While in Chicago playing the bank one day I had some angry words
with a fellow by the name of John Lawler, and I slapped him in the
face. He did not resent it, but went out. About 2 o'clock in the
afternoon I cashed in my checks and started to my room. I was
walking down Clark Street, and was near the corner of Madison, when
this fellow Lawler stepped out and began firing at me. The first
shot would have hit me in the breast if I had not thrown up my arm;
as it was, it struck me on the wristbone and ran up my arm near
the shoulder. After the coward fired he began running backward,
and kept it up until he had fired all six shots. I had nothing
but a little cane, but I started after him, and just as he fired
the last shot I struck him with my good arm and downed him. I was
onto him, and was just getting that old head of mine ready when
the police arrested me. There were thousands of people on the
street, but you could not see a cop until the last shot was fired.
The fellow was sent up for three years, and I signed a petition to
get him out. I was mad when he shot me, and I guess I would have
killed him if they had not taken me off; but I do not hold malice
to any one, not even if he tries to kill me.
I was laid up for some time with my arm. The bullet was cut out,
and was as flat as a half-dollar.
I went from Chicago to St. Paul to see my dear old mother and a
sister, who were living there at that time.
My arm is as strong as ever; or, at least, some fellows who have
felt it since, say so.