Dick Mallory himself was given the maximum sentence of fourteen years for larceny under the habitual-criminal act; and he did not resent the sentence in his own case because he found life in the penitentiary on the whole as satisfactory as it had been on the outside; and when I met him he had become deeply interested in the other prisoners. But he resented the fact that the "habitual act" was applied without discrimination to any one convicted of a second offence. He was doing some study on his own account of the individual men called "habituals." I never understood how Dick Mallory contrived to know as much about individual convicts as he did know; but he was a keen observer and quick-witted, and the guards and foremen often gave him bits of information. He admitted, however, that his real knowledge of the men under the "habitual act" was meagre, and asked me to make some personal observations. To this end he gave me a list of some half-dozen men whom I promised to interview, and in this way began my acquaintance with Peter Belden, an acquaintance destined to continue many years after Dick Mallory had passed beyond the reach of earthly courts.

Peter Belden was then a man something over thirty years of age, stunted in growth, somewhat deaf, with his right arm paralyzed through some accident in the prison shop. His hair, eyes, and complexion were much of a color, but his good, strong features expressed intelligence. He wore the convict stripes, which had the effect of blotting individuality throughout the prison.

Notwithstanding these physical disadvantages, a criminal record and a lifetime of unfavorable environment, some inherent force and manliness in his nature made itself felt. He took it for granted that I would not question his sincerity, neither did I. He said nothing of his own hardships, made no appeal to my sympathy, but discussed the habitual-criminal act quite impersonally and intelligently; assuming at once the attitude of one ready to assist me in any effort for the benefit of the criminal class to which he belonged.

But while he was talking about others I was thinking about him, and when I inquired what I could do for him personally he asked me to obtain the warden's permission to have a pencil and a writing-tablet in his cell, as he liked to work at mathematical problems in his cell. This was the only favor the man asked of me while he was in prison, and to this day I do not know if he thought his fourteen-year sentence was unjust. As he was quite friendless, and neither received nor wrote letters, he was only too glad to correspond with me. I was surprised on receiving his first letter to find his left-handed writing regular and clear, with only an occasional slip in spelling or in correct English.

Always interested in the origin and in the formative influences which had resulted in the criminal life of these men, I asked Belden to write for me the story of his youth; and I give it from his own letters, now before me, in his own words as far as possible:

"I have often thought that the opportunities of life have been pretty hard with me, still I have tried always to make the best of it. I know there are many who have fared worse than I, and in my pity towards them I have managed to find the hard side of life easier than otherwise.

"I was born on an island off the coast of England. My father and mother were of Irish descent, but we all spoke both English and French, and I was in school for four years before I was twelve. My studies were French and English, history, grammar and spelling; but I put everything aside for arithmetic and other branches of mathematics: as long as I can remember I had a greedy taste for figures; I earned my school expenses by doing odd jobs for a farmer, for we were very poor. My father was a hard drinker and there were fourteen of us in the family. There were days when we did not have but a meal or two, and some days when we had nothing at all to eat."

The boy's mother was ambitious for his education; she had relatives in one of our western States, and when Peter was twelve years old he was sent to this country with the understanding that he was to be kept in school.

"But instead of going to school as I had expected I was knocked and kicked about here and everywhere. My cousin would say, 'It's schoolin' ye want is it? I'll give ye schoolin',' and her schoolin' was always given with a club or a kick. 'Learnin' and educatin'? It's too much of thim ye have already; go out and mind the cow.'"

The boy endured this life for several months, "dreading this cousin so much that sometimes I'd stay out all night, sleeping in the near-by woods." Then, in an hour of desperation, he decided to run away, and after two or three temporary places where he worked for his board he drifted into the lumber regions of Michigan. There his ambition for an education was gratified in an unlooked-for and most curious fashion.

During the seventies various rumors of immoral houses in connection with these lumber regions were afloat, and later measures were taken which effectually dispersed the inmates. One of these houses was kept by a college graduate from the East, who had been educated for the ministry but had deflected from the straight and narrow path into the business of counterfeiting; in consequence he spent five years in prison and afterward sought refuge from his past in the wilds of Michigan.

Chance or fate led Peter Belden, a boy of thirteen, into the circle of this man's dominion, where, strangely enough, the higher side of the boy's nature found some chance of development. Peter was given employment at this "Rossman's" as caretaker to the dogs and as general-errand boy. The man, Rossman, studied the boy, and discovering his passion for learning cemented a bond between them by the promise of an equivalent to a course in college.

It seemed, indeed, like falling into the lap of good fortune for Peter to be clothed and fed and given a room of his own "with college books on the shelves" open to his use at any time; "and there was, besides, a trunk full of books—all kinds of scientific books."

And here, to his heart's content, the boy revelled in the use of books. Study was his recreation: and true to his word Rossman gave him daily instruction, taking him through algebra, trigonometry, and the various branches of higher mathematics, not omitting geography and history and—Bible Study every Sunday. Who can fathom the heights and depths, the mysterious complexities of Rossman's nature? This is Peter's tribute to the man:

"I was with him for three years; I always thought he was very kind, not only to me but to all the girls in the house and to every one."

In this morally outlawed community Peter grew to be sixteen years old, attracting to him by some magnetism in his own nature the best elements in his unfavorable environment. And here the one romance in his life occurred; on his part at least it seems to have been as idyllic as was Paul's feeling for Virginia. The girl, young and pretty, was a voluntary member of "Rossman's." She, too, had a history. Somewhat strictly reared by her family, she had been placed in a convent school, where she found the repression and restraint unbearable. In her reckless desire for freedom, taking advantage of a chance to escape from the convent school, she found refuge in the nearest city, and while there was induced to join the Rossman group with no knowledge of the abyss into which she was plunging. She was still a novice in this venture when she became interested in Peter Belden, the young student. Together they worked at problems in figures, their talk often wandering from the problems in books to the problems of life, especially their own lives, until the day came when Peter told her that he could not live without her.

Then the two young things laid their plans to leave that community, be honestly married, and to work out the problem of life together. However, this was not to be—for death claimed the wayward girl and closed the brief chapter of romance in Belden's life. And the man, near sixty years old now, still keeps this bit of springtime in his heart, and "May"—so aptly named—through the distillation of time and the alchemy of memory appears to him now an angel of light, the one love of his life.

Other changes were now on the wing. "Rossman's" was no longer to be tolerated, and the proprietor was obliged to disband his group and leave that part of the country. It was then that the truly baleful influence of Rossman asserted itself, blighting fatally the young life now bound to him by ties of gratitude and habit, and even turning the development of his mathematical gift into a curse. Forced to abandon the disreputable business in which he had been engaged, Rossman opened a gambling-house in Chicago, initiating Belden into all the ways that are dark and all the artful dodges practised in these gambling-hells. Here Belden's natural gift for calculation and combination of numbers, reinforced by mathematical training, came into play. The fascination of the game for its own sake has even crept into one of Belden's letters to me, where several pages are devoted to proving how certain results can be obtained by scientific manipulation of the cards. But again Rossman's business fell under the ban of the law, and soon after, for some overt act of dishonesty, Belden was sent to the penitentiary.

A year later an ex-convict with power of resistance weakened by the rigidity of prison discipline, with no trade, the ten dollars given by the State invested in cheap outer clothing to replace the suit, recognizable at a glance by the police, which the State then bestowed upon the ex-convict, Belden returned to Chicago. Friendless, penniless, accustomed to live by his wits, Belden was soon "in trouble" again, was speedily convicted under the habitual-criminal act and given the maximum sentence of fourteen years. Three years of this sentence Belden served after the beginning of our acquaintance. He had met with the accident resulting in the paralysis of his arm, and his outlook was hopeless and dreary. However, after the loss of the use of his right hand he immediately set to work learning to write with his left hand, and this he speedily accomplished. The tablet granted by the warden at my request was soon covered with abstruse mathematical problems; differential calculus was of course meaningless to the guards, but a continuous supply of tablets was allowed as a safe outlet for a mind considered "cracked" on the subject of figures. Owing to his infirmities Belden's prison tasks were light; his devotion to Warden McClaughrey, who treated him with kindness, kept him obedient to prison rules, while his obliging disposition won the friendly regard of fellow prisoners. And so the time drifted by until his final release. This time he left the prison clad in a well-fitting second-hand suit sent by a friend. Dick Mallory, who was then a free man, welcomed him in Chicago, saw him on board the train for another city in which I had arranged for his entrance into a "home," and with hearty good will speeded his departure from criminal ranks. This was in the year 1893; from that day forward Peter Belden has lived an honest life.

The inmates of the home, or the members of that family, as the sainted woman who established and superintended the place considered these men, were expected to contribute toward the expense of the home what it actually cost to keep them. During the hard winters of 1894 and 1895 able-bodied men by thousands were vainly seeking work and awaiting their turn in the breadline at the end of a fruitless day, while Peter Belden, with his right arm useless, by seizing every chance to earn small amounts, and by strictest self-denial, contrived to meet the bare needs of his life. Once or twice for a few days he could not do this, but the superintendent of the home tided him over these breaks; and I knew from her that Belden was unflagging in his effort to make his expenses. That this was far from easy is shown by the following extract from a letter written in the winter of 1895:

"I am in pretty good health, thank you, but I have had a hard, hard time. Do the very best I can I can't get ahead; yesterday I had to borrow a dollar from the home. Still I am pegging away, day in and day out, selling note paper. I have felt like giving up in despair many times these last few months. A something, however, tells me to keep on. You have kindly asked me if I needed clothing. Yes, thank you, I need shoes and stockings and I haven't money to buy them. Now, dear friend, don't spend any money in getting these things for me; I shall be glad and thankful for anything that has been used before."

As financial prosperity gradually returned, making the ends meet became easier to Belden. Among his round of note-paper customers he established friendly relations and was able to enlarge his stock of salable articles, and he won the confidence of two large concerns that gave him goods on the instalment plan. At this time the superintendent of the home wrote me:

"I am deeply interested in Peter Belden, for he has been a good, honest, industrious man ever since he came to us. I want to tell you that your kindly efforts are fully appreciated by him. He is earnestly working up in a business way, and all who have anything to do with him as a man have confidence in him."

Belden's interests, too, began to widen and his frequent letters to me at this time are like moving pictures, giving glimpses of interiors of various homes and of contact with all sorts of people—a sympathetic Jewish woman, a brilliant Catholic bishop, a fake magnetic healer and spiritualistic fraud. He even approached the celebrated Dean Hole at the conclusion of a lecture in order to secure the dean's autograph, which he sent me; and he had interesting experiences with various other characters. He was frequently drawn into religious discussions, but firmly held his ground that creeds or lack of creeds were nothing to him so long as one was good and helpful to others. This simple belief was consistent with his course of action. Pity dwelt ever in his heart, and I do not believe that he ever slighted a chance to give the helping hand. He did not forget the prisoners left behind in the penitentiary where he had been confined, sending them magazines and letters, and messages through me. In one of his letters I find this brief incident, so characteristic of the man as I have known him:

"While I was canvassing to-day I saw a poor blind dog— It was a very pitiful sight. He would go here a little and there a little, moving backward and forward. The poor thing did not know where he was, for he was blind as could be, and not only blind but lame also. Something struck me when I saw him; I said to myself, 'I am crippled but I might be like this poor dog some day; who can tell? I certainly shall do what I can for him.'

"I could not take him home with me but I did the next best thing, for I took him from the pack of boys who began chasing him and gave him to a woman who was looking out of a window evidently interested and sympathetic; she promised to care for him."

In the hundreds of letters written me by Belden I do not find a line of condemnation or even of harsh criticism of any one, although he shares the prejudice common to men of his class against wealthy church-members. Not that he was envious of their possessions, but, knowing too well the cruelty and the moral danger of extreme poverty and ready to spend his last dollar to relieve suffering, he simply could not conceive how it was possible for a follower of Christ to accumulate wealth while sweat-shops and child labor existed.

At this period of Belden's life his knowledge of mathematics afforded him great pleasure, and it brought him into prominence in the newspaper columns given to mathematical puzzles, where "Mr. Belden" was quoted as final authority. Numerous were the newspaper clippings enclosed in his letters to me, and I have before me an autograph note to Belden from the query editor of a prominent paper, in which he says:

"Your solution of the problem is a most ingenious and mathematically learned analysis of the question presented, and highly creditable to your talent."

This recognition of superiority in the realm of his natural gift and passion was precious indeed to Belden, but he was extremely sensitive in regard to his past and avoided contact and acquaintance with those who might be curious about it. And to be known as an inmate of the home was to be known as an ex-convict.

This maimed, ex-convict life he must bear to the end: only outside of that could he meet men as their equal; and so he guarded his incognito, but not altogether successfully.

Once he made the experiment of going to a neighboring city and trying to make some commercial use of his mathematics, but he could not gain his starting-point. He had no credentials as teacher, and while he might have been valuable as an expert accountant his disadvantages were too great to be overcome.

More and more frequently as the years passed came allusions to loss of time through illness. His faithful friend, the superintendent of the home, had passed to her reward, and the home as Belden had known it was a thing of the past.

Life was becoming a losing game, a problem too hard to be solved, when tubercular tendencies of long standing developed and Belden became a charge on some branch of the anti-tuberculosis movement, where he spent a summer out of doors. Here he frankly faced the fact of the disease that was developing, and characteristically read all the medical works on the subject that the camp afforded, determined to make a good fight against the enemy. He seemed to find a sort of comfort in bringing himself into companionship with certain men of genius who had fought the same foe; he mentions Robert Louis Stevenson, Chopin, and Keats, and, more hopefully, others who were finally victorious over the disease.

With the approach of cold weather it was thought best to send Belden to a warmer climate; arrangements were made accordingly, and he was given a ticket to a far distant place where it was supposed he would have a better chance of recovery. There for a time he rallied and grew stronger, but only to face fresh hardships. He was physically incapable of earning a living, and it was not long before he became a public charge and was placed in an infirmary for old men; for more than fifty years of poverty and struggle with fate had left the traces of a lifetime on the worn-out body. But the "something" which he felt told him to keep on through many hardships does not desert him now, and the old spirit of determination to make the best of things holds out still. His letters show much the same habit of observation as formerly; bits of landscape gleam like pictures through some of his pages, and historical associations in which I might be interested are gathered and reported. His one most vital interest at present seems to be the production of this book, as he firmly believes that no one else can "speak for the prisoners" as the writer.

It seems that even Death itself, "who breaks all chains and sets all captives free," cannot be kind to Peter Belden, and delays coming, through wearisome days and more wearisome nights. But at last, when the dark curtain of life is lifted, we can but trust that a happier fortune awaits him in a happier country.