I have become acquainted with a prisoner a few doors from my cell, next
to the shower baths. Small of stature, almost a boy, deathly pale, dark,
with strong features, this young English pickpocket is a new type in my
limited experience with criminals.
Every afternoon we sit together at a five o'clock tea in his model
cell. The walls are covered with half-tone pictures of famous stage
beauties. He offers me the place of honor, which is an old, rickety, but
comfortable armchair which belonged to Harry Thaw.
The bed, the bench, everything, is decorated with paper, cut out with
infinite pains. The tea is excellent and there are also condensed milk,
Huntley & Palmer's biscuits, butter and orange marmalade. Mine host
seldom talks to prisoners; he says the place is filled with stool
pigeons. When asked if he does not suspect me, he smiles and remarks
that in his profession a deep and varied familiarity with human nature
is necessary, as well as a cool head, an impassive mask, and great
dexterity with hands and fingers.
Very good-naturedly he answers my questions as to his early life and the
influences of which brought him to steal; he tells me also of his
philosophy of life. His father and mother were both thieves, and he was
taught to steal as soon as he could walk. The whole of Europe was the
field of his operations.
Soon after he came to New York he was arrested, and although the
detectives could not find any stolen goods on him, nevertheless he was
sentenced to seven years in Sing Sing on his past criminal record, which
was sent over by Scotland Yard.
Considering this man's record and nationality, the question comes to
mind as to why he was not sent back to England, instead of burdening the
taxpayers of the state of New York with his maintenance for seven years.