INTO THE DEPTHS
After I had taken this money from my sister I knew that I was suspected.
I was accused of taking it, but I was getting hardened; I had lost my
job through lying; I was getting tired of home; I didn't care very much
how things went.
About this time my elder sister was married and moved to New York. Her
husband was a mechanic and made good money. He liked me, and when the
theft was discovered I went and put up with him, staying there until I
made money enough to leave, then I got out. All this time I was going
from bad to worse, my associates being thieves and crooks and gamblers.
I shall never forget the first time I was arrested. I was with a
hardened crook, and we had made a haul of some hundred dollars. But as
luck would have it we were caught and sent away for nine months on a
"technicality." If we had received our just dues the lowest term would
have been five years each. I thought my time in prison would never come
to an end, but it did at last, and I was free. But where was I to go? My
mother had moved to New York to be near my sister, so I went and called
on them. Mother asked me where I had been. I made some kind of an
excuse, but I could see by mother's eye that she did not take much stock
in it.
I remained at home, and finally got work in a fruit house on Washington
Street, at eight dollars a week. I was quite steady for a while, and
mother still had hopes of her boy. But through the same old company and
drink I lost that job.
MARRIAGE
About this time I ran across a girl who I thought would make a good
wife, and we were married. I was then in the crockery business in a
small way, and if I had stuck to business I should be worth something
now. I'll never forget the day of the wedding. The saying is, "Happy is
the bride the sun shines on," but there was no sunshine that day. It
rained, it simply poured. Mother tried to get the girl to throw me over;
she told her I would never make her a good husband; and I guess Mary was
sorry afterward that she did not take her advice.
The night of the wedding we had quite a blowout, and I was as drunk as I
could be. I'd ring in right here a bit of advice to my girl readers:
Don't ever try to convert a man--I mean one who drinks--by marrying him,
for in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred you won't succeed. In my case
I was young and did not care how the wind blew. I stayed out nights and
neglected my home, but I must say, bad as I was, I never hit my wife. I
think any man that raises his hand to hit a woman is worse than a cur,
and that he will certainly be punished in some way for it.
Things went from bad to worse, and one day I came home to the store and
there was no wife. She had gone. Married and deserted in two months! I
felt sore, and all I thought about was to get even with my wife. I sold
out the business, got a couple hundred dollars together, and started
after her. I found out that she had gone to Oswego, and I sent her a
telegram and was met at the station by her brother. It did not take me
long to get next to him. In a very short time I had him thinking there
was no one like Ranney. Mary and I made up and I promised never to drink
again, and we started for New York. My promises were easily broken, for
before we got to Syracuse both her brother and I were pretty drunk.
After reaching New York we went to mother's house and stayed there until
we got rooms, which we did in a few days. Mary's brother got work in a
lumberyard. I hunted as usual for a job, praying I wouldn't get it. I
went hustling lumber and worked two days, leaving because it took the
skin off my hands. Finally I could not pay the rent, was dispossessed,
and then went to live in "Hell's Kitchen," in Thirty-ninth Street, where
my son was born. Our friends thought the baby would bring Mary and me
closer together, as it sometimes does. But what did I care for a baby!
I got work on Jake Sharp's Twenty-third Street cars, and Mary would
bring me my dinner and do everything she could for me. But when drink is
the idol--and it was mine--what does one care for love? Nothing. I
certainly led Mary a hard life. At last I came home one night and she
and the kid were gone. The baby was then two months old, and I never saw
him again until he was a boy of nine. I was not sorry at their going. I
wasn't any good in those days. I imagined I was "done dirty," as they
say, but I knew the girl couldn't do anything else for herself and baby.
I sold out the little furniture the rooms contained, got a few dollars,
and jumped the town.
WANDERINGS
I started out with every one's hand against me and mine against every
one's. I struck Marathon, N. Y., and had quite a time there. I worked in
Dumphy's tannery, got a few weeks' pay and a few other articles, and
jumped out for fear of being arrested. I reached Syracuse and struck a
job in McChesney's lumberyard, at $1.35 per day.
I stayed in Syracuse quite a while and learned a little of the lumber
business. I had quite a few adventures while there. I had struck up an
acquaintance with a New York boy, and one evening after work we were
sitting on the grass in front of one of the hotels, and seeing the
patrol wagon passing, I made the remark, "Some poor bum is going to get
a ride," when it pulled up in front of us and we were told to get in. I
tried to argue the point with the captain, but it was of no use. We were
taken to the station, and the others were sent below while I was kept up
for examination. They put me through a light "third degree," measuring
me and noting the color of hair and eyes, size of feet, etc.
Finally they stopped measuring and asking questions, and I waited. I saw
my friend come up and go out of the door; he did not take time to bid me
good-by. I asked the captain if he was through with me, and he did not
know what to say. He apologized, and explained that I had been arrested
because I looked like a man that had escaped from Auburn.
I felt rather sorry for the captain, not because I was not the escaped
prisoner, but because he was so nervous. I could not leave him without a
jolly, so I said, "Captain, if you'll come up to the corner I'll treat,"
patting my pocket in which I had a few pennies. He thanked me and said,
"No." I met the captain every night taking his men as far as Salina
Street, and we always saluted one another.
My new pal couldn't be got up on Main Street to the postoffice again for
anything, and as soon as he earned money enough he took the train for
"little old New York." I've met him on the Bowery since I became a
missionary there, and we did smile about that ride in the "hurry-up
wagon" in Syracuse.
Finally I came back to New York, after being away quite a time, got work
in a carpet factory, and was quite steady for a while.
My poor dear mother was sick, sometimes up and oftentimes in bed. I can
still see her and hear her say, "David, my poor boy, I do wish you would
stop your drinking. I've prayed for you, and will pray until I die. Oh,
Dave! I'd die so happy if my only son would stop and be a man!" But that
cursed appetite, what a hold it had on me! It seemed as if I couldn't
stop if I had been given all the money in the world.
I did love my mother dearly; I didn't care for any one in the world but
her. Still, one of the meanest acts I ever did was to my mother. And
such a good mother she was; there are not many like her!
She was in bed and had only a few weeks to live. One day she called me
to her bedside and said, "Dave, I am going to leave you, never to see
you again on this earth, but oh! how I wish you were going to meet me on
the other side. Now, Dave, won't you promise me you will?" I said, "Yes,
mother, sure I will." And she made me promise then and there that when
she was dead, and waiting burial, I would not get drunk, at least while
her body was in the house. I went down on my knees and promised her that
I'd meet her in heaven.
She died, and the undertaker had been gone but a short time when I began
drinking, and the day of the funeral I was pretty drunk. That was one of
the meanest things I ever did. But I am sure that sometimes my dear
mother looks over the portals of heaven, and sees her boy--a man now, a
Christian--and forgives me. And some day, when my time comes, I am going
to join her there.
I went from bad to worse, wandering all over, not caring what happened.
I took a great many chances. Sometimes I had plenty of money, and at
other times I wouldn't have a nickel I could jingle against a tombstone.
I boated on the Ohio and Mississippi to New Orleans, then up on the
Lakes. I was always wandering, but never at rest, sometimes in prison,
and sometimes miles away from human habitation, often remorseful, always
wondering what the end would be.
I recollect, after being eighty-two days on the river to New Orleans,
being paid off with over $125. I left the steamer at Pittsburg, and the
first thing I did was to go and get a jug of beer. Before I got anywhere
near drunk I was before Judge White, and was fined $8.40, and
discharged. I wasn't free half an hour before I was arrested again,
brought before Judge White, and again fined $8.40. After being free for
about fifteen minutes, I was again brought before Judge White, who
looked at me this time and said, "Can't you keep sober?" I said, "Your
Honor, I haven't had a drink since the first time." And I hadn't. But he
said, "Five days," and I was shut up for that time, and I was in hell
there five days if ever a man was.
Out of jail, I drifted with the tide. I was arrested for a trick that,
if I had got my just dues, would have put me in prison for ten years,
but I got off with three years, and came out after doing two years and
nine months.
When a person is cooped up he has lots of time to think. It's think,
think, think, and hope. Many's the time I said, "Oh, if I only get out
and still have my health, what a change there will be!" And I meant it.
Isn't it queer how people will say, "I can't stop drinking," but when
they're in jail they have to! The prison is a sanitarium for drunkards.
They don't drink while on a visit there. Then why not stop it while one
has a free foot? I thought of all these things while I was locked up,
and I decided that when I was free I would hunt up my wife and baby and
be a man.
Prison at best isn't a pleasant place, but you can get the best in it if
you behave. There's no coaxing you to be good. They won't say, "If you
don't behave I'll send you home." It isn't like school. You have to
behave or it's worse for you, for they certainly put you through some
pretty tough things. Many's the time I got on my knees and told God all
about it. If a man is crossing the street, sees a car coming, and is
sure it will hit him, the first thing he says is, "Oh, God, save me!"
The car misses him by a foot, and he forgets how much he owes. He simply
says, "Thank you, God; when I'm in danger I'll call on You again." It
was so with me. Out in the world again, I forgot all about all the
promises I made in prison.
[Illustration: A BOWERY LODGING-HOUSE.]