_By_ William Sanford
I had committed murder. In a terrible fit of rage I had killed my friend,
Jim McCarthy. I was going to be hung at sunrise. There was no hope. I
must die.
Slowly the great steel door swung open, and four guards entered my cell.
One of them stepped a little in advance of the others.
“Come!” he said, and that was all.
I rose, tottering, from my bench. I must die! I must leave the sunlight
of the earth behind me. I had committed murder.
I was led through the cold, bleak prison corridors and out into the
lighted courtyard where a number of people were gathered—prison officials
and a few newspaper men. The scaffold stood before me, and with tottering
legs I was assisted to the top.
A black cap, a horrible thing spelling death, was fitted over my head and
drawn tight about my neck. All was still about me. No one spoke.
I felt the noose placed about my neck. The cold sweat broke out over my
body. I could scarcely stand. Death! _Death!_ I was to know the feeling
of that terrible rope in a few moments.
“Ready!” said a sharp voice.
I felt the earth slip from under me, and I shot into space. A feeling of
suffocation, indescribably terrible, enveloped me, and a million sparks
of fire seemed dancing before my eyes, though I could not see. I tried to
scream, but could make no sound. Then something seemed to burst; my lungs
were free; I gave a terrible cry.
A voice from above came sharply down to me:
“What the devil’s the matter with you, Bill?”
The ship gave a lurch and brought me wide awake. In the dim light of the
cabin I saw Jim McCarthy’s face peering at me from the bunk above.
“Jim,” I said, wiping my sweat-soaked face with the sheet. “If you fill
me up on any more of your home-made hootch I _will_ kill you!”