A friend, on receiving word that this book was being written, and that it was intended as a wind-up, for the time being at least, of my Under World reportings, wrote to me as follows:

"Whatever else you do or don't do, don't forget to get some romance into the story. I mean that you should try to get some poetry—oh, yes, I mean poetry—into your account of yourself. Merely a string of dates and facts will not go."

Perhaps the reader may be able to find some scattered bits of intended "poetry" in this Second Part, but on looking it over myself the "bits," if they exist at all, are so widely scattered that I cannot locate them. Yet I had to write this section of the book to make it coherent and connected, "poetry" or no "poetry."

My car reporting in East Buffalo lasted just a week. Then my benefactor, the night yardmaster, and I went to Buffalo proper one day. The yardmaster soon found other friends and, telling me to amuse myself, left me to my own devices. Perhaps, if we had remained together this second part of my book would tell a very different story than it does, perhaps— But something in me says: "What is the use of 'perhapsing' at this late hour? Go ahead and blurt out the truth." I am not sure that there is much use in "perhapsing," but somehow it seems impossible for me to throw off the habit. At times it is so strong that I have caught myself going back to my lodging three times to make certain that no coals had fallen out of the grate—when there was no more probability of such a thing happening on the third inspection than on the first. "And yet," I have reasoned, "perhaps a live coal might have fallen out and burned up the whole place had I not taken a last look and made sure."

So it is in looking back to that day alone in Buffalo—the inevitable perhaps comes to my mind, and I wonder what would have happened if I had simply staid with the yardmaster, which I was very welcome to do had I been so minded.

What I did during the morning and early afternoon I do not recall now; probably I merely wandered about the streets and took in such sights as attracted me. Of this much, however, I feel certain: there was no great Wanderlust in my intentions. My work on the railroad interested me not a little, and I had already begun to calculate the amount of savings I should have at the end of the year. As the day wore on I remember measuring how much time I should need to get back to supper and work, and up to the middle of the afternoon it was my firm determination to report for work early. Then—ah yes, then! I saw a horse and buggy standing idle in one of the main thoroughfares. What it was that prompted me to get into the buggy and drive blindly onward I cannot say, even now. As I have remarked, my job was satisfactory, I was my own "boss" in the daytime, the horse and buggy no more represented personal wealth to me at the time than did one of the stores, and there was no reasonable excuse for a wandering trip. But something, strict church people might say the devil, prompted me to throw over the job, run the risk of being sent to prison as a horse thief, and to ride away with buggy and horse for parts unknown. There is no wish on my part to palliate this crime in the least; I merely want to know why I committed it. At the moment of driving away it no more occurred to me to turn the outfit into gold than it did to turn back. On I went for a good hour, regardless of direction and the police. Then the seriousness of my offense gradually began to dawn on me. What should I do? At first I contemplated leaving the horse with some farmer, thinking that its owner would eventually locate it. But I threw over this plan. It was too late to report for work, and the growing darkness brought on a mild attack of Wanderlust. "Why not proceed as far as possible under the cover of night," I reasoned, "and then leave the rig somewhere in good hands?" I had at last found a road going in the direction I desired at that time to follow, if the car-reporting job was to be given up, and my mind was pretty definitely settled on that score, although a week's wages were due me.

Midnight found me on still another road, and going in a new direction, my mind having changed during the ride. I put the horse into a barn, fed him, and then we both fell asleep. Early morning found us en route again, and no police in sight. By this time the desire to elude capture was very strong, and the wonder is that I succeeded with detectives by the half dozen beating the bushes in various directions. The third day out I reached my destination in Pennsylvania, the home of an acquaintance who dealt in horses and knew me well. My possession of such a valuable horse and fashionable phÆton carriage was satisfactorily explained; they were bought at auction, I boldly declared, and represented the result of my savings during the summer. To make a miserable story short, I will merely say that the horse and buggy were turned over to my friend for a money consideration, quite satisfactory to me, but far below what the outfit was worth. It might still be where I parted with it, so far as the astute "detectives" were concerned. It was voluntarily returned to the owner before long. Several weeks later another horse and buggy in my custody arrived at my friend's house, and again the flimsy tale of a "bargain" and inability to resist it was told. It was the silliest "bargain" I ever went in for. Having attended a fair in a neighboring town, not over ten miles away, and having lost my train home, I boldly appropriated a "rig" and drove home in the most unconcerned fashion possible. My credulous friend complimented me on my luck in buying horses, and would no doubt have bought this second outfit from me had something not happened.

About midnight an ominous knock was heard on my friend's outer door. As I felt must be the case, it heralded the arrival of the constables—the horse had been seen and located! There was a bare chance of escape, but as I look back on the situation now the probability is that I should not have got far away before being captured. Some of the villagers, who had also been aroused, were much incensed at my arrest and forced departure, declaring that "no boy in his senses would intentionally steal a horse so near home. There must be some mistake. Probably the boy had mistaken the rig for one that he had been told to get, etc., etc." But their arguments availed nothing, and I was taken away. The committing magistrate made quick work with my story in the lockup, and soon I was lodged in the county jail—my second imprisonment in about eighteen years. (I looked, perhaps, fifteen.)

Die Ferne, everything in fact that I had ever really cared for, seemed irretrievably lost. Yet no tears came to my eyes, and I walked into the miserable "hall" of the jail, said "Hello!" to the other prisoners, as if such a place and companions were what I had always been accustomed to. This ability, if I may call it such, to get along with almost everybody, and for a reasonable amount of time to put up with practically any kind of accommodations has been of great service to me. I notice, however, that in later years "home comforts" are becoming more and more a necessity. My constitution seems to demand a quid pro quo—and wants fair treatment after patiently enduring so many hard knocks.

This first real imprisonment and the jail deserve a minute description.

A number of years ago I contributed to The Forum an article, entitled "The Criminal in the Open." The main thesis supported in this paper was that criminologists had previously been studying the criminal within too narrow bounds—the prison cell; and that to know their man well they must make his acquaintance when free and natural. In general, I still hold to this belief; but on looking back to that first jail experience of mine I am more than ever convinced that as a people, a practical people, too, we are woefully neglecting our duty in continuing the present county jail system with all its accompanying evils; and that it is most distinctly "up to" both criminologist and penalogist to work for radical changes in the present system.

My own experience in that old jail to which I was committed, to wait for trial, is typical of what happens to the average prisoner in most of our jails. The jail building was uncommonly old, but the rules applying therein were about the same that one finds in all country jails; in cities the rules are more severe and exacting.

Soon after entering the jail corridor, or hall, as I have called it, one prisoner after another—they were free to roam at will in the corridor until bedtime—accosted me and, directly or indirectly, tried to find out what I had been "sent up for." I told them quite freely about the charge against me, and in turn learned on what charges they had been shut up. There did not happen to be any murderers or violent offenders in the jail just then, but when found in jails such inmates circulate quite as freely among the possibly innocent as the older prisoners in my jail associated with the young boys. A few of the prisoners were serving jail sentences for minor offences, but the majority, like myself, were waiting for trial. There were burglars, pickpockets, sneak thieves, swindlers, runaway boys, and half-demented men who were awaiting transportation to suitable institutions. In the daytime, from seven in the morning until eight or nine at night, we were all thrown together, for better or for worse, each one to take his chances, in the corridor on the main floor. Here I passed many a dismal hour during the six weeks I had to wait for sentence. At night we were locked in our cells on the tiers above the corridor, two and three men being lodged in one cell. It is only fair to state, however, that the cells were so unusually large and commodious that even four men could have been comfortably lodged in one cell. We were all supposed to keep quiet after the sheriff had locked us in for the night, but in the daytime we were free to play games, laugh and generally amuse ourselves. We cooked our own food. Once a week an election was held, and a new cook was installed; those who knew nothing about cooking were expected to help wash the dishes and keep the corridor clean. There was no work to do beyond these simple duties. It was consequently necessary for us to get exercise in walking, "broomstick calisthenics," as we called our antics with this instrument, and in climbing up and down the stairway. A liberal supply of tobacco was furnished us every morning, and we also got one or two daily newspapers. Our food was simple, but more or less satisfying: Bread, molasses and coffee for breakfast; meat, potatoes and bread at noon; bread, molasses and tea for supper. Those who had money were permitted to send out and buy such luxuries as butter, sugar and milk. All in all, it was probably one of the "easiest" jails, if the prisoner behaved himself, in the whole United States, and I have nothing to criticise in the humanitarian treatment shown us by the sheriff; the jail itself, however, was an eyesore—unsanitary to the last degree, and pathetically insecure had there been expert jail-breakers in our company.

It was the total absence of classification of prisoners, and the resulting mixing together of hardened criminals and young boys, to which attention is mainly called here. From morning till night the "old hands" in crime were exchanging stories of their exploits, while the younger prisoners sat about them with open mouths and eyes of wonder, greedily taking in every syllable. I listened just as intently as anybody, and was hugely impressed with what I heard and saw. The seriousness of my offense advanced me somewhat in the scale of the youthful prisoners, and at times I was allowed to join a "private" confab, supposed to be only for the long initiated and thoroughly tried offenders. This privilege, and the general tone of "toughness" which was all over the prison, had its effect on me, I am sorry to say, and I began to bluster and bluff with the rest. Indeed, so determined was I to be the "real thing" or nothing at all—almost entirely the result of association with the older men—that I was at first unwilling that my lawyer should try to secure a reform-school sentence for me. "If I'm to be sentenced at all," I ordered, "let it be to prison proper. I don't want to associate with a lot of kids." Fortunately, my lawyer did not follow my suggestion.

Meanwhile, Sentence Day, that momentous time, which all prisoners await with painful uncertainty, was drawing nigh. Trials, of course, were to come first, but practically every court prisoner knew that he had been caught "with the goods on," and that Sentence Day would claim him for her prey. My trial was soon over. My lawyer had "worked" very adroitly, and I received sentence immediately—the reform school until I had improved. I remember feeling very sheepish when I was taken back to the jail; such a sentence was meant for a baby, I thought, and what would the "old hands" think? They came to the door in a body when I was brought back, demanding in a chorus: "How much, Kid?"

"A year," I romanced, meaning, of course, in the penitentiary, and faking an old-timer's smile and nonchalance. Later they were told the truth, and then began a course of instruction about "beating the Ref," escaping, to which I paid very close attention.

A few days later the other trials were finished, and Sentence Day was definitely announced. The men to be sentenced put on their "best" for the occasion, those having a surplus of neckties and shirts kindly sharing them with those who were short of these decorations. A hard fate stared them all in the face, and each wanted, somehow, to help his neighbor. They were as nervous a collection of men while waiting for the sheriff as one will find in a moon's travel. They all expected something, but the extent of this something, the severity which the "old man," the judge, would show them, was what made them fidgety. It was an entirely new scene to me, and I watched intently the countenance of each prisoner. My medicine had been received; I knew exactly what was ahead of me, and did not suffer the feeling of uncertainty troubling the others. Finally the sheriff came. "All ready, boys," he said, and the convicted men were handcuffed together in pairs and marched over to the courthouse. In a half-hour they had returned, a remarkable look of relief in all of their faces. Some of them had been given stiff sentences, but, as one man put it, "Thank God, I know what my task is anyhow"; the terrible suspense and waiting were over.

The next day we were to be taken to our different destinations, insane asylum and workhouse for some, the "Ref" and "Pen" for others. Breakfast was our last meal together, and the sheriff's wife sent in little delicacies to make us happier. The meal over, our scanty belongings were packed up, each man and boy put on his best, once more, final good-byes were said to those who remained behind, and the march to our new homes began. Some are possibly still trudging to new places of seclusion at the State's request and demand, others have very likely "squared it" and are now stationary and good citizens, while still others have perhaps "cashed in" here below, and have moved on in spirit to worlds where the days of temptation and punishment are no more. Since the day we left the old, musty jail I have never run across any of my jail companions.