MY FIRST IMPRISONMENT
A friend, on receiving word that this book was being written, and that
it was intended as a wind-up, for the time being at least, of my Under
World reportings, wrote to me as follows:
"Whatever else you do or don't do, don't forget to get some romance into
the story. I mean that you should try to get some poetry--oh, yes, I
mean poetry--into your account of yourself. Merely a string of dates and
facts will not go."
Perhaps the reader may be able to find some scattered bits of intended
"poetry" in this Second Part, but on looking it over myself the "bits,"
if they exist at all, are so widely scattered that I cannot locate them.
Yet I had to write this section of the book to make it coherent and
connected, "poetry" or no "poetry."
My car reporting in East Buffalo lasted just a week. Then my benefactor,
the night yardmaster, and I went to Buffalo proper one day. The
yardmaster soon found other friends and, telling me to amuse myself,
left me to my own devices. Perhaps, if we had remained together this
second part of my book would tell a very different story than it does,
perhaps-- But something in me says: "What is the use of 'perhapsing' at
this late hour? Go ahead and blurt out the truth." I am not sure that
there is much use in "perhapsing," but somehow it seems impossible for
me to throw off the habit. At times it is so strong that I have caught
myself going back to my lodging three times to make certain that no
coals had fallen out of the grate--when there was no more probability of
such a thing happening on the third inspection than on the first. "And
yet," I have reasoned, "_perhaps_ a live coal might have fallen out and
burned up the whole place had I not taken a last look and made sure."
So it is in looking back to that day alone in Buffalo--the inevitable
_perhaps_ comes to my mind, and I wonder what would have happened if I
had simply staid with the yardmaster, which I was very welcome to do had
I been so minded.
What I did during the morning and early afternoon I do not recall now;
probably I merely wandered about the streets and took in such sights as
attracted me. Of this much, however, I feel certain: there was no great
_Wanderlust_ in my intentions. My work on the railroad interested me not
a little, and I had already begun to calculate the amount of savings I
should have at the end of the year. As the day wore on I remember
measuring how much time I should need to get back to supper and work,
and up to the middle of the afternoon it was my firm determination to
report for work early. Then--ah yes, then! I saw a horse and buggy
standing idle in one of the main thoroughfares. What it was that
prompted me to get into the buggy and drive blindly onward I cannot say,
even now. As I have remarked, my job was satisfactory, I was my own
"boss" in the daytime, the horse and buggy no more represented personal
wealth to me at the time than did one of the stores, and there was no
reasonable excuse for a wandering trip. But something, strict church
people might say the devil, prompted me to throw over the job, run the
risk of being sent to prison as a horse thief, and to ride away with
buggy and horse for parts unknown. There is no wish on my part to
palliate this crime in the least; I merely want to know why I committed
it. At the moment of driving away it no more occurred to me to turn the
outfit into gold than it did to turn back. On I went for a good hour,
regardless of direction and the police. Then the seriousness of my
offense gradually began to dawn on me. What should I do? At first I
contemplated leaving the horse with some farmer, thinking that its owner
would eventually locate it. But I threw over this plan. It was too late
to report for work, and the growing darkness brought on a mild attack of
_Wanderlust_. "Why not proceed as far as possible under the cover of
night," I reasoned, "and _then_ leave the rig somewhere in good hands?"
I had at last found a road going in the direction I desired at that time
to follow, if the car-reporting job was to be given up, and my mind was
pretty definitely settled on that score, although a week's wages were
due me.
Midnight found me on still another road, and going in a new direction,
my mind having changed during the ride. I put the horse into a barn, fed
him, and then we both fell asleep. Early morning found us _en route_
again, and no police in sight. By this time the desire to elude capture
was very strong, and the wonder is that I succeeded with detectives by
the half dozen beating the bushes in various directions. The third day
out I reached my destination in Pennsylvania, the home of an
acquaintance who dealt in horses and knew me well. My possession of such
a valuable horse and fashionable phæton carriage was satisfactorily
explained; they were bought at auction, I boldly declared, and
represented the result of my savings during the summer. To make a
miserable story short, I will merely say that the horse and buggy were
turned over to my friend for a money consideration, quite satisfactory
to me, but far below what the outfit was worth. It might still be where
I parted with it, so far as the astute "detectives" were concerned. It
was voluntarily returned to the owner before long. Several weeks later
another horse and buggy in my custody arrived at my friend's house, and
again the flimsy tale of a "bargain" and inability to resist it was
told. It was the silliest "bargain" I ever went in for. Having attended
a fair in a neighboring town, not over ten miles away, and having lost
my train home, I boldly appropriated a "rig" and drove home in the most
unconcerned fashion possible. My credulous friend complimented me on my
luck in buying horses, and would no doubt have bought this second outfit
from me had something not happened.
About midnight an ominous knock was heard on my friend's outer door. As
I felt must be the case, it heralded the arrival of the constables--the
horse had been seen and located! There was a bare chance of escape, but
as I look back on the situation now the probability is that I should not
have got far away before being captured. Some of the villagers, who had
also been aroused, were much incensed at my arrest and forced departure,
declaring that "no boy in his senses would intentionally steal a horse
so near home. There must be some mistake. Probably the boy had mistaken
the rig for one that he had been told to get, etc., etc." But their
arguments availed nothing, and I was taken away. The committing
magistrate made quick work with my story in the lockup, and soon I was
lodged in the county jail--my second imprisonment in about eighteen
years. (I looked, perhaps, fifteen.)
_Die Ferne_, everything in fact that I had ever really cared for, seemed
irretrievably lost. Yet no tears came to my eyes, and I walked into the
miserable "hall" of the jail, said "Hello!" to the other prisoners, as
if such a place and companions were what I had always been accustomed
to. This ability, if I may call it such, to get along with almost
everybody, and for a reasonable amount of time to put up with
practically any kind of accommodations has been of great service to me.
I notice, however, that in later years "home comforts" are becoming more
and more a necessity. My constitution seems to demand a _quid pro
quo_--and wants fair treatment after patiently enduring so many hard
knocks.
This first _real_ imprisonment and the jail deserve a minute
description.
A number of years ago I contributed to _The Forum_ an article, entitled
"The Criminal in the Open." The main thesis supported in this paper was
that criminologists had previously been studying the criminal within too
narrow bounds--the prison cell; and that to know their man well they
must make his acquaintance when free and natural. In general, I still
hold to this belief; but on looking back to that first jail experience
of mine I am more than ever convinced that as a people, a practical
people, too, we are woefully neglecting our duty in continuing the
present county jail system with all its accompanying evils; and that it
is most distinctly "up to" both criminologist and penalogist to work for
radical changes in the present system.
My own experience in that old jail to which I was committed, to wait for
trial, is typical of what happens to the average prisoner in most of our
jails. The jail building was uncommonly old, but the rules applying
therein were about the same that one finds in all _country_ jails; in
cities the rules are more severe and exacting.
Soon after entering the jail corridor, or hall, as I have called it, one
prisoner after another--they were free to roam at will in the corridor
until bedtime--accosted me and, directly or indirectly, tried to find
out what I had been "sent up for." I told them quite freely about the
charge against me, and in turn learned on what charges they had been
shut up. There did not happen to be any murderers or violent offenders
in the jail just then, but when found in jails such inmates circulate
quite as freely among the possibly innocent as the older prisoners in my
jail associated with the young boys. A few of the prisoners were serving
jail sentences for minor offences, but the majority, like myself, were
waiting for trial. There were burglars, pickpockets, sneak thieves,
swindlers, runaway boys, and half-demented men who were awaiting
transportation to suitable institutions. In the daytime, from seven in
the morning until eight or nine at night, we were all thrown together,
for better or for worse, each one to take his chances, in the corridor
on the main floor. Here I passed many a dismal hour during the six weeks
I had to wait for sentence. At night we were locked in our cells on the
tiers above the corridor, two and three men being lodged in one cell. It
is only fair to state, however, that the cells were so unusually large
and commodious that even four men could have been comfortably lodged in
one cell. We were all supposed to keep quiet after the sheriff had
locked us in for the night, but in the daytime we were free to play
games, laugh and generally amuse ourselves. We cooked our own food. Once
a week an election was held, and a new cook was installed; those who
knew nothing about cooking were expected to help wash the dishes and
keep the corridor clean. There was no work to do beyond these simple
duties. It was consequently necessary for us to get exercise in walking,
"broomstick calisthenics," as we called our antics with this instrument,
and in climbing up and down the stairway. A liberal supply of tobacco
was furnished us every morning, and we also got one or two daily
newspapers. Our food was simple, but more or less satisfying: Bread,
molasses and coffee for breakfast; meat, potatoes and bread at noon;
bread, molasses and tea for supper. Those who had money were permitted
to send out and buy such luxuries as butter, sugar and milk. All in all,
it was probably one of the "easiest" jails, if the prisoner behaved
himself, in the whole United States, and I have nothing to criticise in
the humanitarian treatment shown us by the sheriff; the jail itself,
however, was an eyesore--unsanitary to the last degree, and pathetically
insecure had there been expert jail-breakers in our company.
It was the total absence of classification of prisoners, and the
resulting mixing together of hardened criminals and young boys, to which
attention is mainly called here. From morning till night the "old hands"
in crime were exchanging stories of their exploits, while the younger
prisoners sat about them with open mouths and eyes of wonder, greedily
taking in every syllable. I listened just as intently as anybody, and
was hugely impressed with what I heard and saw. The seriousness of my
offense advanced me somewhat in the scale of the youthful prisoners, and
at times I was allowed to join a "private" confab, supposed to be only
for the long initiated and thoroughly tried offenders. This privilege,
and the general tone of "toughness" which was all over the prison, had
its effect on me, I am sorry to say, and I began to bluster and bluff
with the rest. Indeed, so determined was I to be the "real thing" or
nothing at all--almost entirely the result of association with the older
men--that I was at first unwilling that my lawyer should try to secure a
reform-school sentence for me. "If I'm to be sentenced at all," I
ordered, "let it be to prison proper. I don't want to associate with a
lot of kids." Fortunately, my lawyer did not follow my suggestion.
Meanwhile, Sentence Day, that momentous time, which all prisoners await
with painful uncertainty, was drawing nigh. Trials, of course, were to
come first, but practically every court prisoner knew that he had been
caught "with the goods on," and that Sentence Day would claim him for
her prey. My trial was soon over. My lawyer had "worked" very adroitly,
and I received sentence immediately--_the reform school until I had
improved_. I remember feeling very sheepish when I was taken back to the
jail; such a sentence was meant for a baby, I thought, and what would
the "old hands" think? They came to the door in a body when I was
brought back, demanding in a chorus: "How much, Kid?"
"A year," I romanced, meaning, of course, in the penitentiary, and
faking an old-timer's smile and nonchalance. Later they were told the
truth, and then began a course of instruction about "beating the Ref,"
escaping, to which I paid very close attention.
A few days later the other trials were finished, and Sentence Day was
definitely announced. The men to be sentenced put on their "best" for
the occasion, those having a surplus of neckties and shirts kindly
sharing them with those who were short of these decorations. A hard
fate stared them all in the face, and each wanted, somehow, to help his
neighbor. They were as nervous a collection of men while waiting for the
sheriff as one will find in a moon's travel. They all expected
something, but the extent of this something, the severity which the "old
man," the judge, would show them, was what made them fidgety. It was an
entirely new scene to me, and I watched intently the countenance of each
prisoner. My medicine had been received; I knew exactly what was ahead
of me, and did not suffer the feeling of uncertainty troubling the
others. Finally the sheriff came. "All ready, boys," he said, and the
convicted men were handcuffed together in pairs and marched over to the
courthouse. In a half-hour they had returned, a remarkable look of
relief in all of their faces. Some of them had been given stiff
sentences, but, as one man put it, "Thank God, I know what my task is
anyhow"; the terrible suspense and waiting were over.
The next day we were to be taken to our different destinations, insane
asylum and workhouse for some, the "Ref" and "Pen" for others. Breakfast
was our last meal together, and the sheriff's wife sent in little
delicacies to make us happier. The meal over, our scanty belongings were
packed up, each man and boy put on his best, once more, final good-byes
were said to those who remained behind, and the march to our new homes
began. Some are possibly still trudging to new places of seclusion at
the State's request and demand, others have very likely "squared it" and
are now stationary and good citizens, while still others have perhaps
"cashed in" here below, and have moved on in spirit to worlds where the
days of temptation and punishment are no more. Since the day we left the
old, musty jail I have never run across any of my jail companions.