory that I was guilty and in hopes that something would transpire in -his favor while I was waiting to be tried. - -The provincial jail was like the one I escaped from. The jailer was -sober and decent, giving me plenty of books and fair treatment. I had a -cell to myself, kept away from the other prisoners, tried my case -mentally every day, and got acquitted every time, and at night I spent -large chunks of the payroll that was so securely planted in the post -hole. - -After three months of leisure, reading and pleasant anticipations, I -went to court. A judge had arrived for the fall assizes and mine was the -only felony case. The witnesses were all there. I pleaded not guilty -and my case was set for trial at two o’clock in the afternoon. The judge -asked if I had counsel. I told him I had no lawyer and didn’t want one; -that I had but little money and would need it when I was acquitted. - -“Better get counsel,” he snapped. “A defendant that tries his own case -has a fool for a lawyer.” - -I replied by asking him to read the testimony from the lower court -before wasting his time trying me. - -While I was eating dinner the mine superintendent came to my cell and -said if I would give up the money I could go free. I threatened to sue -him for false imprisonment when I got out. He went away mad. I decided -they wanted me to get a local lawyer in hopes I would unbosom myself to -him so he could do the same with them. - -At two o’clock I was back in court. The judge was a brusque, -businesslike little old man with the brisk, aggressive air of a terrier. -His hair was clipped short and his cropped beard grew in every -direction. He wore a coarse suit of tweeds, hobnailed shoes, and a -cheap flannel shirt, with a linen collar and no tie. He had two sheets -of paper in his hand, looking at them. - -“Have you anything more than this?” he asked the Crown counsel. - -“Nothing, Your Lordship.” - -“And do you expect me to try a man on this ragged rot?” Throwing the -papers on his desk, he turned toward me. “Defendant discharged.” - -I walked out and over to the jail, where I got my belongings—forty -dollars, a pocketknife, and a lead pencil. The constable who made the -arrest followed me all over town—to the barber’s, the restaurant, and at -last to the depot. A train came in going in the opposite direction from -the scene of the burglary, and I boarded it without buying a ticket. He -watched the train leave, but did not get on. At a junction I got off and -traveled south to a stage-line connection, where I took the stage back -in the direction of my money. After ten days of maneuvering and -detouring, I reached a settlement off the railroad about thirty miles -away from where I was arrested. - -Hiring a saddle horse there, I jogged away in high spirits, timing -myself to get into the town about midnight, when I could lift the plant -and be far away before daylight. Everything favored me as I rode into -the town. There wasn’t a stray dog or cat on the back streets, and every -soul was in bed asleep. Turning a corner, I came in sight of the big, -vacant lot. Yes, there it was. My eye took in the row of leaning, rotten -posts down one side and across the front, then to the inner line of the -lot where I put the leather pouch in its post hole. There seemed to be a -change there. Was I at the right lot? Yes, there, a block away, was the -house I entered, plain in the moonlight. My eye followed the route I -took from the house to the lot. I pulled up the tired horse, certain I -was at the right spot; and I was. - -But on top of the spot, directly on top of it, stood a long, wide, -well-built, substantial, two-story frame building. - -That hour when I saw the money was lost to me was probably the saddest -of my life. I never got a greater shock. I am telling this story because -it is an interesting incident, not to cause anybody misery or mirth. Yet -I know that any thief reading it will groan in sympathy with me. The -honest reader will laugh and say: “It served him right.” - -In the last ten years I have learned money-honesty. I have come to like -it, it has become a habit. I practice it daily. Some day I may learn to -laugh at the loss of that forty-eight hundred, but I’ll never learn to -like laughing over it. It will never become a habit to be practiced -daily. - -Slumping off the horse, I threw the bridle rein over his head, left him -standing patiently in the street, and walked stiffly over to the -building. As near as I could judge one corner of it was directly over -the spot where I made my plant. The front and one side of it covered the -line where the decayed fence had formerly marked the boundary of the -lot. Small barred windows in the cement foundation showed there was a -basement and crushed my hopes that the money might be under the -building. A careful survey of the place convinced me that the payroll -was gone and there was no use in hanging around and inviting another -pinch. Right here I should have muttered a string of oaths, thrown -myself into the saddle, sunk my spurs, rowel deep, into the flanks of my -horse, and dashed madly out of town. Sore from the long ride, I was -barely able to throw a stiff leg over the saddle and settle down in it. -Turning the horse’s head in the direction of his home, I threw the reins -on his neck and let him jog along as he liked. I was crushed. It was an -hour before I could think rationally. Then the question came into my -mind that is in your mind now, reader. Who got the money? - -I wish I could tell you, but I can’t. I don’t know. I wish I could tell -what became of Julia, the girl from Madam Singleton’s. I wish I could -tell you what was done at the Diamond Palace when the tray of stones was -missed, and whether Chew Chee, the Chinese boy, was recaptured and had -to go to prison. - -I can’t answer any of those questions. The nature of my business was -such that I preferred to leave them unanswered rather than bring -disaster by inquiring too closely. I know the mine payroll never got -back into the owner’s hands. I assume it was found by a laborer, who -kept it. The reconstruction of the finding of my money and the picturing -of its finder furnished me with many hours of mental relaxation. Lying -in the dungeon or in the hop joint or on the grass in the public parks, -I pieced it together painfully. But never could I see the lucky finder -as an honest man; nor by any effort of imagination could I ever picture -him as putting the money to any good use. In the end, he always turned -out to be a drunken, dissolute day laborer, sweating in the sun as he -dug out the ditch for the foundation of that building. I saw him turn up -the leather pouch with his shovel, seize it, open it stealthily, and -thrust it inside his shirt. Then he threw down his shovel, walked over -to the boss, and demanded his “time.” - -I heard the foreman say: “All right, you’re no good anyway. I was going -to fire you to-night.” - -I followed the finder to the little depot where he bought a ticket to -the wide-open joyful town of Montreal. There I watched him dissipate my -money riotously in the slums. At last, and with great satisfaction, I -saw him dead in the gutter without a dime, and followed his body to the -morgue, where the coroner pronounced it a case of “acute alcoholism.” - -After a long tiresome ride I delivered the fagged horse to his owner and -went off to a quiet spot to sum up and see how I stood with the world. -My loss was not put down to poetic justice or attributed to the law of -compensation. I just classified it as a mess of tough luck and tried to -forget it. An inventory of my possessions showed one pocketknife, one -pencil, a bandanna handkerchief, tobacco and papers, and nine dollars. I -was a hundred miles away from any place where I could put my hands on a -dollar without getting arrested at sunrise. I had no gun, no keys, no -instruments. I was a shorn lamb. No one but myself was to blame for the -shearing, and it was up to me to get busy and temper the wind as quickly -as possible. - -In the way of clothes I had those I left Los Angeles in—overalls, blue -shirt, a stout coat, and a cheap cap. - -After bumming a stage ride, beating my way over a jerkwater branch road, -and stowing away on a Columbia River boat loaded with dynamite and -explosive oil for the mines, I got into one of the prosperous camps with -a lone dollar in my pocket. The town was booming; crowded with miners, -prospectors, and speculators. Beds were two dollars a night and meals a -dollar. This caused me no uneasiness, for I knew it would be easier to -get three dollars there than fifteen cents in the big cities where, in -those days, a “chicken dinner” could be had for a dime and a “flop” on a -bare floor for a “jit,” as the Southern negro affectionately calls his -nickel. - -In a restaurant I met an old friend in the person of the waiter, who had -formerly been a very active member of the “Johnson” family. He was still -in good standing, although he had retired from the road after several -unfortunate experiments with burglary and robbery. It was late at night; -I took an hour to eat, and he listened with genuine sympathy to all the -harrowing details of my latest experience. At the cash register, where -he also officiated, my dollar was no good. He offered to share his room -with me, and when I declined, explaining that I would be too busy to -sleep, he magnanimously suggested that I “prowl the joint” he lived in. -This looked all right, and I took his room key with the understanding -that if anything went wrong in the place I could say I was looking for -his room and he would alibi for me. - -It was late when I started to look through his hotel. I lost half an -hour locating a sleeper with his door unlocked, and another half hour -pulling his moneyless trousers from under his head, where he had placed -them from force of habit. I fared better in another room, and, calling -it a night, hastened to my friend’s place to return his key and look -over my takings. - -The restaurant was deserted. I joined him at a back table, where he sat -cleaning a row of water glasses. Blowing his breath into one, like a -housewife with a lamp chimney, he polished it carefully with a soiled -napkin. “Did you score?” he inquired. - -“Yes,” I said. - -I spread my money on the table to look it over. My sad experience with -the twenty-dollar bill had made me careful. The paper money looked safe -enough, and so did the silver except one fifty-cent piece that was worn -smooth and had a monogram engraved on one side of it—a pocket piece or -keepsake. - -“Take this out in the back and throw it away,” I said to him; “it’s -deadly poison.” - -Instead, he rang it up on the register, saying, “That will pay your -check; no use wasting it. It will go to the bank in the morning.” - -I went to his room and to bed. At seven o’clock he came in with this -amazing story, and I suggest a careful study of it by any young man who -thinks stealing is an exact science, and all he has to do is outwit the -coppers. - -“Thirty minutes after you left the restaurant,” said he, “a guy came in -and ate his breakfast in silence. He laid down a five-dollar bill to -pay his check and the four-bit piece you threw me was in the change I -gave him. He jumped stiff-legged and began frothing at the mouth when he -saw it. - -“‘I was robbed last night in my room. I had to wake the clerk up this -morning and borrow five dollars. This fifty-cent piece is mine. I had it -last night. It has my initials on it. I’ve carried it five years. How -did it get into your till?’ - -“I told him I took it in an hour before from a short, stout, red-headed -man with a broken nose and about forty years old. He is going to have a -policeman at the place until the redhead shows up again. I promised to -point him out if I see him anywhere. You’re safe; but you had better -eat somewhere else for a while.” - - - - -CHAPTER XXI - - -This strange coincidence of the marked piece of silver more than ever -convinced me of the necessity for keeping something ahead so I wouldn’t -be forced to go out and take long chances for short money. With enough -in my pocket now to last me a month, I gave the town a thorough -canvassing for something worth while. I found many places that appeared -to be advertising for a burglar, and the most promising was the big -general store. It was packed to the roof with merchandise, and the -owners, to save floor space, had placed the safe behind stairs, where it -could not be seen from the street. I “pegged” the spot for a week and -satisfied myself that after the store was closed at night no one entered -it till opening-up time in the morning. - -The expression, “I have him pegged,” which has crept into common usage, -is thieves’ slang pure and simple, and has nothing to do with the game -of cribbage as many suppose. The thief, to save himself the trouble of -staying up all night watching a spot to make sure no one enters after -closing hours, puts a small wooden peg in the door jamb after the place -is locked up. At five or six o’clock in the morning he takes a look. If -the peg is in place the door has not been opened. If it is found lying -in the doorway, that means somebody has opened the door in the night. If -he finds the place is visited in the night he must then stay out and -learn why and at what time and how often. He now has the place “pegged” -and plans accordingly or passes it up as too tough. - -Dynamite and drills were to be had for the taking at any mine. I invited -my friend, the waiter, to “come in on the caper,” but he declined for -the very good reason that he had “done enough time.” Compared with the -work I had put in getting the mine payroll this was simple and I went -against it alone, confident of success and glad I wouldn’t have to split -the money with anybody. The “box” was of a make that has long been -extinct. It was an experiment on the part of the manufacturers, and a -costly one, for the “box men” soon found a fatal weakness in its make-up -and hungrily sought them out till the last one went into the junk pile. - -The one I had designs on looked more like an old-fashioned clothes -closet than a receptacle for money. Its four wheels rested on a heavy -wooden platform that served to reënforce the thin floor of the -storeroom. The work of putting a hole in it, placing the “shot,” and -laying a five-minute fuse took an hour. The man that does this kind of -work alone must now take a look at the street to be sure there are no -late stragglers around. When he satisfies himself on this point he -returns and lights his fuse. While it is burning he goes back to the -street some distance away and plants himself in a hall or doorway till -he hears the explosion. Then when he is satisfied there is no alarm, he -goes after his money. - -I was in the door of an all-night saloon when my explosion arrived. -Nobody appeared on the street and after a few minutes I went back to the -store to finish the business. Inside, I saw that my “shot” had resulted -in something entirely unforeseen. The outer plate of the door was torn -from its place and lying to one side, bent and twisted. The force of the -explosion had shifted the ponderous box from its platform. It had -fallen forward on its face and ten sturdy burglars couldn’t have turned -it over. Had it remained upright the money would have been mine in five -minutes. Lying on its face, its contents were as safe from me as if they -had been in the town bank. The next day a gang of men turned it partly -over and one of the clerks finished opening it with a crowbar I left in -the store. - -The storekeepers said “there was nothing in the safe anyway.” My friend, -the waiter, who stood by when it was opened, said they hurried to the -bank with a fat package and “what was in it was plenty.” - -This failure took the heart out of me for a few days, and I don’t know -what depths of despondency I might have wallowed in but for my friend. -He suggested, with the best intentions I am sure, that I take a job -washing dishes in the place where he worked. This was a jolt to my -pride. Of course I had nothing against dishwashers or dishwashing. I saw -that any able-bodied dishwasher would have more to show for his ten -years’ hard work than I had for mine, and if I had been in the notion of -going to work I would have taken that kind of job as quick as any. But -the thought of working was as foreign to me as the thought of burglary -or robbery would be to a settled printer or plumber after ten years at -his trade. I wasn’t lazy or indolent; I knew there were lots of easier -and safer ways of making a living, but they were the ways of other -people, people I didn’t know or understand, and didn’t want to. I didn’t -call them suckers or saps because they were different and worked for a -living. They represented society. Society represented law, order, -discipline, punishment. Society was a machine geared to grind me to -pieces. Society was an enemy. There was a high wall between me and -society; a wall reared by myself, maybe—I wasn’t sure. Anyway I wasn’t -going to crawl over the wall and join the enemy just because I had taken -a few jolts of hard luck. - -I did go over the wall in the end and take my hat off to society and -admit I was wrong, but I didn’t do it because of discouragement, because -I was afraid of the future, because of the police. I didn’t do it -because I realized I was wrong; I knew I was wrong years before. I did -it because—but that’s a separate story, to be told later, in its place. - -So, instead of following the waiter’s advice, I busied myself with a few -careful hotel burglaries, got a small bankroll together again, bought -some presentable clothes, and kept looking around for a decent piece of -money. The booming mining town had its share of gamblers, women of the -night, thieves, and hop fiends—nearly all of them renegades or fugitives -from the “American side.” Their leisure time was given to drinking or -smoking hop. I had weaned myself from gambling. I was naturally a light -drinker. So it fell out that, in this town of no amusements, the hop -joint claimed me. - -One afternoon as I lay smoking my day’s portion of hop a voice, a -woman’s voice, strangely familiar, came to me through a thin partition -from the adjoining room. When she finished talking to the Chinese boy -that attended the hop layouts, I fell to wondering who the speaker could -be. My contact with women had been very limited, and it didn’t take much -elimination to fix the voice as that of the street girl of Chicago, the -girl from whose crib I had carried the dead man; the girl I avoided -because I believed she had carelessly killed him with an overdose of -some drug. Just to satisfy myself that I was right, more than anything, -I got up and stepped into her room. No mistake; it was she. She knew me -instantly and I needed no introduction, no sponsor. - -Irish Annie had changed. She was now a well-poised, confident woman. The -world had treated her better than it does most of her kind, and yet she -was not spoiled. She instantly referred to “that awful night,” and -sincerely acknowledged the service I had done her. We compared notes -roughly. She had left Chicago to avoid going to jail for a theft, and -after many hardships and adventures found herself in this British -Columbia mining camp. A lucky prospector in the mines, finding himself -rich overnight, had bought an establishment for her and she was -prospering. - -To show her gratitude to me, she gave a blowout at her place, introduced -me to her “girls” as “an old friend from the States,” set a room apart -for me, and insisted upon me making her home my home. The Chinese boy -brought meals to my room, a hop layout was procured so I could smoke -in peace and security. My room was more comfortable than any I could -have had in a hotel, the meals were better than at the restaurants, I -was treated with deference by everybody in the place, so I remained -there. I paid the rent on rent day, ordered the liquors and -provisions, and “slipped” the town marshal his “once a week.” The -Tenderloin, the marshal, and his deputies accepted me as Annie’s -protector and the man about the place—something I was not and did not -aspire to be. I didn’t take the trouble to enlighten them. I preferred -to have them believe anything rather than the truth. This would make -my stealing easier. - -This soft life that loomed before me in Irish Annie’s had about as much -lure for me as the dishwashing job. Without taking her into my -confidence, I went on with my burgling. That was my trade and I would -not leave it for a job in a restaurant, a “job” in Annie’s, or a -position in a bank. - -Winter came with a rush and a roar. I had thought of getting away from -the North, but it came before I was prepared and there was nothing to do -but stick it out with the others. - -Of all the gamblers that found their way into this camp “Swede Pete” was -probably the cleverest. I knew him from towns on the “American side,” -where he played in all the big poker games with more or less success. He -submitted a scheme to me that looked very good. His plan was to buy a -box of playing cards, mark each deck, and have me, as a capable burglar, -go into one of the big poker rooms, open the card locker, and substitute -his box of marked cards for a box of legitimate cards belonging to the -house. I looked at the place and saw my end of the business would be -simple. He went to work on his cards, and after many days and nights of -patient toil put his “work” on them so he could read them from the back -as easily as from the front. When he had replaced the seals on each deck -and on the box that contained them, he put them in my hands and it was -but an hour’s work for me to put them in the locker and return to him -the full box that his had replaced. - -The following night he sat in the game as usual. Whenever he lost a pot -he threw the unlucky deck on the floor and ordered a fresh one. After a -night or two of this, the gamekeeper had to open a fresh box. This was -our box and Pete’s luck changed at once. In a couple of nights’ play he -got the long end of the money in the game. From what I heard and saw I -estimated his winnings, or stealings, at three thousand dollars. It was -understood that the money should be split evenly between us. When he -gave me my end of it he declared he had won but fifteen hundred and that -he had to have a man in the game with him and the money had to go three -ways. I took the five hundred dollars knowing I was getting the worst of -it and wondering how I could get even. - -Pete was a big, six-foot, blond giant, good-natured, generous, and with -a laugh you could hear a block. Everybody liked him; he was a good -spender and a good loser. He carried a bankroll of several thousand -dollars, as I knew, but the thought of robbing him never entered my mind -till he burnt me in the marked-card transaction. He was interested in a -saloon and had a game of his own in a rear room. I watched him carefully -and learned that when the game and the bar were closed for the night he -put his bankroll in the cash register, locked it, and went to bed in a -comfortable little room that adjoined the big barroom. Apparently his -money was safe. He left his room door open; the register could not be -opened without waking him. - -After thinking the matter over pro and con, I decided to beat off the -barroom, carry the register out and into the alley and smash it open -with an ax. Every night for a week I watched him from across the street -and saw him make up his cash for the day, then put his own money in the -register, lock it carefully, and go into his bedroom. Satisfied on this -point, I now kept away from his place so as not to be too fresh in his -mind on the morning after I got his money. - -At last a stormy night came that drove everybody off the street. I kept -out of the neighborhood of Pete’s place till four o’clock in the -morning. I had no trouble getting into the barroom through a door -opening into the hall that separated the saloon from the hotel office. -Carefully removing a lot of glasses from around the register, I lifted -it and placed it on the bar. Then I had to go around the bar, pick it up -again, and carry it out into the hall where I put it on a table while I -went back to close the door. All the while Swede Pete was snoring like a -horse. - -Lifting the heavy weight again, I made my way slowly to the sidewalk. -Groping along in the blinding storm of snow and sleet, I missed my -footing and fell flat on my back with the heavy register fair on my -chest. Its sharp edge dug into my ribs and although I never went to a -doctor, I believe to this day a couple of them were cracked or -splintered. Unable to lift it again, I tied my handkerchief in the grill -work at the top of the thing and painfully dragged it to an opening -between two buildings and down into the alley where I had planted an ax. - -I was morally certain Pete’s money was in it. I saw him put it there the -night before, but on this last night I had kept away, not caring to be -seen about his place. There was one chance in a million that he hadn’t -locked the register, so before attacking it with the ax I touched one of -the keys. The bell did not ring, but the cash drawer opened. But to my -dismay it did not slide out with the slow, labored, obese movement of a -cash drawer loaded with heavy gold and silver; instead it shot out with -a thin, empty, hollow jerk that told me there was nothing in it. - -With numb and freezing fingers I explored the little cups only to find -them bare of coin. The compartments in the back gave up no fat bankroll. -The thing was as empty and as inviting as a new-dug grave. This last -blow was too much for my philosophy. Cursing the snow and sleet and -every organic thing, I started back determined to go into Pete’s bedroom -and search for his money. I was too late. At the door I looked into the -hall and saw the porter limbering up for another day’s work. - -Sad and sore I turned away and trudged through the storm to my room at -Irish Annie’s where I found food and drink and light and heat and the -consoling hop layout. - -I was out early the next afternoon to find out what had happened at -Swede Pete’s that caused him to shift his money. He was around town -drunk as a ragman, going from one bar to another, buying drinks for all -hands, and telling with great relish how he had saved his bankroll from -the “burglars.” I heard his boisterous laugh as I was passing one of the -saloons and went in to get an earful. He threw an American twenty-dollar -piece on the bar, and as it bounced up and down, roared: “Yump, you -beggar, yump! Many times I ha’ to yump for you.” Then everybody was -invited to drink and listen to his tale. - -I gathered from it that his cash register “bane on the bum.” Something -got wrong with its locking arrangement the night before, and Pete took -his money to bed with him. “Ay take the old bankroll and throw her under -the mattress and lay my two hundred pounds Swede beef on her,” he -finished with a roar. Then, bouncing another gold piece on the bar, he -ordered it to “yump” and the house to drink. If he suspected me he -didn’t show it, and I went out not relishing his talk or his liquor. I -thought of sticking him up, but he knew my voice and that wouldn’t do. I -thought of chloroform, but my awful experience with the Chinamen warned -me against it. I had no desire to get tangled up with Pete’s “two -hundred pounds Swede beef” that wasn’t beef at all, but bone and muscle -he put on in his youth as a laborer in the Northwest lumber camps. After -much thought, I let him go and gave him up as a total loss. - -I don’t know what the statistics show, but I should say that for every -five hundred burglaries one burglar gets arrested. On the other hand, my -experiences showed that if the burglar gets what he is after one time in -five he is lucky. - -After my bad luck with the big Swede I sat down and gave my system of -stealing a good overhauling. As near as I could calculate ten thousand -dollars had slipped out of my hands since I left Los Angeles. I wasn’t -satisfied to put this down to tough luck entirely. I saw that -carelessness had something to do with it. I should have planted the mine -payroll in a safer place. A more careful and experienced “blacksmith” -would have taken measures to prevent that big safe from falling on its -face and burying the money beyond reach, and in the matter of Swede Pete -I was careless and overconfident, in not checking on him the night I -went after his money. Figuring that my luck was about due to change for -the better, I resolved to pull myself together, tighten up my system, -and look around me for something else. - -If business houses took as much precaution in protecting themselves from -thieves as thieves do in protecting themselves from the police, the -business of burglary and robbery would reach the vanishing point in no -time. Thieves are occasionally careless; business men are habitually so; -both pay for their carelessness sooner or later. - -In looking about for some worth-while endeavor, I came upon an instance -of carelessness on the part of a business man that I never saw equaled -in all my years of stealing. It cost him a small fortune in diamonds and -sent him into the bankruptcy court. The Christmas holidays were coming -on, and the jewelry store in this mining camp spread out a display of -stones that would have done credit to any large city. I was naturally -attracted; and began investigating the jeweler’s system. I found that he -slept on the premises in a room back of his storeroom. He testified in -court later that he carried no burglary insurance, that he could not get -fire insurance because the town had no fire department, and that he -slept in his store to protect himself in case of fire or attempted -theft. I watched him closely through every business hour of the day—from -seven to eight o’clock one day, from eight to nine the next, from nine -to ten the next—and so on through the entire day from his opening hour -till he closed at night. I found that he left his store in darkness to -save on the light bill, and to my amazement I also found that, instead -of locking his safe carefully and completely at night, he gave the -combination knob only a quarter turn, leaving it “on the quarter,” or -only partly locked and at the mercy of any one with a working knowledge -of combination locks. - -This putting out of the lights and careless locking of his safe was -entirely due to a feeling of security because he slept in his place of -business. - -After gathering every scrap of information available, I was sure I could -“take” the spot if I got a fair break on the luck. The rear room of the -place was used as a workshop. This made it possible to enter the back -door without waking the owner, who slept in a small room between the -shop and the big front storeroom. When I decided to go against this -thing, I sat down and looked far ahead. - -The stones would have to go to the “American side” to be disposed of in -some big city. I decided on San Francisco and planned my route there. -Irish Annie was no small problem. I had no intention of confiding in her -or giving her any part of the junk, if I got it. I was under no -obligation to her. Our relations were just those of two social outcasts, -thrown together by chance, and our parting could mean nothing to either -of us. To disarm any suspicions she might have later on, I told her I -planned to go to Carson City, Nevada, for the big fight between -Fitzsimmons and Corbett. This would give me a reasonable excuse for -leaving after the burglary. - -With the five hundred dollars I got from Swede Pete and more I had -picked up around the hotels, I was amply supplied with expense money and -had no worry on that point. Two weeks ahead I bought an old Indian -cayuse and a cheap secondhand saddle and bridle, planning to ride across -the boundary line fifteen miles distant, plant the junk, and return -before the burglary was discovered. - -The old horse was staked out in a corral where I could get him at any -time. I even rode to the “American side,” crossing the Columbia River, -which marked the boundary, on the ice, and picked out a place to plant -my stuff. A week ahead I rented a front room in a lodging house across -the street and from my window watched every move in the store every -evening. I saw the boss go out to dinner, leaving the place in charge of -his clerk and an apprentice boy. I saw his man in the repair shop go out -and away. I saw the boy go home after the boss returned, and later saw -the clerk depart. An hour after, the owner began gathering the most -valuable articles from show window and show cases, placing them in -specially made trays and boxes that fitted snugly in the safe. Then the -big door swung shut, and a quarter turn of the knob locked it so that it -could be opened quickly in the morning by the lazy, careless owner, or -just as quickly at night by an industrious, careful burglar. - -My mistake in not checking Swede Pete the night before was not repeated -here. When the final night came I stood in the snowstorm outside the -window, cap pulled down and overcoat buttoned up, looking carelessly at -the cheap articles he left there overnight. When he locked his safe as -usual, I went back to my room across the street and saw him secure his -front door, put out the lights, and go back into his bedroom. - -At one o’clock I was at the back door of the store and after a few -minutes of the most careful work I stood in the warm workshop where a -big stove still glowed in the dark. The doors inside were open to allow -the warm air passage into the sleeper’s room and the front room beyond. -I had all the luck at last. - -There was no serious obstacle. The sleeper slept on. The safe door -opened as easy for me as for him. The inside of the safe was like a -beehive—fifty watches, wound up, ticked noisily. Some years ago jewelers -thought watches should be kept running all or part of the time to insure -perfection. I believe this is no longer done. For fear their ticking -should wake the sleeper when I passed through his room on my way out, I -wrapped them in their box in my overcoat. Taking nothing else except -some gold rings, all the stones, and what money was in the cash drawer, -I closed the safe, went back out the rear door and, closing it -carefully, departed unseen. - -All my junk went into a grain bag at the corral, where I kept the old -cayuse. He was gentle as a dog, but the ticking of the watches almost -drove him frantic. He reared and pawed and snorted in fear. I couldn’t -get into the saddle, and had to snub him up to a tree where, for ten or -fifteen minutes, I let him listen to the ticks and get over his fright. -At last he cooled off and allowed me to mount him and turn his head -south toward the “line.” Riding away, I looked back over the night’s -work and thought with satisfaction that no human being could possibly -suspect me of it. - -In the small town across the line I planted the stones and cash -carefully in the plant I had prepared, but put the watches in another -place where they could tick themselves out in security. At seven o’clock -in the morning the faithful old horse was back in the corral, well fed -and rubbed down, and I was in my room at Irish Annie’s. In the afternoon -she came in with the small town “Extra” paper. I saw that this burglary, -one of the simplest and easiest of my life, was by far the most -profitable. Diamonds valued at twenty thousand dollars, wholesale price, -fifty watches, five hundred dollars cash, and a parcel of gold wedding -rings roughly outlined the loss. I immediately “pooh-poohed” the -business to her, telling her I knew enough about burglary to see that it -was an inside job and that it was done by the storekeeper to beat his -creditors. She believed me and no suspicion whatever found lodgment in -her mind. - -The next day’s paper questioned the burglary. It was hard to believe -that any sane man could be guilty of such carelessness as the jeweler -frankly admitted. He also admitted that the stock was taken on -consignment, that the stones were not paid for, and that if they were -not recovered he would be broke and bankrupted. The town was divided as -to whether he had robbed himself, and the marshal and his deputies -remained dormant. - -I paid another week’s board for the old horse, and another week’s rent -for the room opposite the jeweler’s. I had no use for them any more, but -thought it safest not to give either of them up too soon and chance -arousing suspicion. - -After a restless month I said good-bye to Annie and to the “Canadian -side.” Leaving the watches and rings where they were, I dug up the plant -of stones and cash, and went into Spokane, where I threw away my good -clothes, put on overalls, a mackinaw coat, a lumberjack’s cap, and -bought a cheap ticket to Seattle. There I changed again, buying an -expensive outfit of clothes and other things necessary for the traveler. -Three days later I was in San Francisco, safe, secure, and unsuspected. - -My first act was to put the stones in a safety box, tear up the receipt, -and plant the key in a safe, convenient place. Then began the toughest -part of the business, getting the stones off my hands and into cash. -Day after day I sorted out the larger ones and in my room “unharnessed” -them from their settings. Other articles, clusters and sunbursts, were -left intact in their settings—to remove them would depreciate the value. -I had many of the best stones reset and sold them for fair prices openly -to bookmakers, prize fighters, jockeys, gamblers, and women about town. -My money went into the bank, and for the first time in my life I carried -a check book. - -I was careful, kept clean and sober and away from the hop joints and -thieves’ hangouts. For once in my life I managed to get a fair price -from pawnshops for some of my junk. Taking one of the reset rings that -was perfectly safe and impossible of identification, I would step into -the pawnbroker’s at lunch time and always when there were other patrons -in his place. The average thief is duck soup for the hockshop man. He -will walk by the hockshop and look in. The hockshop man sees him and -knows he has something “hot,” or crooked. If there is anybody in the -place but the employees, the thief waits till they go out before going -in. This convinces the pawnbroker he has a thief to deal with and he -offers him half what he would offer an honest man with a legitimate -article. - -Instead of sneaking into a hockshop, taking a ring out of my pocket, and -saying, “How much can I get on this?” I walked in confidently, held out -my finger with the ring on, and said: “I want to pledge this ring for -one hundred dollars till pay day. My name is so-and-so. I work for such -and such a firm. I lost some of my employer’s money at the race track -and must have it to-night.” - -I always asked for a sum far in excess of what I expected, but that -served to convince the pawnbroker I knew nothing about pawning things, -that I was honest, that the ring was mine and that I would probably -redeem it. After inspecting it, he would offer me much more than if he -thought it was crooked. If it was redeemed he would get his big -interest, and if not he would still be safely below the wholesale price, -which is the dead line for him. - -In one way and another I unloaded most of my stones to advantage. I -could go about with them one at a time in safety; they were impossible -of identification when out of their original settings. While I was -trying to find some safe way of selling the pieces I had left in their -settings, I met by chance a young chap I had known on the road. He had -settled down, got married, and was making a semi-legitimate and -uncertain living gambling. He was square enough, and I arranged with him -to sell them for me. He was in San Francisco when the burglary was -committed and was in no danger of being charged with it if he did get -arrested. - -He got rid of them quickly to his friends in the Tenderloin and to small -pawnshops, getting a price that satisfied me and left him a good profit. -I cleaned everything up and quit with eight thousand dollars in the bank -and several very nice stones that I wanted to keep. Of late I had -thought of buying a saloon some time and leaving the burglary business. -Now, as I looked over the small dives and joints with their -hangers-around, their discordant pianos and beery-voiced singers, and -drunken, bedraggled women, I found they had no attraction. Now that I -could have one of those places I didn’t want it. - -The notion of going into any decent business never occurred to me. -Without any definite notion of what to do, I settled down to have a few -months of ease and relaxation. The race tracks and gambling houses were -running wide open, but I kept away from them and didn’t get hurt. The -wine dumps, the “Coast,” Chinatown, and the dingy dives that fascinated -me when I first saw them, no longer held anything of interest. - -I’m not finding fault with these brave days of jungle music, synthetic -liquor, and dimple-kneed maids, and anybody that thinks the world is -going to the bowwows because of them ought to think back to San -Francisco or any other big city of twenty years ago—when train -conductors steered suckers against the bunko men; when coppers located -“work” for burglars and stalled for them while they worked; when -pickpockets paid the police so much a day for “exclusive privileges” and -had to put a substitute “mob” in their district if they wanted to go out -of town to a country fair for a week. Those were the days when there -were saloons by the thousand; when the saloonkeeper ordered the police -to pinch the Salvation Army for disturbing his peace by singing hymns in -the street; when there were race tracks, gambling unrestricted, crooked -prize fights; when there were cribs by the mile and hop joints by the -score. These things may exist now, but if they do, I don’t know where. I -knew where they were then, and with plenty of money and leisure I did -them all. - - - - -CHAPTER XXII - - -The young fellow that helped me dispose of the stones was the wayward -son of a fine family and it would not be right to them to use his name. -I will call him “Spokane,” the monoger he was known by among his -associates. He had been in San Francisco for years and was familiar with -an underworld that I had seen very little of. Most of my life had been -spent on the road or roughing it in out-of-the-way places, broken by a -few months now and then in city slums. He introduced me into the elegant -hop joints where we smoked daily, into the hangouts of polished bunko -men and clever pickpockets, into the gilded cafés and other exclusive -and refined places of entertainment. - -I grew tired of this life after a few months and suggested to Spokane -that he go up to the Canadian line and lift the plant of watches and -rings. The burglary cry had died out and I had arranged to sell them all -where they would never rise up to accuse me. This trip suited him, as it -would give him a chance to visit his people in Spokane, Washington, and -it pleased me to have him go because I didn’t want to take chances with -the watches which were all numbered and easy of identification. I had -left them behind me rather than carry the bulky package around and -chance losing the more valuable stones because of it. I gave him a -diagram of the spot where the plant was, supplied him with tickets and -traveling expenses, and sent him on his way with instructions to express -the parcel to the San Francisco express office, value it at twenty-five -dollars, and tell the express agent it contained samples of ore. - -To make everything safe and sure, I further instructed him to stand at -the depot when the train was in and make sure the parcel went into the -express car, then to take a train the next day and come back to San -Francisco by an indirect route which would protect him in case anything -happened to the package en route. I put in a couple of anxious weeks, -but he showed up in due time with the good news that he had located the -junk without trouble and sent it along exactly as he had promised. He -called for it at the express office the next day, but it hadn’t arrived. -Not caring to make too much fuss over a package valued at twenty-five -dollars, we waited a few days before he went back for it. The express -office was in Montgomery Street then, and I stood in the Palace Hotel -entrance where I could look across the street and see him showing the -receipt and arguing with the clerks. His willingness to go to the office -every day convinced me he was on the square. He had a receipt for the -package; I assumed it had gone astray. - -We talked the thing over and decided there was nothing to be afraid of. -If the parcel had been seized by the police he would have been pinched -at the express office. I began to get suspicious after a week and was -for abandoning the whole thing, but Spokane insisted on making another -call. From my spot across the street I saw two men fall on him when he -spoke to the clerk and knew he was arrested. - -I went straight to my room, got everything and moved to another, where I -sat down and tried to figure out what had happened and what to do. His -arrest was a mystery, but it was plain to me that I must either jump out -on him or stay and help. I was clean, there wasn’t a scrap of evidence -against me. If I deserted him that might cause him to squawk, and with -his testimony they could convict me if they got me. I knew the police -would accuse him of the burglary and that he could and would convince -them in an hour that he was in San Francisco when it occurred. That -would start them on a hunt for another man, and that would bring them to -me, for I had been seen with him daily for months. I saw I would be -picked up; I saw they could prove I was in the town where the burglary -was committed, and at the time. But they could get no further. The -evidence to convict me was not in existence. I could not be convicted -without Spokane’s testimony. - -I was reasonably certain he would protect me if I protected him. I sent -and found that the police had not been to the room I deserted; that -meant he was standing up. I decided to stay and take a pinch and have -the business settled while I had money to fight. After making this -decision I cleaned up a few odds and ends of jewelry, put them away in -my safety box, and left the key in a secure place. I took a thousand -dollars in hundred-dollar bills and secreted it in different parts of my -clothes. The pawn tickets had all been destroyed the minute we got them. -I felt perfectly secure, and went openly around the hangouts waiting for -the blow to fall. - -It came in a hurry, and to my surprise I was put in the cell occupied by -Spokane. I learned later that the cell had some kind of listening -arrangement, but we did not discuss our troubles. We were both “on the -small book,” which meant incommunicado, but I promised a trusty prisoner -a dollar if he would get word out to an attorney I had in mind. He was -one of the leading criminal lawyers at that time, and had us both out to -talk to him the next morning. The evening papers carried the story of my -arrest and of the burglary. The attorney had read it, and seeing it was -a case of considerable magnitude he came at once. He did not believe in -any fat fees being held incommunicado. - -I gave him a substantial retainer and asked him to find out what we were -charged with and what we were being held on. Spokane had got barely an -hour’s sleep at one time in the three days he had been in. Policemen -and detectives took turn about questioning him, trying to wear him down -to the weakening point. They now started on me, threatening, blustering, -cajoling, wheedling, and promising. I made no statement except that I -was innocent. There was no local interest in the case, and we were not -mistreated. Captain Lindheimer, long dead now, was in charge of the city -prison. He frowned on the beating-up of prisoners, and there was very -little of it done when he was in charge. He was a very humane man, and -of all the prisoners that passed through his hands I don’t recall ever -hearing one with a harsh word for him. - -Our attorney had influence enough to get our meals sent from the -outside; we bought clean, new blankets from the head trusty and plenty -of opium, which we ate. Spokane’s wife was permitted to visit us, the -police probably figuring they could follow her to something that would -convict us. She had not been told anything, knew nothing, and could do -us no harm. - -Out of my thousand dollars I got in with, I saw to it that she was taken -care of. This was only fair to Spokane, and helped him to help me by -keeping his mouth shut. - -The attorney could learn nothing except that we were being held on -telegrams. “This is soft,” he said. “They can’t hold you on that. I’ll -take you out on a writ of habeas corpus.” - -The next morning we went into court on the writ. The court gave the -police twenty-four hours to get something more substantial than -telegrams, threatening to liberate us if they failed. When we appeared -the next day they had nothing except more telegrams, and we were -discharged from custody. - -I grabbed the attorney’s hand. “Don’t get excited,” he said, “they’re -not done with you yet.” - -Although the judge released us we were promptly rearrested at the -courtroom door and put in our cell. The attorney applied for another -writ. This was granted and we went to court again the next day, but were -put over twenty-four hours on the plea of the police that witnesses were -on their way from Canada. No witnesses appeared, and we were discharged -only to be arrested again. The court warned the police that they would -be in contempt if we were held longer without evidence. - -On our next day in court we were confronted by the chief of provincial -detectives from Victoria with a warrant of extradition and a day was set -for him to make his showing. One night a strange attorney came to me in -the prison, told me he had had a talk with the judge, and that for a -sum of money he would point out a flaw in the case that would upset -the extradition plea. I sent for my attorney and asked his advice. He -investigated, and told me to put up the money. - -When we went into court the Canadian officer produced his warrant. It -was the biggest document I ever saw—a piece of parchment about three -feet long, embossed, engraved, and signed and sealed with the seal of -Queen Victoria—a formal demand from the British Government on the -Secretary of State to deliver us over to the Canadian authorities. He -had it in a bag carefully rolled and wrapped in paper. Taking it out -carefully, reverently, he placed it in the judge’s hands. - -“Where did you get this document?” the court asked. - -“From Ottawa, the capital of Canada,” the officer answered. - -“Did you go to Ottawa yourself for it?” - -“No, it came to Victoria by mail.” - -Looking at it closely the judge pointed to a name signed at the bottom. -“What’s this?” he asked. - -“That is the signature of Lord Aberdeen, governor general of Canada.” - -“Did you see him sign it?” - -“No.” - -“Hm,” said the judge, laying it down. - -Our lawyer picked it up and appeared to read it carefully. Turning to -the officer, he asked: “How do you know that is Lord Aberdeen’s -signature? Were you there when he signed it? Did you ever see him sign -his name to any paper? Did you ever see Lord Aberdeen? What’s this -thing?” He tapped the seal, the big red seal half as large as your hand. - -“That is the seal of Her Majesty, Queen Victoria of England,” the man -answered, getting indignant and red in the face. - -“Oh, it is, is it? How do you know it is? Did you see her put it there? -Is she here to identify it? There’s no Victoria here in this court, is -there? This might be the seal of Jane Doe, a waitress. Anybody can have -a seal. Do you think the court is going to recognize this thing? You’ll -have to come in here with something better than that,” he said, throwing -it on the floor and kicking it under a table. - -The officer got down from the witness stand, picked it up, brushed it -off, and carefully put it away. - -The judge then said: “This court cannot recognize that as a valid -document. You come here with a paper demanding custody of these -defendants, but we have here no proof that it is genuine. It might be a -forgery. We know there is such a person as Lord Aberdeen, of Canada, -but we have no proof that his signature is on that warrant. I cannot -hold defendants on such evidence.” - -We were discharged again. I don’t know where the money went that I gave -the lawyer who sold us the point that beat the extradition; I know the -judge didn’t give us any the worst of it. - -We were arrested again at the door. That night we were indicted by the -grand jury; I for bringing stolen property into the state of California, -and Spokane for receiving it from me. The police saw we were framing and -using money, so they, rather than be beaten, began framing us. Our cases -were transferred into another court where they could do some fixing, and -we couldn’t. The indictments meant that we would have to wait for -trial. I began to get uneasy about the stones I had in the safety box. -The police were tearing the town open for them, not knowing that nearly -all of them had been sold. I told our lawyer where to get the key to the -box, gave him a password, and told him to take the junk out and put it -in some safe place. The police “tailed” every visitor we had and even -the lawyer in hopes of locating the stones, and he had to be careful. - -Making another application for a writ of habeas corpus, which he knew -would not avail us, he had the hearing set for ten o’clock in the -morning. This alarmed the coppers and every one of them was at the -courtroom when the case was called. Everybody was there but our -attorney. The hearing was held up for fifteen minutes. During this -fifteen minutes he was at the safety vault lifting the plant, while -every detective on the case was waiting in court. He came in, nodded to -us, apologized to the court, and went on with the case with the parcel -of loot in his pocket. The writ was denied, of course. I told him to put -the stuff away, and he did. - -When I asked him about it later, he looked me straight in the eye and -said: “Did you think I was damn fool enough to keep that stuff around -me? Say, when court adjourned that day I went straight down to the foot -of Powell Street and threw it in the bay.” - -This didn’t look just right to me, but what could I do? I was only a -poor, honest burglar in the hands of a highway lawyer. He got us a copy -of the testimony given the grand jury, and from it I learned what had -caused our arrest—Spokane’s passion for gambling. - -After lifting the watches and rings in the little Northern town, he -tried his luck at the faro table and lost his expense money. This forced -him to open the parcel and sell a couple of the watches to a gambler for -enough money to buy his return ticket. The next day the gambler took -them to the town where I stole them, fifteen miles away, across the -line, and tried to pawn them. He was arrested and told where he got -them. In an hour the police learned about the express package of “sample -ore” Spokane shipped. It was seized en route to San Francisco. There was -a big reward for the burglar, and the Northern police, wanting it, -decided to capture him. Instead of wiring to have him arrested the first -time he went to the express office, they hurried here and got him -themselves. - -Spokane was repentant, but it was too late. I did not reproach him. - -His wife was faithful, and devoted to him, and visited us daily at the -prison, bringing papers and small delicacies. One evening, while we were -chatting on a bench in the visiting room, an officer came and took him -out to another room. Several policemen were standing around, and there -seemed to be something stagy going on that I couldn’t understand. -Suddenly, as I sat talking to Mrs. Spokane, a screen at the other side -of the room was knocked aside and Irish Annie dashed from behind it, -heaping abuse on me and trying to get her hands on my friend’s wife. - -Annie’s furious appearance was like a thunderbolt out of a clear sky. I -saw instantly that she had been poisoned against me. I tried to talk to -her but she wouldn’t listen, and the coppers stood between us pushing me -away to make her think I was trying to get my hands on her and strangle -her. Mrs. Spokane had collapsed on the bench, almost fainting from fear -and wondering what it was about. Annie was led away screaming threats. -Spokane’s wife went home, and we back to our cell where we tried to -piece together this unexpected angle. - -I saw the police were playing my game better than I could. They knew I -was trying to frame myself out; they began framing me in, and with Irish -Annie they had a dangerous lead on me. It was plain to me that they had -told her she was discarded for another woman; that they had called -Spokane away to leave me alone with his wife while Annie watched from -behind the screen. I could almost hear them saying to her: “There you -are. There’s the woman he left you for. There’s the woman he hung his -diamonds on, and spends his money on. How he got her is a mystery to us; -she’s a decent woman. She’s crazy about him and believes he is -innocent.” - -Then Annie, too ready to believe herself “a woman scorned,” turned -copper on me, knocked the screen away, and poured out the vials of her -wrath. Still I wasn’t much alarmed about the case and I couldn’t help -admiring the coppers for the way they tooled Annie and chiseled her out -of her right senses. They assumed I was guilty; that gave them the right -to assume that she, being my companion, knew something about the -burglary. They were justified in getting it out of her by fair or unfair -means. I knew she was ignorant of the least detail of it, and felt like -laughing at them for wasting time on their elaborate scheme. - -Our attorney made many efforts to see her, but the police had her in a -hotel under the eye of a matron, and he and his runners failed. - -At last he subpœnaed her as our witness and had her brought to his -office. All his eloquence got nothing out of her. She was mute and -stayed mute till the day of my trial. She had not been before the grand -jury. We had no police-court examination and there was no way of -finding out what she was going to say till she went into court. The -attorney was apprehensive. I wasn’t. I told him of the night I first met -her shivering in a Chicago doorway, of the warm clothing I got for her, -and of the night I staggered out of her crib with the dead man over my -shoulder. I told him in detail of our meeting in the North by chance, -and of our relations there. He was old and wise. He shook his head -thoughtfully and quoted the poet’s line about scorned women and their -hellish fury. - -The prosecution clamored for a speedy trial of the case. Almost ten -thousand dollars had been spent by the Canadian authorities in retaining -a firm of high-priced lawyers to prosecute; in transporting witnesses -and paying hotel and other bills, and for private detectives hired to -spy on the local police. Still no diamonds showed up. Spokane was -offered a job with the Pinkerton Detective Agency if he would turn on -me. I was promised my liberty if I would turn up the stones. We kept up -our cry of innocence and made no statements at any time. A week before -the day set for my trial, our attorney was stricken in his study and -died in his chair, of heart failure. - -We had to get another lawyer and pay another stiff fee. I went over the -case with him, but somehow was unable to convince him that I had not -talked too much to Irish Annie. - -At my trial she swore, and she wasn’t mealy-mouthed about it, either, -that I told her of the burglary when I was planning it; that I offered -her part of the stones when I got them; that she was afraid to take them -because they were stolen. She added that she would have notified the -police then, but was afraid I would kill her or have her killed. On -cross-examination she said she was not testifying in hope of a reward or -in revenge; that she was glad to be rid of me, and hoped I would be -sentenced to life so I couldn’t get out and murder her. - -The next witness was a pawnbroker the police dug up. Spokane had sold -him a piece of jewelry. It was identified by the loser and put in -evidence. The witness identified me as the one who sold it to him and -produced his book showing a fictitious name Spokane had signed. I got -alarmed and protested loudly. Spokane, who was in court, jumped up and -cried out to the judge that he pawned the article. The court ordered him -to sit down, and my lawyer told him if he testified to that, he would be -convicted on his own statement of receiving it from me, when his trial -came on. Our attorney tried to get a sample of my handwriting before the -jury. The prosecutors objected, and the judge ruled that no exemplars -could be admitted in evidence unless they were written before the -burglary was committed. I could not dig up any that old, and the case -went to the jury with no defense except my sworn denial of guilt. - -When the jury disappeared in their room and court was adjourned, I lit a -cigarette. Before I had half finished, the jury was back with their -verdict, “Guilty, as charged.” - -Spokane’s trial was set, but I made affidavit that he was an innocent -tool in the matter, and he was dismissed. He worried himself sick -because of his carelessness in getting me arrested and in a few months -fell a victim of tuberculosis. His devoted wife contracted it in nursing -him and long before I was at liberty they were both dead and buried. - -In due time I was sentenced to eight years at Folsom. The case went on -appeal to the supreme court and I settled down for a long wait in the -old Broadway county jail. My case gave me food for much interesting -thought. I was guilty. Justice had overtaken me. But let us see how -justice fared. It seemed to me that the blind goddess got a tough deal -herself. Everybody connected with the case outraged her. The first -judge took money. The coppers framed me in. The witnesses perjured -themselves. The second judge was so feloniously righteous that he stood -in with the framing. My lawyer was a receiver of stolen goods—even stole -some from me. And the police told me that the Jewelers’ Association beat -them out of the reward. - -That’s one side of the case; here’s another. The jeweler was bankrupt. -The Canadian authorities spent ten thousand dollars. The state of -California had to feed and clothe me while I was in prison. - -Here’s another side of it. Spokane and his wife died of T.B. that he -contracted while in jail; and “justice” overtook Irish Annie for what -she had done to me. - -Not very pleasant reflections; especially when I had to admit to myself -that I was the cause of everything from the burglary to the punishment -of Annie, and all that happened in between them. Yet this burglary is by -no means unique. It frequently happens that the initial loss in dollars -and cents is as nothing compared to the wrong and injury that radiate -from such crimes like ripples on a pond. - - - - -CHAPTER XXIII - - -My first few months in the county jail were put in hard enough. About -all I did was hate Irish Annie, and plan ways and means to revenge -myself on her. I kept close track of her through friends and learned -that her punishment began the day she got back to Canada. Her girls -left her establishment when they saw her turn copper; her friends in the -Tenderloin shunned her as if she had the leprosy. Finding herself cast -out by these outcasts, she gathered up what she could and joined the -gold rush to Alaska. - -Then, just when my bankroll had melted away under the heavy expense of -two attorneys’ fees and incidentals, and I was beginning to wonder if I -would finish by having to eat the jail fare, a number of mysterious -money orders came to me from Nome and Skagway. I couldn’t but think -this was conscience money from Annie. This took the edge off my hatred -and I began making excuses for her. After I had several hundred dollars, -the money orders stopped coming. No letter or explanation came, and I -remained mystified. At last a prisoner who was brought into the jail en -route to San Quentin from Alaska put an end to my guessing. - -Irish Annie was dead. My informant was very discreet and mentioned no -names. “Certain people,” he said, “and good people, too, found out that -she had a bunch of dough. They went into her crib, tied her up, and took -it. When they went out, one of them said to the others: ‘Black is in the -county jail in San Francisco. He ought to have one end of this money. -That woman put him there.’ - -“They didn’t know she had snitched on you and objected to splitting you -in with the coin. The first party, your friend, went back into the crib, -and croaked her. When he came out he said: ‘I’ve done that for Black. -Now, does he get his end?’ - -“You got it, didn’t you?” - -I acknowledged the money and asked no questions. My attorney learned -later, and told me, that when she was found dead and her body -identified, the police began a search for me, and the only thing that -saved me was my jail alibi, the only alibi that ever convinced anybody. - -With Annie off my mind I then began hating the pawnbroker. But before I -went to Folsom he was charged with perjury in another case and went -broke saving himself from a prison sentence, and I put him out of my -mind. - -I didn’t worry about the coppers framing me in. I started it. It was -their business to put me away if they could, and if they hadn’t played -my game I would have beaten the case on them. It has always been a -question with me where this framing and jobbing started; whether the -defense originally began it and forced the prosecutor and police to do -it in self-defense, or whether it was the other way around. I never -could find the answer; long ago I gave it up and filed it away with that -other old question about the hen and the egg. - -My attorney knew his business. He held me in the county jail till my -last dollar was gone, and I refused to “write for more money” as he -suggested. When I was leaving for Folsom he showed up at the jail and -asked me for my watch, the only thing of value I had left. - -“You won’t have any use for it up there,” he said. “Give it to me and -I’ll get you a job in the warden’s where you’ll get something to eat.” - -I told him to go plumb to hell. - -I went to prison without any plans for the future. With good conduct I -would have to do five years and four months and there was no use trying -to look that far ahead. Two other prisoners arrived the morning I did, -and the three of us were taken out to the office to have our prison -biographies written—name, age, birthplace, occupation, etc. We were then -photographed, measured, and weighed, and turned over to the captain to -be assigned to work. - -Richard Murphy (“Dirty Dick” the “cons” called him) was captain at that -time. He had worked his way up from the guard line by cunning and -brutality. He believed in “throwing the fear of God” into a prisoner -the minute he arrived, by browbeating and bullying him, and every man -went out of his office hating him. It’s more than twenty years since I -left Folsom, but I can still see Dirty Dick’s short, squat figure on the -flagstones in front of his filthy office. I can still see his pop-eyes -and pasty face, his frog belly, his knock knees, and his flat feet. - -I was the first to be questioned. “Where are you from?” he asked. - -“San Francisco,” I replied. - -“How long did you do in San Quentin?” - -“Never was in San Quentin.” - -“What other penitentiary were you in?” - -“Never was in any penitentiary,” I lied, and I knew he knew I was lying, -but wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of thinking he had bullied me -into telling the truth. - -“Hah, you’re a liar, and you know it. You can’t get anything like that -by me. I’ll dig you up, and find out all about you. Use hop?” - -“No.” I did use hop, had eaten it all the time in the county jail, and -had a small portion secreted about me then. He again called me a liar -and said to a convict runner: “Here, Shorty, take this fellow to the -stoneyard. Search him, and if you find anything you want, keep it.” - -I had already been searched and had nothing but a handkerchief and a -pipe. “No prisoner will keep anything belonging to me,” I said, looking -at Shorty. He didn’t search me. - -The captain called up the second man. “Where are you from?” - -“Sacramento,” he answered. - -“How long do you bring?” - -“Ten years.” - -“What for?” - -“Grand larceny.” - -“What kind of grand larceny?” - -The little runner, Shorty, stepped up and said: “Pickpocket, captain.” - -“Where do you belong?” Murphy continued. - -“Chicago.” - -“What’s your name?” - -“James Brown.” - -“You’re from Chicago, eh? And your name is Brown? What do they call you? -What’s your monoger?” - -The little runner stepped up again and said: “‘Chi Jimmy,’ captain.” - -“Chi Jimmy, eh? Pickpocket, eh? The rock crusher for you,” said the -captain. “Maybe you’ll be ‘Chi’ a few fingers before you get out.” - -Which he probably would be. This was Murphy’s idea of a joke. - -The third chap got about the same deal, and was waved away. “To the -crusher with him, too.” - -At that time prisoners were allowed, for economy, to keep the coats, -vests, and hats they brought in with them, but were made to wear striped -pants and shirts. As the last man turned away, Murphy saw he had a good -hat. Calling him back he took it and threw it to his runner. “Here’s a -hat for you, Shorty. If you can’t wear it give it to somebody else; it’s -too good for the rock crusher.” - -He knew all about us before we were brought to his office, and had us -out there only to “throw the fear” into us and get a line on us by the -way we answered his questions. He made three enemies right there. He -received all prisoners that way and if they got insolent under his -badgering he had them thrown into the dungeon for thirty days “to cool -off.” - -The dungeon was an empty cell with a solid door to darken it and -contained nothing but a thin blanket, and a bucket strong with chloride -of lime. In cases of this kind the captain signed the punishment order -which included bread and water. Every third day the prisoner got a pan -of beans. Most of them were so hungry they bolted the beans without -stopping to chew them and a few dungeon sentences brought on stomach -troubles that added to their misery. - -My eight-year sentence was considered a short one at Folsom. I found -nine hundred prisoners there whose sentences averaged twelve years. They -were all hopeless. The parole law was a dead letter, inoperative. Only -at Christmas or on the Fourth of July did any one get a parole. The -place was a seething volcano of hatred and suspicion. Dirty Dick had in -the twenty years he was there developed a perfect stool-pigeon system. A -visiting warden, surprised because there was no wall around Folsom, -asked Murphy how he managed to keep the “cons” there. “That’s simple,” -he said. “I’ve got one half of them watching the other half.” His system -caused many murders and assaults and at last it climaxed in the -bloodiest prison break in the history of California. - -Opium was the medium of exchange in the prison. About three hundred men -used it habitually and a hundred more, occasionally. Incoming prisoners -smuggled money in and we bribed the poorly paid guards to buy hop at -Sacramento. No prisoner was allowed to buy anything through the office. -The trusties stole every movable article they could from the guards’ and -warden’s quarters and peddled them to us in the prison for their rations -of hop. The “cons” were divided roughly into three groups. One group -played the officers’ game, working in the offices or holding down other -soft jobs where they could loaf about the place and spy and snitch on -the others. Murphy rewarded them all. He gave the best snitches the -biggest beefsteaks. Another and larger group openly antagonized the -officers, engineering hop deals, planning the murder of stool pigeons, -and promoting escapes. - -Between these two groups was a small bunch of convicts who did not -handle hop or curry favor with the officers. They were the best -conducted prisoners there, yet they were ground to pieces by the two -stronger factions. They got fag ends of food in the convict mess and -wore the patched-up clothes of the others. - -I had some thought of getting off the hop when I got to Folsom and of -keeping my nose clean and trying to shorten my time by making a parole. -But I saw quickly all that was impossible for me and that I would be -lucky if I earned my credits. I joined the schemers and soon had my -share of the opium which meant power and influence. We sold the hop to -those who had money and with the money we bought more. Also we paid -guards to smuggle in sugar, butter, and other food. - -Conditions at San Quentin were the same. Martin Aguirre became warden -there under Governor Gage. Aguirre introduced the strait-jacket -punishment and I have been told he did it on the suggestion of a -convict. This brutal and inhuman form of torture had been condemned in -English prisons years before as dangerous to life and limb. Yet this man -was permitted to revive it in California and its use was continued until -Hiram Johnson became governor. - -Let it be said to this humane and enlightened gentleman’s everlasting -credit that one of his first official acts was to banish the jacket and -other brutalities from California prisons forever. Captain Murphy -welcomed the jacket as something superior to anything he had at Folsom -in the way of punishment. Up to that time the prisoners were “regulated” -by long terms in the dungeons on bread and water, loss of credits, or by -hanging them up by the wrists till they were on tiptoe. When Dirty Dick -saw what could be done with the jacket he came into the stoneyard and -declared himself openly, “I’ve got something now that will make you -tough birds snitch on yourselves.” - -The killing and maiming of convicts in the strait-jackets are matters of -record and too well known to call for any notice in this story. At -Folsom I saw the jacket making beasts of the convicts and brutes of -their keepers. I saw Jakey Oppenheimer transformed from a -well-intentioned prisoner into a murder maniac whose wanton killings and -assaults in prison brought him “under the rope” in the end. I saw the -convicts throw their hats in the air and shout for joy when Warden -Charles Aull died. - -Thomas Wilkinson followed him as warden. - -The tasks were increased, the food rations cut, and even the convict -stripes were made thinner and cheaper. These abuses, coupled with -brutal strait-jacketings for the slightest infraction of rules, -crystallized all the hatred, despair, and hopelessness in the prison. -All the convicts needed was an organizer, a leader. He appeared in the -person of Dick Gordon. With a sentence of forty-five years and a prior -prison experience, Gordon saw no chance of getting out on the square and -began planning to escape. He was young—about twenty-three—modest, -kindly, intelligent. He came to Folsom with a reputation for doing -things on the outside and for being on the square. With great care and -diplomacy he sorted out a dozen men and his plan was laid down for the -getaway. It was simple and direct. Every Monday morning there were at -least a dozen officers and guards at the prison office. - -The warden was always there to get everything under way; the captain to -try all prisoners for offenses committed between Saturday evening and -Monday morning; the overseer to plan the week’s work; the commissary to -give out clothing, and the turnkey to listen to requests for changing of -cells. This meant there were always thirty or forty prisoners at the -office. - -The plan was for Gordon and his men to mingle with others at the -captain’s office. When the signal was given they were to rush the -officers, who were unarmed, put a knife at the throat of every one, and -march them all out through the guard line, using them as shields against -the gatling-gun fire from guard towers that encircled the prison. For -once Captain Murphy’s carefully built-up system of spying failed him; it -toppled on him, crushed him, and brought about his dismissal from the -prison. - -His spies, when things were dull, often fabricated plots and stories to -hold their jobs. Sunday, before the break, they reported to Murphy that -something was brewing in the prison. He ordered fifty suspected men -searched but nothing was found. The knives Gordon and his men were to -use were being carried about by a “harmless” short-time convict, who -kept by himself and was not suspected. - -Murphy, finding nothing wrong after the search, put the reports down to -over-zealousness by his stool pigeons and forgot them. - -The next morning the knives were distributed and the dozen men dropped -out of the line at the captain’s office as the men went out to work. -Every officer in the prison except the doctor was captured. - -The only guard that resisted was killed instantly, cut to pieces. The -only officer that resisted was Cochrane, the turnkey, the man who -personally laced up the strait-jacket victims. He was hated bitterly and -every man that got near enough put a knife into him. He was cut a dozen -times and left for dead. He recovered, and later took his grudge out by -brutalities to prisoners who had never harmed him. - -Gordon and his men marched their captives to the prison armory. Under -threat of death the warden ordered the guard in charge to open it. -Taking all the arms and ammunition they could carry they destroyed the -balance and still using the officers as shields marched them off the -prison grounds and into the woods. Here some of the escapes demanded -Dirty Dick’s life for the things he had done to them, but Gordon had his -way. “No murder” was his order and he enforced it. At sundown the -captives were released. The escapes scattered. Gordon went his way alone -and, though hunted for years, was never taken. - -Five others of the twelve are still at liberty. The other six were -captured here and there. Three of them were hanged, and the remaining -three sentenced to life imprisonment, paroled after many years, and are -living within the law. - -When things cooled down the people of California wanted to know how men -could be driven to such desperation that they captured and cut down -officers and guards, rushed and took a gatling-gun tower with nothing -but crude knives made in the prison blacksmith shop. This bloody affair -called attention to the terrible conditions and proved the beginning of -the end of prison cruelty in California. - -After the break Folsom was a hell. The warden and Captain Murphy began -taking revenge on friends of the escapes. We were brought into the -office and questioned. I answered all questions respectfully, disclaimed -any knowledge of the break, and avoided punishment at that time. Warden -Wilkinson was removed and Archibald Yell of Sacramento took his place. -He had no experience and was forced to feel his way slowly. He had to -depend on Murphy. This put him in virtual control of the convicts and -his lust for revenge went unchecked. I was on his list and he soon got -me. I had but three months to serve when I was slated for the -strait-jacket. I knew the captain wanted to get my credits, which -amounted to two years and eight months. Murphy had me brought into his -office, where he said he had information that I was holding opium. If I -had admitted this they could have taken away my entire good time. I -denied it. - -“Take him to the doctor,” the captain ordered. That meant I was to be -examined as to my physical condition before they put me in the jacket. -This worried me; I was not sure whether I would snitch on myself and -give up the hop. Some stanch men had weakened in the jacket. I thought I -could stick it out and made up my mind to. I had been flogged and -starved and third-degreed before going to Folsom and had taken them all -with a grin, but I was not sure of myself in the jacket. Many prisoners -claimed they gave up information on themselves and friends while -delirious or semiconscious in the jacket, and that was what alarmed me. -I preferred death to the loss of my credits. - -While waiting for the doctor I got word to a friend who was holding my -hop to throw it in the canal at once. In this way I figured I was -protecting my credits even from myself. The doctor OK-ed me and I was -taken into the dungeon, where Cochrane, now recovered from his terrible -wounds, was waiting with the jacket. I saw it was a piece of heavy -canvas about four feet long and wide enough to go around a man’s body. -There were long pockets sewed to the inner side of it into which my arms -were thrust. I was then thrown on the floor face down and the jacket was -laced up the back. The edges of the jacket were fitted with eyeholes and -the thing was tightened up with a soft, stout rope just as a lady’s shoe -is laced. It can be drawn tight enough to stop the circulation of blood, -or the breath. - -While Cochrane was tightening the jacket he said: “You fellows tried to -kill me; now it’s my time.” When he had me squeezed tight enough he -turned me over on my back and went to the cell door. “When you’re ready -to snitch on yourself, Blacky, just sing out,” he said as he locked me -in. - -I will not harrow the reader with a description of the torture. The -jacket is no longer in use and no purpose would be served by living over -those three days in the “bag.” Every hour Cochrane came in and asked if -I was ready to give up the hop. When I denied having it, he tightened me -up some more and went away. The torture became maddening. Some time -during the second day I rolled over to the wall and beat my forehead -against it trying to knock myself “out.” Cochrane came in, saw what I -was doing, and dragged me back to the middle of the cell. I hadn’t -strength enough left to roll back to the wall, so I stayed there and -suffered. A guard looked in and there was real sympathy in his voice. He -said: “Why don’t you scream, make a noise? They might let you out; they -don’t want to kill anybody any more.” I didn’t want my friends to hear -me screaming; I kept still. It wouldn’t have done any good, anyway. - -On the evening of the second day the doctor came and felt the pulse in -my temple. He then ordered me taken out for the night. They took the -thing off and I collapsed in one corner. There was a wooden cup of water -on the cell floor and I took a small mouthful only, because it would -make the jacket so much worse when I was put back in it. My fear of -snitching was gone now. The very ferocity of the punishment had made me -a wild beast. - -I crawled around the cell looking for something I could use to open a -vein or artery; I wanted to die. All I found was my shoes. I tried to -dig a nail out of one of the heels, but only broke my finger nails. At -last I loosened one of the small metal eyes where the shoe is laced and -with the heel of my shoe beat it out flat on the cement floor. After -rubbing the metal on the floor for an hour I got an edge on it sharp -enough to open the skin but it would not cut the vein. Every time I -touched the vein it jumped out from under my crude blade. The sensation -was something like touching a live wire, like an electric shock. Finally -I gave it up and lay down to wait for morning. - -I had an opium habit, but suffered so from the jacket that I forgot all -about the hop—another proof to me that the habit is mostly mental. - -Cochrane came at eight o’clock the next morning. I denied having hop -and out came the jacket. All that day I was only half conscious, dopey. -I don’t think I suffered as much as on the previous day. Some time in -the night they released me, and I lay on the floor in a stupor. I don’t -know how long. Toward morning my mind cleared and I felt that another -day would finish me. I decided I would send for Captain Murphy after -they put me back in the jacket and ask him to take me down to the bank -of the canal where I worked so I could dig up the hop from its plant and -give it to him. I was liked by the “cons” and knew he would go with me -personally, so my friends could see him triumphing over me. At the -canal, instead of giving him hop I intended to throw my arms around him -and drag him to the bottom, where we would both “cease from troubling.” - -The fourth morning Cochrane said: “You’re a damn fool; better give up -your hop. You can’t finish out the day.” I waited for him to put me in. -He held up the “bag” in front of me. I was sitting on the floor. “Get -up,” he said. I didn’t; I couldn’t; I was too weak. With a gesture of -disgust he threw the jacket out the door into the corridor. Motioning to -a couple of trusty prisoners, he said: “Take him away.” They helped me -to my cell and into my bunk. I lay there half dead, but victorious. My -cellmate came at noon and slipped me a jolt of hop. I took it and felt -better. He had not even thrown it away as I asked. “I knew you wouldn’t -squawk,” he said, “so I held on to it.” - -My three months passed quickly enough and I was released, still feeling -the effects of the jacket. When I got out I held up my hand and swore I -would never make another friend or do another decent thing. I borrowed a -gun and got money. I returned to Folsom by stealth and flooded the place -with hop. I went about the country for months with but one thing in my -mind, a sort of vicious hatred of everybody and everything. As much as -possible I shunned even my own kind—thieves. - -Then back to San Francisco again where I fell into a stool-pigeon trap. -Captain “Steve” Bunner, who now chases policemen, was then a very plain, -plain-clothes “dick,” chasing burglars and stick-ups. He arrested me. He -says I tried to shoot him but that he bears me no malice. I say he got -me a twenty-five year sentence, and I bear him no malice; and to-day, -while we are not exactly bosom friends, we certainly are not enemies. I -had no money to take an appeal from this stiff sentence, but an -attorney came and volunteered his services, saying: “I was in the -district attorney’s office when you were sent to Folsom and I know you -got jobbed. I’ll take your case for nothing.” - -While waiting on appeal the great earthquake and fire occurred. All the -records in my case were destroyed. I could not be sent to prison, and -the attorney could not get me out, so I became a permanent fixture in -the county jail. - -The old Broadway county jail was a stout structure and resisted the -quake, but was fire-swept and abandoned. When the fire threatened, all -prisoners were removed to Alcatraz Island and later to the branch jail -at Ingleside. I was there over six years and the things that happened -there during that time would fill a book. - -During the graft prosecution that followed the fire, Ingleside housed -the mayor, the political boss of San Francisco, and many of the -supervisors. A looting banker was there, many strikebreakers indicted -for the murder of union men during the car strike, and soldiers for -wantonly shooting down citizens while the city burned. Jack Johnson, -the colored heavyweight champion, was with us for thirty days for -speeding. - -Money was plentiful in the jail. The grocer came every day, and we all -got enough to eat. The political boss bought many books and founded a -library. He also got a big phonograph that was kept going all day and -far into the night. I was “appointed” jail librarian, and at once -catalogued the books and installed them in an empty cell. - -The jail was a cross between a political headquarters and an industrial -plant. The political prisoners did politics, and the prisoners whose -records were burned in the fire turned to industry. - -We got contracts to address envelopes and sublet the work to others. We -sewed beads on “genuine” Indian moccasins for a concern downtown. Best -of all, we bought cheap jewelry from mail-order houses and sold it at a -profit to visitors, giving them to understand that it was stolen stuff -we had smuggled in with us. - -One by one, those whose records were destroyed by the fire made -application to have them restored in order to perfect their appeals. In -the reconstruction of those records they lost their valuable points on -appeal and one by one they were turned down by the higher court. I made -no move, but decided to stay in the jail rather than go back to Folsom, -although conditions there had been greatly improved by Warden Yell, who -soon put Captain Murphy out and won the confidence of the convicts by -treating them on the square. - -At last a visiting grand-jury committee reported to the district -attorney that there was a prisoner at Ingleside whose case had been -pending more than six years, and recommended that something be done with -it. He at once put me on the docket for restoration of records. - -My attorney had retired, and with money I had saved from work and -speculations in jail I got a new lawyer. I had all the criminal lawyers -in San Francisco doped out like race horses by this time, and my choice -was Sam Newburgh. I had seen him beat some of the toughest cases that -ever went to trial. Not only that, I had seen him go down in his pocket -and give clients money after he got them out. He never weakened, never -lay down, or ran out on a man—money or no money. - -Newburgh at once threw down a most formidable barrage of objections and -technicalities. The prosecution got busy and, as usual, the defendant -was lost sight of in the smoke of battle. I had little hope of actually -beating the case; the best I could expect was a new trial and maybe a -sentence I could do instead of one that would do me. - -But while my affairs were at this stage a new hope appeared. I had made -a few new outside friends by this time. One of them especially, a fine, -noble woman, who was interested in helping us all, concerned herself to -do what she could for me. - -About this time Fremont Older, now editor of *The Call*, had helped the -late Donald Lowrie, whose writings did for American prisons what John -Howard’s did for those of England. - -This woman, who was one of Mr. Older’s friends, wrote him and said: - -“By way of thanking you for helping Lowrie I am going to give you -another man to assist. He is John Black, at the Ingleside jail. I wish -you would see him.” - -He called at the jail soon, but instead of having me out to the office -he came down to my cell, squeezed his bulk through the doorway, and sat -down on the edge of my bunk. Waving the guard away, he produced cigars, -helped me to a light, and asked, in a voice that rang to me like a -twenty-dollar piece, what he could do for me. For once all my mistrust, -suspicion, and hatred vanished. - -I said: “Mr. Older, I’m afraid you will waste a lot of valuable time -trying to do anything for me. I have twenty-five years. I’m guilty. I’m -plastered over with prior convictions. The police hate me, the jailers -dislike me because I tried to escape, and the trial judge is sore -because I’ve done everything possible to obstruct the judgment.” - -I told him I was a hop fiend, that I had used it for ten years, and was -still using it. I told him I was tired of stealing and tired of living. -I told him there was but one thing I could say for myself. I had never -broken my word either to a thief or a policeman. I told him if he did -help me out I would give him my word to quit stealing. He went away, -saying: “This looks pretty tough, but I will try.” - -He at once saw Judge Dunne, who sentenced me, and suggested probation on -the ground of my long confinement and dangerous physical condition. - -Mr. Older was the powerful editor of a newspaper and a long-time friend -of the judge. He was stared at as if he had gone mad, and his suggestion -met with a cold, flat, final turndown. He sent word to me that the judge -was adamant and nothing could be done. I saw my case was tough indeed -when he couldn’t help me, and began planning a getaway. - -I will not say there is honor among thieves. But I maintain that the -thieves I knew had something that served as a good substitute for honor. -I thought over all my thief friends and at last chose one and sent for -him. He got me saws, and I cut bars in my door. - -On a propitious night he cut the window bars. I was too weak to pull -myself up to the window, and he had to reach in, lift me bodily, and -drop me on the ground outside. - -Strange as it may sound, the fresh, cool night air had the same effect -on me that the foul air of a sewer would have on a healthy, normal -human. It overcame me. I was not able to walk at first, and my rescuer -had to support me on our way to the car line. - -Before daylight and before the escape was discovered I was safely -planted in a room in Oakland, where I stayed and was nursed back to -life, fed and protected by my friend. - -After waiting for a couple of weeks for the hue and cry to subside, he -stowed me away in a sleeper one night at Richmond on a northbound train -with a ticket to Vancouver, B.C. - -County constables and town whittlers beat up the jungles, searched box -cars and brakebeams; city dicks explored the hop joints and hangouts for -me and the reward offered, but I traveled safely as a first-class -passenger on a first-class train. - -No police officer who knows his business would think of looking in a -Pullman sleeper or diner for a fugitive hop fiend yegg with a -twenty-five-year sentence hanging on him. - -Arriving safely at Vancouver, I took stock and found myself sick, -weighing one hundred and ten pounds, with a ferocious hop habit, about -ten dollars, and a big pistol—the gatherings of forty years. - -Then came a foggy night. Necessity and Opportunity met, and I went away -with a bundle of bank notes and some certified checks. The checks went -into the first mail box as an apology from Necessity to Opportunity. - -Then began the toughest battle of my life. Opium, the Judas of drugs, -that kisses and betrays, had a good grip on me, and I prepared to break -it. The last words of my rescuer when he put me in the train rang in my -ears: - -“Good-by and good luck, Blacky. And you’d better lay away from that hop -or it’ll make a bum of you.” - - - - -CHAPTER XXIV - - -I had money enough to last some little time, long enough to get my -strength back, perhaps. I paid the landlady a month’s rent and told her -I was a sick man and would be in my room all the time and not to disturb -me. - -In this way I hoped to account for never stirring out of doors, which I -did not dare do. I certainly was a sick man, and looked it. - -This landlady was very good-hearted, and, sympathizing with my illness, -she did not leave me alone two hours in succession. She sent a Chinese -boy every hour or two to see how I felt, and in the morning she would -send in coffee and toast and come in herself to inquire how I was. - -After the boy had made the bed in the morning, she must come in to see -if he had turned the mattress and shaken up the pillows for me. She was -so busy helping me out that she nearly landed me back in jail. - -I came back to my room from the bathroom one morning, and there she -stood staring at a gun I had been keeping under the mattress. She had -insisted on turning the mattress herself and found it. She was standing -there staring at it like she would at a rattlesnake, and asked me what I -was doing with that “awful thing.” - -I sat down and said to her: “Mrs. Alexander, I bought that pistol to -kill myself with in case I get physically disabled. You see, I’m a sick -man. I told you I was a sick man, and I have a suspicion I am a -consumptive. I don’t want to go to doctors and I’m going to let this -thing run its course, but if I find I am down and out and done for I’m -going to shoot myself. That’s what I have it for.” - -She was all upset with sympathy. She said: “You’re no consumptive. You -are only run down. You’ll be all right in a few months, with good food -and care. Let me keep this thing. I’ll take it and keep it. Don’t get -downhearted, you’ll be all right.” - -Of course I had to let her take it. That night I went out and bought -another one. I also bought a bag and a few clothes, and I was careful -after that to lock the new pistol up in the bag when she was around. - -So I settled down to fight it out with my opium habit, at the same time -keeping on the watch all the time for the police. - -I had been using opium steadily for ten years. For ten years I had never -gone to sleep without taking it. I owed to it all the sleep, all the -rest and forgetfulness and contentment I had had in that time. - -Now I made up my mind to quit. Right away I found I had to pay back -every second of sleep, every quiet, restful moment I had got from the -opium in the whole ten years. - -I was taking about five grains a day. I began to taper down slowly. I -cut off a grain a week at the start, then for a couple of months I took -only three grains a day. - -It would have been a good deal harder to quit if I hadn’t had that fear -of the jail always before me. That took my mind off the opium. The -worst hold the drug gets on a man is the mental hold. It becomes a -mental habit. A man has to keep a hard grip on his mind; he has to want -to quit, first, and keep wanting to quit all the time, then he can do -it. - -I could stick the daytime out. I found something to do; I read, or ate, -or walked around the room. I did not dare go out in the daytime, for -fear I would be recognized by the police or by some stool pigeon. This -worry was always on my mind, and in a way it helped, because while I was -thinking of that I was not thinking about the opium. - -It was the small, still hours of the night that got me. I had to get -some sleep and strength for the next day. Every particle of opium I cut -off my daily dose cut off just that much sleep. For years in the jail I -had slept away all the time I could; I had slept ten or twelve or -fourteen hours a day. Now I had to pay back all that sleep I had stolen -from myself. - -I put in twenty-three hours a day waiting for the twenty-fourth, when I -could take my little jolt of hop. Every day when the hour arrived I was -tempted to take one more good jolt, so that I could have a decent -night’s sleep and forget everything for a few hours. - -But the last words of my friend who had rescued me were always in my -ears. “Lay away from that stuff. It will make a bum of you.” - -Hundreds of times it was just that memory that tipped the balance, and I -would take only what I had allowed myself, no more. I believe now I quit -because he said that to me. I felt that if I could not do that much, and -it was the only thing he ever asked me to do, I wasn’t worthy of the -friendship of such a man as he had shown himself to be. - -Then I would go to bed and try to sleep. After several hours I would get -up and go out for a walk, to get some exercise. I would walk as fast as -I could for three or four hours in the darkness, always keeping watch -for a policeman or for any one who knew me. - -I would walk until I was tired out, because I was still pretty weak, and -it did not take much to tire me. Then I would hope to sleep a little. - -But in the long, still hours my nerves demanded opium. And I resisted -and fought it out till my strength got down to the vanishing point. - -Then I would get up and drench myself with whisky and wash it down with -absinth. My room looked like a cross between a drug store and a -distillery. I had bottles of tonics, invalid’s port wine, whisky and -absinth. - -I would take a drink out of every bottle in the room and fall down on -the bed or on the floor in a stupor and sleep for a few hours. - -In this manner I stuck it out. I took a small portion of hop each -evening, reducing it daily according to the system I planned. Finally I -got to the stage where I could skip one day’s portion and get two hours’ -natural sleep. - -Then I tried skipping two days and got by with it, but on the third day -I was tied in a knot with cramps and aches and nothing but hop would put -me on my feet. - -All this time Mrs. Alexander, my kindly landlady, was urging me to go -out in the sunshine during the day. She said it would do me good to get -more air, and she could see no reason why I wouldn’t do it. - -So at last I went out one afternoon. - -I went to a little park where it was quiet and lay on the grass. It was -so good to touch and smell the grass again that I couldn’t get enough of -it. It seemed to me that grass was the most beautiful thing in the -world. I felt as though I could eat it. - -I lay there in the sunshine and ran my hands through it and pulled a -blade or two and chewed it. I had not been in the sunshine nor been -able to touch anything green and growing for over six years. I wouldn’t -have spoiled that lawn, put a cigarette stub or an orange peel on it for -anything in the world. - -After that I went out three or four afternoons a week and lay on that -grass in the park. I could feel that I was getting stronger, I could eat -with good appetite, and every night I decreased the opium according to -my schedule. I finally got the dose down to an eighth of a grain. - -Even that amount, even the smallest particle that I could get on the end -of a toothpick, would make the difference between sleeping all night or -not. - -I don’t believe in those radical cures. It stands to reason you can’t -cure in three days a habit that it took you five or ten years to build -up. I think any man can cure himself. He must first be cured mentally, -he must *want* to be cured. If he doesn’t want to be cured, all the -treatments in the world aren’t going to do it. You can lock men in -prisons and deprive them of hop, and they will come right back and get -it again because they don’t want to be cured. But the man who *wants* to -quit can. - -It took me six months to get the dose down to nothing. Even then for -months more the thing might jump out at me at any minute, like a wild -beast and tear me to pieces. I would go half crazy for the time, I would -be mad to get hold of some hop. But that would last only a few hours, -and every time I got through it safe I knew it would be easier next -time. - -Every minute I was out of the house in the daytime I kept watching for -people who knew me. A good many men had been through Ingleside jail in -the six years I was there and Vancouver was full of them. None of them -ever saw me, because I saw them first. I tried to see every man in the -block ahead of me the minute I stepped on the curb. - -Cured of the habit now, I went back “on the road,” determined to stay in -Canada, keep away from big cities and wise coppers, and try to do the -twenty-five-year sentence outside instead of at Folsom. I traveled east -over the Canadian Pacific Railway to the booming province of Alberta. -One morning after an all-night ride, I crawled out of a box car in the -town of Strathcona, tired, hungry, and dirty. I was not in distress for -money, and looked around for a quiet place where I could lay off for a -week and rest up. After a breakfast, a bath, and a shave, I walked -around a while and located a quiet, respectable-looking place with a -“board and rooms” sign. It looked to be a half-private, out-of-the-way -place, so I went in. - -A Chinese boy was dusting up in the lounging room, and I asked him for -the “boss man.” He disappeared out in the hall. In a few minutes I heard -a heavy step and turned around to face Salt Chunk Mary, the friend of -the bums and yeggs at Pocatello. More than fifteen years had passed -since she disappeared, yet I knew her instantly. The same, level “right -now” look from her cold blue eyes; the same severe parting of her -brick-red hair; the same careful, clean, starched house dress, and the -same few short, sharp, meaningful words told me it was she who had -broken open the town jail and set me free when no man would turn a hand. - -“Oh, Mary!” I cried, and my hand went out to her. I said something -about Pocatello and the night I saw her last, and about Foot-’n’-a-half -George, long dead, but she stopped me cold. Looking me straight in the -eye, she said in a tone of finality that left no chance of an answer: - -“You are mistaken; you don’t know me. My name’s not Mary, and I was -never in Pocatello in my life.” - -When Mary said no she meant it. I went out and away, envying that -courageous woman who had the strength to leave Pocatello and her life -there, and bury herself in a far corner of the North. - -After much thought I decided that Salt Chunk Mary had washed her hands -of the old life and old associates and was trying to spend her remaining -days in peace. I saw her no more, and went my solitary way, pistoling -people away from their money—the highwayman’s way. - -A distinguished chief of police in one of our big cities gave this -advice to the public: - -“If a holdup man stops you, grab him and yell at the top of your voice.” - -That was the advice of a policeman; more, the advice of a policeman who -was never stuck up. I know something about the stick-up game. I’ve been -stuck up myself. This is the first time I’ve told about it, and it will -be the last. I’m not advising any reader what to do in case of a -stick-up. I’m only telling what I did. - -As I was walking home one mild midnight up Haight Street, a young man -came down the street toward me. He was whistling a little tune, his hat -was on the back of his head, and he walked briskly, swinging his arms. - -“Ah, ha,” thinks I, “here’s a young fellow that’s just left his girl at -her door. She gave him a kiss, and he’s happy. He’s hurrying home now, -and—” my reflections ended. About ten feet away from me his arms swung -together and his right hand pulled a long gun out of his left sleeve. - -“The real thing,” I said to myself, stopping. - -“Put up your hands.” - -I did. - -“Turn your face to that fence.” - -I did. - -He stepped up behind me and put something hard against my spine. - -“All right, brother,” I said meekly. “It’s all yours. It’s in my -left-hand pants pocket.” - -He found it. - -“I’ve got a watch, brother, that’s worth a lot to me; I wish you’d let -me keep it. It would bring you four dollars, but it might bring you -forty years.” - -“Huh!” he grunted. He felt for the watch, took it out of its pocket, -“hefted” it in his hand, and put it back. “You keep your face to that -fence till I get out of the block or I’ll ‘spray’ you with this -automatic.” - -I did. - -That’s the way I deal with a stick-up man. - -There is no way I know of to protect yourself from the starving moron -who pounces on you out of a dark doorway, knocks you on the head with a -“blunt instrument,” and goes through your pockets after you are on the -sidewalk. That kind of “work” is unprofessional, unnatural, and -disgusting, and does not concern me. The psychiatrist might explain and -classify it; I cannot. - -After circulating around with my pistol for a few months I was arrested -and, almost by chance, identified as a fugitive from California justice. -In short order I was brought back to San Francisco. - -The first man that came to see me in the city prison was Sam Newburgh, -the attorney who had my case when I escaped from the jail. - -Two days before I had escaped, the last fifty-dollar payment on his fee -had come due. At that time I was almost sure I would escape and get away -without any trouble, and I was tempted to defer this payment and put him -off until later, because I saw I would have use for the fifty dollars -myself. - -But when he came out to the jail I paid it to him. - -He remembered this, and when I was brought back he was the first man -there to see me. To my surprise and delight, he told me that my legal -status was just about the same as when I left. My appeal was still -pending. - -I had some thoughts that Mr. Older might feel I had abused his -confidence in leaving the jail, when he was trying to do something for -me. But he knew at the time that I was turned down by every one and -didn’t have a chance of getting my liberty, so I hoped he would -understand. - -He came immediately to see me, and I explained this to him. I said I -never would have made a move of that kind if there had been a chance; -that I had to do it in order to do myself justice. I said I knew I would -not live another two years in that jail; they had all admitted they -could do nothing for me, and I thought I had a right to do as I did. - -He said, “I think you did the only thing. It was the only way out for -you. I would probably have done the same thing myself.” - -He remarked that I was looking stronger and healthier. I had gained -about thirty pounds in weight. Mr. Older could see in a minute that I -had quit the opium. He spoke of it at once. - -He said he would see if something could be done for me. He thought it -might be possible that the district attorney’s office, on account of all -the complications of the case, would agree to ask for an amended -sentence, a sentence of only a year or two, if I would stop fighting and -plead guilty. - -I said: “If I had thought such a thing possible, Mr. Older, I’d have -paid my way back here and given myself up!” - -I had little hope that any such thing would be done. I had never -encountered anything like it. The next day Maxwell McNutt of the -district attorney’s office came in to talk to me. - -He spoke about my escape, and I told him the reasons for it as I had -told the others. I explained that I would not have had to do it if my -friends had been able to do something for me in the way of a lighter -sentence. - -He said that so far as the district attorney was concerned, he thought I -had served almost enough time. I was astounded when I heard this. In all -my experience I had never encountered a district attorney’s office that -thought any criminal had served enough time. - -This was a revelation to me in the ways of courts and police. It was the -first time I ever got any better than the worst of it. I saw myself -relieved of that burden of a twenty-five-year sentence. I saw myself -coming out in a couple of years with the slate wiped clean. - -I realized that Judge Dunne would be taking a chance in giving me a -sentence that amounted practically to nothing. He had his place on the -bench and his reputation with his fellow judges and the people to -consider. If I came out of prison and got into trouble immediately -after, I would be double-crossing him. - -I saw it was up to me to square myself and go to work when I came out. - -After some delay the district attorney and the trial judge agreed to -amend the judgment, and a day was set for me to go into court. Mr. Older -asked me to make a statement, hoping there might be something in my -experience that would throw some light on the criminal problem that -might help people to help criminals. - -When I got into court I decided not to make this statement until after I -was sentenced, because I didn’t want any one to feel that what I said -was said for selfish reasons, and if I said it before I was sentenced it -might appear that I was talking for leniency. - -I decided I had got all the leniency that was coming to me, and very -much more than I ever expected. - -The judge sentenced me to one year. That was better than I had hoped -for. The district attorney had suggested it probably would not be more -than two years, but here the judge had cut even that in two. - -As near as I can recall them, my words were as follows: - -“I would like to make a statement before it is too late. I feel that -this will be my last appearance in any court as a defendant, and I want -to make this statement in the hope that there may be something in my -experience that will prove valuable to some one, perhaps some one in -authority who has to do with the instruction and correction of -offenders, particularly of the younger ones. - -“I would not make this statement if I ever expected to appear in court -again as a defendant. As criminal as it is, I will consider it as -nothing if it prove of value to any one, if my failure would cause some -young man to hesitate before it is too late, before he finds himself -charged with crime. - -“My prison experiences began with a sentence of two years and thirty -lashes in a Canadian prison. I could not see that I deserved this -flogging, and it seemed when I got it that all the cruelty in the world -was visited on me—all the brutality, all the violence. There was a -lesson in cruelty I have never forgotten. Fortunately, I had a -disposition that hardened with the flogging instead of breaking under -it. - -“I proved an incorrigible prisoner while there. I broke the rules many, -many times in a small way—nothing violent, nothing desperate, but I -would talk, laugh, whistle and sing, and that outraged the silence of -the system then in vogue. - -“I was punished repeatedly on bread and water, the dark cell. The warden -was a hard, stern man. His motto was—‘break them first and make them -after.’ - -“Then came the day for the second installment of my flogging and my -discharge from prison. I went out with the skin on my back blistered and -broken and my mind bent on revenge. I went out of there with a hatred -for law and order, society and justice, discipline and restraint, and -everything that was orderly and systematic. I had a hatred for courts, -jailers, prison keepers, and wardens. I hated policemen, prosecutors, -judges and jurors. - -“If I had reasoned right, I might have made a better start than I did. -But I had no experience to guide me. I planned for revenge and I turned -on society to get it, because society furnishes the judges, the jurors, -the policemen, the prosecutors. Before I got fairly started on my career -of revenge I was back in prison. - -“When I went back I learned more brutality and violence. I knew the -bread-and-water punishment, the dark cell, the strait-jacket and the -water cure. I thought violent thoughts, I planned violent plans, and I -executed those plans as best I could as soon as I got outside. I suppose -a man’s actions are the creatures of his thought, and his thoughts are -naturally the products of his environment and the conditions under which -he is forced to live. - -“If you put a boy in prison at the age I was, as prisons were then, he -will become a criminal as sure as the day follows the night or the night -follows the day. I imagine those conditions were responsible for many -criminals of my age or thereabouts, who were considered incorrigible. I -won’t say confirmed, because I believe there is no such thing as a -confirmed criminal. I have seen many miraculous reformations. One man -may be reformed through a woman, a woman’s plea, a mother’s love. Others -might be reformed through the assistance and kindness of friends. But -still another might be reformed by an act of kindness from some -unexpected source. I believe that one who has been brutalized can be -turned right by an act of kindness and be regenerated. It looks -reasonable. - -“When I stood up in this court to be sentenced for twenty-five years, I -was a criminal, as I have described. I had learned the lesson of -violence in prison, and I believed that I lived in a world of violence, -had to use violence, and use it first. I had no more thought of right or -wrong than a wolf that prowls the prairie. I hunted because I was -hunted myself, and I showed no consideration for anybody or anything -because I knew I would receive none. - -“I was a habitual criminal. I had formed the criminal habit. Habit is -the strongest thing in life, and criminals such as I have described obey -the impulse to commit a crime almost subconsciously. So far as the right -or wrong is concerned, he gives it no more thought than you would when -you walk down the street and open the gate to enter your front door. It -is a habit with you. - -“The twenty-five-year sentence I received made no impression on me -whatever. I expected it, and had expected it for years. It was simply an -incident, an obstacle, another delay—a violent one, to be sure; but I -had dealt the game of violence, and when forced to play at it I am not -the one to complain. - -“So I went back to the county jail and my lawyer went back to his law. -Then came the fire that destroyed the records of my conviction and -sentence, and put me in the perpetual criminal class at the county jail. -I became more permanent than the sheriff. I saw them come and go, and -after years of comparative peace and quiet and fair treatment in the -county jail I began to change my views and think different thoughts, and -I looked forward to a different sort of life. - -“A few friends rallied around and began to plan ways and means to help -me. They investigated, found it impossible, and told me. - -“The future looked dark, and I was in despair. The day of my -deliverance seemed to be receding instead of advancing. I planned to get -my liberty in another way, and I did get it, but I got it under such -circumstances as to make it impossible for me to lead the life I had -planned. - -“It was impossible for me to mix with men in the daytime. I was a -fugitive. I was hunted again. I had to seek the back streets on the -darkest nights. - -“In a few months I found myself back in jail in San Francisco. Then -something occurred that surprised me more than I can tell. I was told -that there was a possibility of my getting credit for the time that I -had served in the county jail, that I might get a sentence I would see -the end of, instead of one that would see the end of me, and that it -might be possible for me to get out and lead a different kind of life. - -“This made a greater impression upon me than the twenty-five-year -sentence, this offer of help from such a surprising source. At first I -thought I was getting the double-cross, but I investigated and found it -was true, and what little doubts I had were completely shattered. I did -not admit the possibility of any kindness from judges, district -attorneys, prosecutors, or anybody who represents the people. - -“I now saw that I was wrong, and that it was up to me to build new rules -to regulate my conduct in the future, that I would have to formulate a -philosophy that would admit the possibility of kindness from such -sources; from people who desired to help me if I would help myself. - -“I have promised myself, and I promise the court, that when I finish -this sentence I shall look for the best instead of the worst, that I -shall look for kindness instead of cruelty, and that I shall look for -the good instead of the bad, and when I find them I shall return them -with interest. - -“I am confident when I promise the court this that I will not fail. I -imagine I have enough character left as a foundation on which to build a -reformed life. If I had no character, no will power, no determination, -I would have been broken long ago by the years of imprisonment and -punishment; and I would have been useless and harmless and helpless, a -force for neither good nor bad.” - -Judge Dunne asked me if I had any choice of prisons, and I said I -preferred San Quentin because I had already been in every other prison -in the state, and I would like to go over there and see what that place -was like. - -I left the courtroom with that one-year sentence feeling as if I had -received a Christmas gift; it was the twenty-fourth of December. - -At San Quentin I had a hard time to convince friends that my sentence -was cut to one year. The atmosphere there surprised me. There was none -of that smoldering hatred of officers; no hopeless, despairing -prisoners; no opium and no scheming to get it in. Everybody was looking -forward to parole. There was no brutal punishment. A man’s credits were -safe. All those changes worked for the best. Prisoners had a chance to -shorten their time by good conduct, and their conduct was good. - -One of the first “cons” to reach me was my friend, Soldier Johnnie, -doing a short sentence. - -I hadn’t seen him since leaving the Canadian prison, where I got the -dark cell for speaking to him. We were comparing notes for a week. It -was from him I learned that the Sanctimonious Kid had escaped from Canon -City before finishing his fifteen years, and that he had gone to -Australia, where he was hanged for killing a police constable. In turn, -I told him of Foot-’n’-a-half George’s death, and of Mary’s -disappearance into the Far North. - -Johnnie finished his time first, and went back to the road, where he -probably will live out his life and die unwept, unhonored, and unhung. - -I put in my sentence without any trouble and came out in ten months. -That was thirteen years ago. - -On the boat for San Francisco I saw the bar. At once I felt that I -needed a jolt of booze. I got it. - -Then I saw the lunch counter. I at once felt the need of a cup of real -coffee. I got that. After that, I sat down on a bench and thought it -over. - -Here I was, physically fit and serviceably sound, walking up to that bar -and buying a drink of whisky I didn’t need just because I happened to -see the bar, and then a cup of coffee just because I saw the coffee urn. - -I decided I would have to beware of the power of suggestion. The bar had -suggested whisky and the lunch counter coffee, and I fell for them both. - -Anyway, I made up my mind that I would close my eyes when I got to the -ferry building for fear I might see a sack of registered mail lying -around loose. It would suggest days of ease and nights of pleasure, and -I might fall for that. - -I got through the ferry building and walked up Market Street, as they -all do. In time I found myself in Mr. Older’s anteroom. There were -several men waiting to see him. I looked them over and said to myself, -“There’s preachers, politicians, and pickpockets in that bunch. I’ll be -lucky if I don’t have to wait an hour.” - -The young lady took my name and I was the first one in. Mr. Older was -there with a suggestion, too; luncheon at the Palace Hotel. - -I’m not strong for eating in swell places, but I do like quick -contrasts. I had my breakfast in San Quentin, so why not lunch at the -Palace? - -We had a good meal. While we were eating, Mr. Older suggested that I -come down to his ranch for a few days, till I got my bearings again in -the outside world and was ready to begin work. - -I was glad to do this. It helped get me over the hardest part of the -life of the ex-prisoner who intends to go square; the first few weeks -out of prison. I went down that night for a week and stayed six months. - -I would have been content to stay there always. I was able to do enough -on the ranch to pay for my board and shelter, and I liked it. But it was -necessary after a while for me to come back to San Francisco and go to -work. My room was wanted on the ranch by other men who needed it worse -than I did. - -Eddie Graney needs no introduction here. I only hope this story has as -many readers as he has friends. While he is known and respected for his -square decisions as a referee of big fights, I think his fame rests -chiefly on the fact that while he has the finest billiard rooms west -of—oh, well, west of anywhere—he has not yet learned how to play -billiards. - -Graney gave me my first job—cashier in his pool room—handling his money. -After a few months a better job appeared. With a letter of introduction -I saw Mr. B. F. Schlesinger of the Emporium. - -“Where did you work last?” he asked. - -“At Eddie Graney’s.” - -“And before that?” - -“At San Quentin, in the jute mill.” - -He knew all about me and put me to work as salesman in the book -department. I knew something about books—I had been librarian at the -county jail. I was honest—hadn’t stolen any of Graney’s money. I felt -perfectly at ease among the books, and made good. Book selling grew -dull later, and I was slated for a transfer to another department. At -the manager’s office I was told that the only vacancy was on the ribbon -counter. I looked in a mirror on the wall and saw a face in it that -didn’t seem to belong behind the ribbon counter. - -I said: “Mr. Schlesinger, this is a great life if you know when to -weaken. I think this is where I’ll weaken.” - -At lunch time I saw Mr. Older and told him about it. Fortunately, there -was a vacancy at the *Bulletin* in the circulation department just then -and I got the job. I left the Emporium with the best wishes and good -will of everybody I met there. When Mr. Older became editor of *The -Call* he found a place there for me as librarian; I still have that job. - -In thirteen years I have learned to work—some day I may learn to like -it. Yet it is so easy and simple and safe and secure that I now wonder -how any man coming out of prison could think of doing anything else. -The pity of it is that so many ex-prisoners who do think of trying to -work can’t get it. I take no credit whatever for going to work. I could -have done that years before. - -I quit stealing and learned working because I was in a hole where I -could not do otherwise. I was in hock to friends who saved me from a -heavy sentence, provided me with work, and expected only that I stay out -of jail. That’s not asking much of a man—to keep out of jail. The judge -who cut my sentence took a greater chance than I ever did. If I had gone -back “sticking up” people, the judge’s critics could have said that he, -and he alone, made it possible—and that’s precisely why I quit. - -If I had stolen Graney’s, the Emporium’s, or the *Bulletin’s* money, -they could have said that Older made it possible, and had I been tempted -to steal that thought would have stopped me. I cannot say I quit -stealing because I knew it was wrong. I quit because there was no other -way for me to discharge the obligations I had accepted. Whatever measure -of reformation I have won is directly due to Fremont Older and Judge -Dunne of the Superior Court. They took a chance on me, a long chance, -and it will be a long time before they regret it. Fremont Older has been -a rock in a weary land to me, and Judge Dunne has been a shelter in the -time of storm. - -It has been easy for me. The noble woman who found me rotting in jail -physically and mentally is still my friend, I am proud to say. The -kindly Christian couple who gave me a home with them in San Francisco -and treated me as a son are still my friends. Friends everywhere, to -help and advise and encourage. Even friends from the road and the -jungles drop into my office and shake hands and say: “More power to you, -old-timer. You’re sure makin’ good. I’m goin’ to try it myself some -day.” - -My feuds with the police are dead and buried. No copper has bothered me -or obstructed me. Many of them have offered in good faith to help me. -And so I say it has been easy for me to go on the square. I speak only -of my own experience; others may not have been so fortunate in finding -friends. - -I wish I could sift out a few grains of wisdom from my life that would -help people to help prisoners, and help prisoners to help themselves, -but I can’t find them. I don’t know. All I can say with certainty is -that kindness begets kindness, and cruelty begets cruelty. You can make -your choice and reap as you sow. - -I am not worrying about prisons. If they improve as much in the coming -twenty years as they have in the last twenty, they will have to be -called something else. While the number of convicts is increasing, the -percentage of second and third timers, habitual criminals, is -decreasing. That’s hopeful, and it’s because of more humane treatment, -more liberal parole laws, and the extension of road building and other -work, that fits a prisoner for the outside, gives him the work habit. - -Highway building by convicts is the sanest and most constructive step I -have seen. Instead of appropriating money to build a third prison in -California, the same money might be expended in road-building materials, -and one of our two prisons emptied into the road camps, where the -prisoner could be self-supporting and not a dead weight on the taxpayer -while in prison, and worse after he gets out. - -A certain number of prisoners, say ten per cent, always have and always -will abuse probation and parole. The ninety per cent of prisoners who -respect probation and parole more than justify the laws under which they -are released. Probation to boys and young men should be extended. -Paroles to first-time convicts should be more liberal. Paroles to -second-timers might well be closely scrutinized, and for third-timers—if -the Prison Board “throws the key away” on them they will die off and -settle their own problem. I am in the third or fourth-timer class -myself, and if I got back into prison and the board sentenced me to life -with the privilege of applying for parole after fifteen years, I -wouldn’t have to look very far for the person responsible for it. - -As I see it, the criminals of this generation should cause no concern. -They will soon be out of the way. The problem wouldn’t be solved by -shooting them all at sunrise, or by releasing them all at sunrise. -Something might be done for the generation that is coming up. It seems -to me there’s the place to start—but what to do, I don’t know. - -I am sure of but one thing—I failed as a thief, and at that I am luckier -than most of them. I quit with my health and liberty. What price -larceny, burglary, and robbery? Half my thirty years in the underworld -was spent in prison. Say I handled $50,000 in the fifteen years I was -outside; that’s about nine dollars a day. How much of that went to -lawyers, fixers, bondsmen, and other places? Then count in the years in -prison—suffering, hardship, privation. This was years ago when there was -much less police protection. - -“What chance have you now?” I would ask any young man, “with shotgun -squads, strong-arm squads, and crime crushers cruising the highways and -byways; with the deadly fingerprinting, central identification bureau, -and telephotȯing of pictures; and soon every police station broadcasting -ahead of you your description and record? Then consider the accidents -and snitches—what chance have you? Figure it out yourself. I can’t.” - -Had I spent that thirty years at any useful occupation and worked as -hard at it and thought and planned and brought such ingenuity and -concentration to bear on it, I would be independent to-day. I would have -a home, a family perhaps, and a respected position in my community. I -have none of those, but I have a job, I have two suits of clothes, I -have two furnished rooms in a flat. I have as many friends as I can be -loyal to. I am fifty years old, and so healthy that when I hear my -friends holding forth about their ailments I feel ashamed of myself. I -would not turn time backward and be young again, neither do I wish to -reach the century mark and possible senility. - -I have no money, no wife, no auto. I have no dog. I have neither a -radio set nor a rubber plant—I have no troubles. - -I borrow money from my friends in a pinch, ride in their machines, -listen to their radios, make friends with their dogs, admire their -flowers, and praise their wives’ cooking. - -If I could wish for anything else it would be a little more moderation, -a little more tolerance, and a little more of the trustful innocence of -that boy who learned his prayers at the knee of the gentle, kindly old -priest in the Sisters’ Convent School. - - - - -TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES: - -Italicized text is surrounded by asterisks. - -The following typographical errors in the Macmillan edition from 1926 -have been corrected: - - - An extra comma appeared after "Well, whatever" in Chapter 3 on - page 21. - - - A period was missing after the word "toes" at the end of a - sentence in Chapter 9 on page 108. - - - "Zion's co-operative Mercantile Institution" in Chapter 13 on page - 170 is a proper noun and the name of a business, so the "c" has - been capitalized as well. - - - A period was missing at the end of the sentence that begins with - "The lashing is regulated by law" in Chapter 19 on page 277. - - - "Ottawa" was misspelled as "Ottowa" in Chapter 20 on page 312. - Ottawa is later spelled correctly in Chapter 22. 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