"When a boy goes to prison, a citizen dies."
--_Jacob Riis_
My Problem with Slippery Jim.
"My razor went yesterday for a beef stew," the young dare-devil told
me. "Not that I am one of those collar-and-necktie-rounders," he
continued, "who seek to give out the impression that they are gentlemen
in distress, telling you of their Southern family and a squandered
fortune when, in fact, they have never been further South than Coney
Island.... But when a fellow decides to sell his razor he is about to
commit an act that severs the jugular vein of his respectability.
"He may have, only the moment before, shaven and groomed himself
with the utmost care, still he is nearly ready to join the ranks of
the down-and-outs. A man may sell his other belongings--his clothes
included--and yet preserve a suggestion at least of his _sang-froid_.
But when the razor goes--"
"Then he can get a free shave at the Barbers' School," I suggested.
"That only helps for a day or two," he went on. "Better throw up your
hands at once and have it over. What man half ill with worry cares to
listen to some ambitious pupil say, 'Teacher, shall I shave the right
side of his face up, or shave it down?'--and, 'Teacher, how do you
shave the upper lip without cutting it?' and, 'Teacher, if I do cut it,
shall I disinfect it with carbolic or peroxide before I put on the new
skin?'--No Barbers' School for me. It is better to turn philosopher on
the instant--the old philosophers and prophets grew long beards....
Talk about getting next to Nature in about three days after a man
has sold his razor, Nature will get next to him, and if he is not as
beardless as an American Indian, he will be convinced when he sees
himself in a mirror, of the truth of the Darwinian theory."
"In Russia," I said, "the beard is the patriarch's badge of sanctity."
"So it is in Jersey and several other States," he replied. "Many
a so-called hobo with two weeks' growth of beard on his face may
be at heart only a conscientious respecter of the law--for it is a
misdemeanor in New Jersey to carry a razor. It is legally declared to
be a concealed weapon. Many a poor rascal against whom a charge of
vagrancy could not be maintained has found it so much the worse for
him, and has been forced to go to prison for carrying concealed weapons
in the form of a razor. So you see in Jersey, as well as in Russia, a
beard may be only proof of honor.... The cleanly shaven man who knocks
at your side door and wins the unsuspecting wife's confidence with that
time-worn platitude of Vagabondia, 'Lady, all I want is work,' may
have a weapon concealed upon his person, while the unshaven wanderer,
the sight of whom makes the women folks bolt doors, may be a homeless
fellow who really wants work, and would rather be unkempt in appearance
than chance a prison-term for carrying a razor."
"So you have sold your razor?" I asked.
"Not because I am trying to compete with your Russian patriarch in
sanctity. I sold it because I'm desperate."
"Then you were not afraid of the misdemeanor charge?"
He replied with a laugh that I did not like, and I felt quickly to see
if my watch was still in my possession.
"I don't want your watch," he said, "but it isn't the fear of doing
time that holds me back. I know what my friend wrote about me. I have
made up my mind to play square. You may not believe it. You have heard
too many mission testimonies to believe much in them. But if I live
right--it isn't because my heart is softened, my heart is cold and hard
as a paving block."
"Your friend wrote that you weren't such a bad fellow."
"Don't believe him. In Elmira they have a scheme of percentage, and if
a man gets above a certain percent he can win his freedom. In the four
years I was there I was safely within the required percentage--all I
had to do was to continue my good behavior. I was within a few days of
freedom. Did you ever sense hatred--pure hatred? Shylock felt it when
he refused to accept money to cancel Antonio's bond; when he would not
listen to threats or entreaties, but only muttered, 'I'll have my pound
of carrion flesh.' I know what he felt. In the night, after weeks and
weeks of patient study and labor--after months of good conduct, when I
played their game and won the chance of freedom. In the night, without
reason, I jumped from my bed and battered at the bars and yelled and
cursed at them all, until they put me in the dungeon and took from me
my high percent. I lost a year that time."
"Do the prison bars still hold you," I asked him.
"What do you mean?"
"You act like a mad man when you talk of the past. Some men can never
throw off the thought of their imprisonment. It rules their life. They
think only of prison and the crimes that follow such thinking. There is
no hope for them. Can't you see it is your ideals that enslave or make
you free? Can't you see you are free?"
"It's mighty hard," he said, "but I want to forget. My friend sent me
to you. He said you knew the path to freedom, and would help me. Days
and days I have waited for you to come to me. My father would not have
me at home, my friends left me, my money grew less and less--my clothes
went, my razor--everything. And still you did not come. Sometimes I'd
meet a boy that told me of your work. Sometimes I would doubt all I had
heard, and then I would become indifferent--mutter a prayer or plan a
crime. At last the letter came. I knew I was being put to the test, and
I sought to be firm. Oh, God, such a test! What is it holds a man? I
was hungry, yet I knew how to steal; I needed money, and I knew where
I could rob with reasonable safety. What is it holds a man like me? At
times I have thought it was my belief in you."
"You mean our Colony held out a hope to you."
"Yes," he said.
"I am afraid to take you into my Family," I told him.
"For fear I'll steal from you?" he said, coldly.
"No, not that; I fear you cannot leave your prison thoughts behind you
when you enter the Colony."
"If you help me," he said, thoughtfully, "I think I can begin anew."
"Will you promise never to speak to me or anyone of your past life?"
"I will not speak of it again."
"Then you may go to the entrance gate with me, and there I will decide
if I can take you in."
We talked on the way to the farm about many things--for he had read and
traveled much. We made no mention of the Family or its work, but as we
came near the Colony House I stopped.
"Tell me," I said, "did they teach you a trade at Elmira?"
"I'm a metal roofer by trade," he said.
"Did you learn the trade in prison?" I asked him.
"I think you mistake me for some other man," he replied, quietly. "I
know nothing about prison life."
"What do you mean, not only your friend told me that you had served a
term, but you told me yourself?" I said, severely.
He looked calmly into my face, but there were tears in his eyes.
"I could not have told you, for had I told you such a foolish falsehood
I would have remembered it. Let us talk of something else."
"Very good," I said, pleasantly. He was trying to forget the past.
At that moment there came to us the vigorous clamor of an old cow bell.
"It is the bell that calls the boys to their evening meal."
"Yes?"
"Come, let us hurry, so we may be served at the first table, for you
are hungry."