by Эл Дженнингс
"Colonel, have you any special hope as regards heaven?" Porter had a glass of Tipo half raised to his lips. The grafters had sent us a new case of costly wines.
"Give me a swallow of that, Bill! it must have a wonderful kick in it—up to heaven in two gulps!" Porter ignored me. It was not a night for jest.
"I am not speaking of a churchly paradise, but what, Al, is your idea of a state of perfect bliss?"
"At present, Bill, a dugout way off in the wilderness, where I would never again see the faces of men. I would want plenty of cattle and horses, but no trace of the human kind except perhaps a few of their books."
"No, the books would spoil it. Don't you realize, colonel, that the serpent who wrecked the first paradisc was Thought? Adam and Eve and all their unfortunate descendants might still be lolling in joyous ignorance on the banks of the Euphrates if Eve hadn't been stung with the desire to know. It's quite a feather in a woman's cap. Mother Eve was the first rebel—the first thinker."
Porter seemed impressed with his own brilliance. He nodded his head to emphasize his conviction. "Yes, colonel," he continued, "thought is the great curse. Often when I was out on the Texas ranges I envied the sheep grazing on the mesa. They are superior to men. They have no meditations, no regrets, no memories."
"You're wrong, Bill, the sheep are more intelligent than men. They mind their own business. They do not take upon themselves the powers which belong to Nature, or Providence, or whatever you wish to call it."
"That's exactly what I finished saying. They do not think; therefore they are happy."
"How stupid you are tonight, Bill. You might just as well go into ecstasy over the joys of non-existence. If thought makes us wretched, it is also thought that gives us our highest delight."
"Certainly, if I did not think, I would be serenely contented tonight. I should not be dragged down with a ton weight of futile anger."
"And if you did not think, you would likewise be incapable of intense pleasures."
"I have yet to find in thought, Al, this beneficent aspect. I persist—Thought is a curse. It is responsible for all the viciousness found in the human family; for depravities that are the monopoly of the lofty human species.
"Colonel—the Kid's execution is but one example of the viciousness of Thought. Men think a thing is and they conclude that it must be so. It is a sort of hypnotism."
Porter was never yet coherent in his philosophical pickings. He would begin with a whimsical absurdity and he would use this as a kind of string for his fancies.
He would pick up a thought here, an oddity there and run them all together. The finished necklace was like those chains of queerly sorted charms made by squaw women.
"Al," he turned to me with indolent deliberation, attempting to conceal the anxiety in his mind, "was he guilty?"
It was the thought tormenting me at that very moment. Neither of us had been thinking of another thing all evening.
"Colonel, the horror of this day has made an old man of me. Every hour I could feel that softy's freckled hand on my arm. I could see his gentle eyes smiling into mine. I believe him. I think he was innocent. Do you?
"You have seen many face death. A man might persist in a lie. But would a boy like that a child keep at it so?"
"Nearly every man who has not pleaded guilty insists on his innocence to his last breath. I don't know about the Kid. He may have been speaking the truth. I felt that he was innocent."
"Good God, Al—What a frightful thing if they have murdered a boy and he was not guilty! The terrible insolence of men to convict on circumstantial evidence! Does it not prove the conceit of Thought?
"There can be no certainty to second-hand evidence—what right have we then to inflict an irrevocable penalty ? The evidence may be disproved ; the charges may be withdrawn, but the condemned may not be summoned back from the grave. It is monstrous. The arrogance of human beings must tempt the patience of God.
"I am right, colonel, for all your opposition, thought not poised with humility, is but a goad lashing man's conceit to madness or at the other extreme we have thought unblended with faith then it is but a bludgeon striking man's yearnings down to despondency."
Abruptly he came over to me. He had picked up another bead for his fantastic chain.
"Was there ever a case in this pen when a man was electrocuted and it was afterward found that he was innocent?"
"Not in my time, Bill. But they tell of several. The old stir bugs could freeze the marrow in your bones with their tales."
"Some of them must be true. It is inconceivable that man's judgment should always be correct. The fact that one man has been cut off from life on evil evidence is sufficient indictment against the whole system of murder on circumstantial proof. How can men sit on a jury and take into their hands such wicked power?"
Several hours before the 9 o'clock gong had sounded there was a thick hush over the sleeping institution. Porter's whispering eloquence had lulled into quiet.
Our uneasy pangs were well diluted inTipo and into our harried minds there had drifted a half -dozing contentment. Suddenly a hoarse, rumbling growl that lifted into a piercing shriek came rasping out from the cell block.
Porter leaped to his feet.
"What was that? I was dreaming. It sounded like the crack of doom to me. This infernal place is haunted. I wonder if the Kid's spirit rests easily tonight ? Colonel, do you believe in spirits, in an after life, in a God?"
"No, I don't—leastwise, I don't think I do."
"Well, I do in a way. I think there is some kind of an all-powerful spirit, but the God of humanity doesn't loiter in this pen. He doesn't seem to be a student of criminology.
"If I thought much about this affair of today I would lose all faith, all happiness. I would never be able to write a hopeful line."
It was well for Porter that his release was due in a short time. The world could not afford to miss the buoyancy of his faith.
He was not in the prison when the shocking truth came out. The Press Post carried the story, bringing out again all the facts in the case. Bob Whitney, the boy whose body was supposed to have been washed up from the Scioto, turned up in Portsmouth. He wrote to his parents. He knew nothing about the Kid's execution.
The State had made a little mistake. It had bumped off a boy of 17 for a murder that was never committed. It had thought the Kid was guilty.
CHAPTER XXV.
Last days of 0. Henry in prison; intimate details; his going away outfit; goodbys; his departure.
The last leaf on the calendar was turned. Porter had but seven days more to serve. Even Billy grew quiet. When Porter came to the post-office, we would wait on him, yielding him the only comfortable chair, kicking a foot-stool under his feet. And once Billy grabbed up a pillow from his cot and stuffed it under
Porter's head. Porter stretched his ample body and turned on Billy a cherubic smile.
"Gee, Bill, I ain't a gonna die, am I? Feel my pulse."
It was like that—funny—but under the burlesque was the disturbing sadness of farewell. We were full of idiotic consideration for Porter as people are when they feel that a friend is leaving them forever.
We were packing a suitcase of memories for him to carry along into the open world, hoping he might turn to it now and again with a thought for the two cons left in the prison post-office.
Goodbys are almost always one-sided, as though fate offered a toast—and the one who goes drinks off the wine and hands the glass with the dregs to the one who stays behind.
A twinge of regret Porter felt in the parting, perhaps, but it sent only a tremendous quiver through the buoyant swell of his joy in the thought of freedom. He was excited and full of a nervous gaiety. His whispering, hesitant voice took on a chirp and his serene face was jaunty with happiness.
"Colonel, I want you to do me a favor. I don't mind an obligation to you. I'll never pay it back and you won't hold it against me. You see, Al, I'm worried. I don't want to get arrested for runnin
g around unclad. And that's what might happen if you don't lend your valuable aid.
"It's this way. The stuff they make the going-away suits with goes away too quickly. It melts in the sun and if it should rain it dissolves. A man has no protection nohow.
"Now, when I came to this institution I brought a fine tweed suit with me. I'd like it back as a sort of dowry. Will you look it up for me, please? I do not admire prison gray. I'm afraid it is not a fashionable color this summer."
The large, humorous mouth—the one feature that was a bit weak—grinned. Porter buttoned his coat and surveyed himself sideways with the air of a dandy. A sheepish light stole into his eye.
"I feel like a bride getting a trousseau. I'm so particular about the sendoff this paternal roof is going to give me."
Porter's old suit had been given away to some other out-going convict.
"Use your influence, colonel, and get me a good-looking business suit. I'll leave it to your judgment, but pick me out a rich brown."
The superintendents of all the shops knew the secretary of the steward's office. They were all fond of the nimble-tongued, amiable dignity that was Bill Porter's. Everyone wanted to make him a present as he was leaving.
"Porter goin* on his honeymoon? Sure pick out the best we've got. Harry Ogle was the outside superintendent of the State shop. He led me over to the storeroom and pulled down bolt after bolt of fine wool cloth.
The regulation convict suit was made of some cotton mixture. The government paid the state $25 to clothe its outgoing prisoners. The raiment was worth about $4.50.
"Here's the finest piece of brown English worsted in the State of Ohio." We decided on that and Porter came over for a fitting. The men laughed as they measured him.
"Want the seams runnin' crostwise just to be otherwise," they twitted. "If you had the pockets turned upside down, they'd never git wise to where this hand- some suit come from. And you ain't got nuthin' to put in the pockets, anyways, and you'd be sure not to come back as a sneak thief."
It would have hurt Porter's pride at another time, but he was so concerned with the multitude of small preparations he laughed and bandied back the crude jests of the prison tailors. In return they fashioned a suit that was without fault, even to Porter's fastidious taste.
On the night of July 23—the next morning he was to leave—Porter smuggled over his outfit.
"Gentlemen, whenever a great drama is to be staged, it is customary to give a dress rehearsal. Let the curtain up."
Bill tried on the suit. He had a black Katy hat like the derby worn today and a pair of shoes made by a life termer. Prison shoes squeak. They can be heard a mile off. The cons used to say it was due on purpose to prevent a silent getaway. Porter's were no exception.
"I'll make quite a noise in the world, colonel. I'm bringing my own brass band along."
"You're bound to make a noise there, Bill."
"Here, try some of this hair tonic on them." Billy got down Porter's remedy. "It can take the kick out of anything."
Flippant, meaningless banter—we spent the precious hours flipping it back and forth. It was like the empty foam tossed from great waves against an impregnable rock. The waves themselves come with a mighty rush, but at the base of the crag they ebb as though their force were suddenly spent.
Thoughts and a hundred anxious questions were pushing upward in a surge of emotions, but at the tongue they failed and we dashed out this froth. We talked of everything but our thoughts.
Even the warden was nervous when Porter came into the office for his discharge.
"I worked them all night, colonel," Porter pointed to the shoes. "Their eloquence is irrepressible."
"If you looked any better, Bill, the ladies would kidnap you for a Beau Brummel."
"I shall not be taken into captivity again on any charge."
Porter's face was slightly lined. He looked older for his 39 months in prison, but even so, his was a head and a bearing to attract attention anywhere. There was about him now an attitude of confidence, or self-sufficiency, of dignity. He looked more like a well-educated, cultured business man than like an ex-convict.
There were visitors in the outer office. The warden stepped outside, telling me to give Bill his discharge papers. As soon as we were alone the intense strain became unbearable. I wanted to cram everything into those last moments. I wanted to say: "Good luck—God bless you—Go to hell."
But neither of us spoke. Bill went over to the window and I sat down to the desk. For 10 minutes he stood there. Suddenly it occurred to me that he was taking this parting in a very indifferent manner.
"Bill," my voice was husky with resentment and he turned quickly; "won't you be outside soon enough? Can't you look this way for the last few minutes we've got?"
The coaxing smile on his lips, he put out his strong, short hand to me. "Al, here's a book, I sent to town for it for you." It was a copy of "Omar Khayyam."
I handed him the discharge and his $5. Porter had at least $60 or $70—the proceeds from his last story. He took the '$5.
"Here, colonel, give this to Billy—he can buy alcohol for his locomotor ataxia."
That was all. He went toward the door and then he came back the old drollery in his eye.
"I'll meet you in New York, colonel. You might beat the brakes there before me. I'll be on the watch. Goodby, Al."
Porter's voice lapsed into a low whisper at the end. He went to the door, and, without looking back, went out. I felt as though something young and bonny something lovable and magnetic—was gone forever.
"No leaves on the calendar, Al!" Billy Raidler scratched off the last number, shook his head and tore off the page. He looked over at me through a gloom of silence.
"Another day gone into night."
CHAPTER XXVI.
O. Henry's silence; a letter at last; the proposed story; Mark Hanna visits the prison; pardon; double-crossed; freedom.
Egotism is the bridge whereon men have crawled upward from the jungle. There is no limit to its reaches. It spans even the heavens, paving the way to gods and angels, whose sole delight is to minister to men. It is not stopped even at the grave, but flings a tight rope beyond, and on this hair line Man marches to Immortality. Without Egotism, the human animal never would have developed.
Across one chasm it does not stretch—the chasm between the World and Prison. And in this exile the convict becomes spiritless and hopeless. He expects nothing, for he has lost the self-esteem that buoys trust.
When Bill Porter went down the walk to the Open Road in his squeaky shoes and the arrogant yellow gloves Steve Bussel had given him, neither Billy Raidler nor I ever expected to catch again an echo from those familiar footsteps. He had sauntered out of our lives. We were glad for the sunny companionship he had given us when he was one with ourselves.
We talked about him now and then, Billy always brought up the conversation.
"I need some tobacco a special brand think I'll drop a line to Bill Porter and ask him to send it on." Or again, it was his hair that worried him. "Fool that
I was I forgot to get that remedy from Bill. I'm like to be bald before he sends his address. Say, Al, didn't he promise to give you a lift on the story what about it?"
But the weeks went by and no word came. A month and a half to the day Billy sent a runner to the warden's office with a letter postmarked "Pittsburgh." The runner brought a note from Raidler: "Al, send me back that letter. My locomotor ataxia is itchin' to see what Bill's got to say. Yours in great peril, Billy."
Here is the first letter Bill Porter—he had already taken the name of O. Henry—had sent to me at the Ohio penitentiary. He had not forgotten us and he had already made good :
"Dear Jennings: I have intended to write to you and Billy every week since I left, but kept postponing it because I expected to move on to Washington (sounds like Stonewall Jackson talk, doesn't it?) almost any time. I am very comfortably situated here, but expect to leave in a couple of weeks, anyhow.
"I have been doing quite a deal of business with the editors since I got down to work and have made more than I could at any other business. I want to say that Pittsburgh is the 'low-downedest' hole on the surface of the earth. The people here are the most ignorant, ill-bred, contemptible, boorish, degraded, insulting, sordid, vile, foul-mouthed, indecent, profane, drunken, dirty, mean, depraved curs that I ever imagined could exist. Columbus people are models of chivalry compared with them. I shall linger here no longer than necessary.
"Besides, on general principles, I have a special object in writing to you just now. I have struck up quite a correspondence with the editor of Everybody's Magazine. I have sold him two articles in August and have orders for others. In writing to him some time ago I suggested an article with a title something like 'The Art and Humor of Holding Up a Train,' telling him that I thought I could get it written by an expert in the business.
"Of course, I mentioned no names or localities. He seemed very much struck with the idea and has written twice asking about it. The only fear he had, he said, was that the expert would not put it in a shape suitable for publication in Everybody's as John Wanamaker was very observant of the proprieties.
"Now, if you would care to turn yourself loose on the subject there may be something in it and a start on future work besides. Of course, you needn't dis- close your identity in the slightest degree. What he wants (as I thought he would) is a view of the subject from the operator's standpoint.
"My idea would be a chatty sort of article just about the way you usually talk, treating it descriptively and trying out the little points and details, just as a man would talk of his chicken farm or his hog ranch.
"If you want to tackle it, let me know and I'll send you my idea of the article, with all the points that should be touched upon. I will either go over it and arrange it according to my conception of the magazine requirements, or will forward your original MS., whichever you prefer. Let me know soon, as I want to answer his letter.
