The next thing I remember is being "frisked," as they say in prison parlance, when the keeper looks through the prisoner's pockets for contraband.

They lead me to my cell and the iron doors clang behind me. A deep sigh of relief escapes me. The terrific mental strain of the last ten months, the long and sleepless nights of vigil, the knowledge of impending danger, have been blown away like an unhealthy mist, and I feel calm, secure, safely barred beyond the reach of the Mexican Czar's sicarii and thugs.

The necessary things for comfort are sent by kind friends, and I inspect my future abode.

The cell is spacious, enclosed on three sides by solid steel; air, light and ventilation come through the bars; two iron beds are attached to chains on one side and let down at night; there is running water for washing, drinking and sanitary purposes. An electric bulb and a small wooden bench complete the furniture.

The first thing in the morning I make the acquaintance of a prisoner who eagerly offers to become my guide and monitor.

We walk around the spacious corridor which surrounds the prison proper like an ellipse, and by a connecting gallery cuts it in half like number 8. Three tiers of steel cages go up to the ceiling and can be observed by standing close to the wall opposite our cells.

The men in the tiers above us walk around, some one way, others the opposite, like restless animals in captivity. Some young prisoners hang on to the bars and make faces at us downstairs, reminding us of monkeys in a gigantic cage.

Side by side with tough "mugs" and countenances worthy of the gallows, we notice the apparently refined and well-mannered aristocrats of crime, dissipated looking boys, confidence men in pious demeanour, election repeaters, dandified "cadets" and "sissies." There are also sturdy looking laborers, a few black handers, a tramp or two, several negroes, two Chinamen.

A chauffeur with leggings, cap and automobile suit, tramps around with a dapper young pickpocket. They shout, laugh, talk, sing, whistle; and above all is heard the shuffling of several hundred feet walking, walking unceasingly.

A look upward to the superposed steel cages suggests their similarity to the circles in Dante's Inferno; the picture is completed by comparing my mentor to Virgil, but the sarcasm is lost on him, as he is only a very prosaic forger.

He informs me that the circle above contains the murderers, awaiting trial; higher up those on charges of grand larceny; and then follow the petty larceny men, and so on.

We who are on the ground floor have more walking space than those above us. The side walls have four rows of barred windows which give poor ventilation and poorer light. The air has a pungent, mouldy smell. The rumbling noise of the city traffic on the Centre Street side is heard plainly through the din in the prison.

My companion is a voluble and incessant gossip; his knowledge of jails, penitentiaries, and court procedure is amazing; he is a perfect walking prison encyclopedia. Nearly forty years old, he has passed twenty years behind the bars, either in Sing Sing, the Island Penitentiary or the Tombs. Very pale, clean shaven, rather plump, he speaks in a harsh whisper which gives a disagreeable impression of his uncanny knowledge; when he inquires or talks about the outside world he is like a child seeking knowledge about a strange, far-away land.

My next door neighbor is a southerner. He shot a man who cheated him out of all his money, and he spent several months in Sing Sing; now he has been brought back to the Tombs for retrial. Dark, with passionate eyes, black hair and sallow complexion, thin, calm, deliberate in manner and speech, he tells me of his case, and what led to his murderous assault, which he claims was done in self-defense. When I asked if he was resigned to return to Sing Sing, he answered with gleaming eyes: "I'll kill myself before I'll go back to that hell hole."

I

As we are forbidden to keep knives or razors in our possession, those who require a daily shave climb to the circle above to the barber shop.

On the waiting line there is a familiar face, a young man who had been a waiter in a Broadway cafÉ. He has not lost his red cheeks and boyish manner while awaiting trial on the charge of seduction.

Those who can afford it and cannot eat the common prison fare have their meals ordered from outside restaurants. A young man with a capacious basket offers us our breakfast in the shape of bread, pies, coffee; and he also sells cigars, cigarettes, writing paper, stamps and various knickknacks.

About nine A. M. we are locked in and are allowed to buy newspapers from a boy. I scan the daily papers and notice that they are beginning to pay attention to this libel case. There are several editorials, one signed by William Randolph Hearst, whose championship in my case was a brave act, as it endangered his interests in Mexico. The mail is voluminous; scores of clippings come in from out of town papers. An unknown doctor in California sends a check, a laboring man in St. Louis sends a dollar bill, to help in the fight.

My first visitor appeared to me like a vision from a strange planet. I felt clumsy and impatient behind the cold and angular bars.

I am informed that two witnesses saw the president's brother and a prominent Mexican lawyer waiting for my verdict on the ground floor of the Criminal Court building. Those two lawyers were the king pins working the wires behind the scenes, and when the glad tidings were brought they hastened to telegraph it to Mexico.

After the visit we are let out of our cells for exercise, which takes place three times a day, morning, noon and evening.

All visitors are permitted to see the prisoners, but not twice in the same day. Keepers and matrons search the visitors, and I hear repeated complaints of the arrogant and rough behaviour of these men who seem to have no power of discrimination; they treat everybody on equal terms of brutality and incivility—those found guilty by the courts, those awaiting trial and the innocent visitors.

Newspapermen are almost daily visitors.

My friend and lawyer, K——, visits me every day in the barred chamber set apart for that purpose. As I descend to see him some one points out to me a special room wherein I recognize the banker Morse conferring with his lawyers. My friends on the New York World send an ambassador, in the person of a reporter, offering their good will and assistance. I am touched by their kindness and loyalty.

The days pass swiftly as if on wings while waiting for the sentence. My trial-lawyer, J——, visits me one evening and informs me that somebody has told the judge that I had boasted that I would get off with a fine. A strenuous denial is made, but the futility of the protest is apparent. The purpose of these underhand tactics is to prevent the imposition of a fine which could be paid by friends.

Criminal libel is a misdemeanor, and the limit or maximum sentence is one year in the penitentiary or a fine of $500, or both.

The prosecuting lawyers hope, by the imposition of a prison sentence, to frighten me into accepting either a pardon or a commutation of the sentence, thus forcing me to accept their favors and preventing further investigation into certain proceedings.

A suggestion is made to enter a protest with my ambassador. Such a procedure would empower the judge to offer me the choice between going back to Europe or serving one year in the penitentiary. The Mexican government would prefer to get rid of my agitation in this country and does not relish the idea of assisting the publicity of a willing martyr.

My suspicion of these tactics is aroused when I learn of the case of a young cockney valet who stole from his employer, and who was offered the alternative, when the judge sentenced him, of going back to England or serving five years in Sing Sing. The young valet took great pains to inform me of his case and the advantage to be derived from accepting the lesser of two evils. I mused over the incident, and wondered if the valet's case was not a gentle hint emanating from the Machiavellian brains interested in my case. The trial lawyer, J——, suggested the advisability of appealing to the governor for clemency in case of loss of the appeal. A protest to the ambassador was also proposed. I declined both suggestions.

II

I have become acquainted with a prisoner a few doors from my cell, next to the shower baths. Small of stature, almost a boy, deathly pale, dark, with strong features, this young English pickpocket is a new type in my limited experience with criminals.

Every afternoon we sit together at a five o'clock tea in his model cell. The walls are covered with half-tone pictures of famous stage beauties. He offers me the place of honor, which is an old, rickety, but comfortable armchair which belonged to Harry Thaw.

The bed, the bench, everything, is decorated with paper, cut out with infinite pains. The tea is excellent and there are also condensed milk, Huntley & Palmer's biscuits, butter and orange marmalade. Mine host seldom talks to prisoners; he says the place is filled with stool pigeons. When asked if he does not suspect me, he smiles and remarks that in his profession a deep and varied familiarity with human nature is necessary, as well as a cool head, an impassive mask, and great dexterity with hands and fingers.

Very good-naturedly he answers my questions as to his early life and the influences of which brought him to steal; he tells me also of his philosophy of life. His father and mother were both thieves, and he was taught to steal as soon as he could walk. The whole of Europe was the field of his operations.

Soon after he came to New York he was arrested, and although the detectives could not find any stolen goods on him, nevertheless he was sentenced to seven years in Sing Sing on his past criminal record, which was sent over by Scotland Yard.

Considering this man's record and nationality, the question comes to mind as to why he was not sent back to England, instead of burdening the taxpayers of the state of New York with his maintenance for seven years.

III

In the evening I was interrupted in my conversation with a confidence man by the entrance of Lupo and some of his black hand confederates. Standing against the wall while being searched he refused to answer any questions either in English or in Italian.

A dark mustache aggravated his villainous look, while his black, restless eyes surveyed his surroundings. One of his cronies muttered something, but he only growled, lifting the corners of his mouth and baring his teeth in angry contempt. Verily he gave the impression of a wolf caught in a trap, but still defiant and ferocious.

We stop at the cell of a poor German who is locked up on the charge of attempted suicide. He weeps disconsolately, like a child, the tears running down his haggard and gentle face. His clothes and linen are poor and as dirty as his face; his hair is unkempt. He wrings his hands in despair and moans: "Why did they not let me die in peace?" He was out of a job, friendless and penniless in a foreign country, and when he tried to end his misery they put him in jail. It seems a hopeless task to try and cheer him up.

A harmless looking old man with white hair and beard attracts every one's attention by the ferocity of his deed. He has killed his own daughter, a school teacher, as she was coming out of school surrounded by her young pupils. Nobody seems to know the reason for his act. The judge has just sentenced him to the electric chair, and he appears the least concerned of all as they search his cell for hidden weapons and put an extra guard to watch him for the night. An Italian priest hears his confession in his cell. When asked the reason for his inconceivable act he answers slowly that he prefers his daughter's death to her life as a prostitute. "My life is in the hands of God," he whispers, as he folds his hands in prayer. In the morning he will be taken to Sing Sing.

IV

The trusties who clean up the floor and the cells and make up our beds are mostly short term prisoners from the penitentiary. In spite of his stripes, one of them looks like a Greek athlete; his dark, curly hair, powerful chin, strong nose, the muscles showing through the striped shirt at the neck and arms, excite the respect and admiration of his fellow prisoners.

My trusty is a weak-faced individual, who is always fawning for a tip with which to gamble with his companions upstairs. His wife had him arrested for non-support. Although quite competent to make a living and to support his wife and three children, he confesses himself unable to resist the lure of the games of chance. Imprisonment has not reformed him in the least; on the contrary, indeed, for now he can gamble to his heart's content!

The detective who arrested me on a warrant asks to speak to me, and gives as a pretext his friendship for me. He feels neither rebuked nor offended when he is told that I am careful to choose my friends among my equals. Quite modestly he admits being only a petty larceny detective, but he is now anxious to discover who and what is behind the political game played in my case. He leaves in disgust when advised to adopt Sherlock Holmes's method of deduction.

V

Next morning, handcuffed to a young prisoner and accompanied by a score of men, I am taken to a pen. The place cannot be described in decent writing, but I can safely assert that a more filthy, disgusting place does not exist in New York. The stench is so sickening that I suffer the rest of the day from a splitting headache.

After an hour's wait I am brought into the presence of a kindly faced probationary officer who asks me for addresses of friends who might write to the judge, and inquires for certain facts concerning my case which did not come out during my trial. She also begs me to write a letter giving these facts, so that she can show it to the judge before sentence is passed on me. The result is negative, as the judge has already made up his mind about my case.

The young man who was handcuffed to my wrist goes into court to get his sentence. He returns, pale, trembling, almost fainting, and can only whisper hoarsely that he is going to state's prison in the morning for four years.

Another companion in misery is an Italian waiting for trial. He is indignant, even furious, at his treatment by the District Attorney. His case is a record breaker; he has been brought up for the two hundredth time without being tried. This is done to wear him out and force him to plead guilty.

A lean, dark-haired, young man with unpleasant features, suspected of having murdered a pal, tells a story of a third degree at headquarters.

After two days and nights, passed in a cell without food and water, he says he was brought in to the presence of several masked detectives. Stripped to his bare skin, he was forced to stand on a metal rack with burning hot points until he attempted to jump off, when the whole gang of sleuths assaulted him, beat and kicked him, and forced him back.

Without rest or halt, questions were yelled at him in quick succession; when the answers did not come fast enough, they battered him unmercifully with their fists; when the answers were unsatisfactory, the vilest and foulest of insults were shouted at him, tauntingly, sneeringly, to arouse his anger and loosen his tongue.

No opportunity was given him to concentrate his mind. He was racked by a gnawing hunger, a parched throat, a delirious thirst; by painful stinging wounds of cut lips, bleeding teeth, two half closed black eyes and a constant hopping on the radiator to keep the soles of his feet from burning.

Then they tempted him by bringing a table covered with luscious, steaming food, sparkling drinks and expensive cigars. Like Tantalus, he was intercepted and derided when he attempted to partake of the food or the drink. Meanwhile the detectives ate and drank with relish almost under his nose; they drank to his health, and blew into his face the fragrant smoke of their cigars.

They continued this torture for several hours, until his body and mind could bear the strain no longer; and then he fell to the floor in a dead faint.

VI

At last I am told to appear before the judge who is to pass sentence on me. They handcuff me to a negro and we climb into the "Black Maria," an omnibus with facing seats, tightly locked, and with small holes for ventilation. A mob collects in the streets to witness our humiliation. The room in the court house is crowded with people. Several men are sentenced, one after another, in rotation. I espy some of my loyal friends there; they look pale and uncomfortable.

My name is called. I am freed of my handcuffs and I stand at the bar, facing the judge.

Instead of listening to the learned judge deliver his wise sentence, I am watching intently a lonesome fly buzzing in a vibrating aureole frantically round the top of his head. I am wondering what the judge had for luncheon. My absurd cogitations are suddenly interrupted by a phrase spoken in a louder tone than the rest of the sentence.

" ... Fornaro, that you be imprisoned for one year at hard labor in the penitentiary...." The fly stopped buzzing as the judge lifted his head to look at me.

My lawyer, K——, runs out. He is to try to get a certificate of reasonable doubt, which acts as a stay of sentence; otherwise I would be taken early in the morning to the penitentiary.

While these proceedings are going on, I am temporarily transferred to the old prison, which is full of crawling parasites. Luckily, however, in a few hours I am returned to my cell in the Tombs to wait until the certificate is either granted or denied. But the certificate is refused, of course, as I knew it would be, and as I think my lawyer knew it would be. It was a forlorn hope.

In the evening a letter is brought to me and I am asked to sign for it. It is written in Spanish and is an attack on Vice-President Corral of Mexico, who is accused of having furnished me with money to publish "Diaz, Czar of Mexico," and then of leaving me in the lurch. This piece of Spanish fiction is inspired by a bitter enemy of Corral in the hope of eliminating Corral as a Vice-Presidential candidate. But I refuse to sign the letter.

Another fairy tale comes directly from the District Attorney's office; I am told that they know that President Cabrera of Guatemala, a bitter enemy of Porfirio Diaz, has furnished me with $5,000 to publish my libelous pamphlet.

A friend arrives from Mexico and brings an oral message from Ramon Corral, who inquires if I have empowered an agent to negotiate the sale of my book for $50,000, as he doubts the statement. A letter is written advising the Vice-President that he is right in his surmise, and that the alleged agent is only trying to get money under false pretences.

A labor leader visits me offering financial help in my fight. As money will not be needed in the penitentiary, I suggest that an investigation might be started in Congress into the persecutions of Mexican liberals by American officials in this country. The promise is made and fulfilled seven months later.

VII

Two sisters of mercy come to see the prisoners during the hours of exercise; they distribute fruit, and walk freely and unconcerned among the men, who seem to think a great deal of them. One of them has kindly and intelligent looking eyes behind large, gold-rimmed spectacles, and speaks in the well modulated and authoritative voice of the woman of the world. Unlike other prison missionaries, they do not make religious propaganda by distributing tracts and pamphlets; their attitude is one of charity, humility and usefulness.

Protestant clergymen, rabbis, and even a theosophist, come to save us in spite of ourselves. Their attitude is one of aggressive virtue and militant religious contention—or contagion. A certain missionary is very indignant because I refuse to look at his tracts or listen to his childish twaddle; and finally becomes so arrogant and insulting that I have to order him away from my cell door.