Those who have come back [microform]
MacFarlane, Peter Clark, 1871-1924
hiJ°'w>.I"'* *™' "' '^'""^^^ *°<'k pity on hm.. W,thm a month he was on h.s way to Phoemx, Anz., with a promise fr«m them of $100 a month so long as he kept away and out of trouble. Sixty days later, hollow of cheek wasted of body, hunched of shoulder, a mere' rz ^M """' "'" '•='""- --™^ !, . *": ., -"'^'^ °f ^"'•""'1 cunning, he aw oft •" 7°" r'^^"'^" '^^^ -'"^ ae th.^'T*' I" ^"r ^ ""^ objectively considered, is ^d b?H » t' '" "•"■• ^* ''^ « *™''I tele, and better untold were it nol that Eytinge has turned about and. rung by rung, cli.^bed'^r^k up the ladder. I set down the bare details of 113 r 1 ,v i it m ^ii 11 THOSE WHO HAVE COME BACK the upward steps. They shall be their own interpreters. Eytinge was saved by money— that is, by the need of money. He was cured by looking upon a cross of gold. Money wants had ruined him. They now began to redeem him. Yuma Prison was one o ^he worst located in America. It squatted on a low bluff a few feet above the yellow, writhing waves of the wicked Colorado. The summer temperatures were unbelievably torrid. The cells opened on the river. Hordes of mosquitoes came in and stung the occupants. Eytinge must have mosquito nets or endure a double torture in the hackling months that remained to him. His relatives had cast him off entirely. By a roundabout appeal they were induced to send him $10, but that was all. With this he got netting and milk and eggs for a few days. But he was a very sick man; he weighed less than 119 pounds.: primarily his stomach re- jected all food, yet by eating two meals in suc- cession he could generally retain the second; 114 THE CASE OF EYTIXGE but the food itself must be of the most deh'cate, and the prison diet did not include tbit sort But the instinct for life was strong in Louis Eytinge. Though his daj-^ must be spent in an adobe prison in one of the most impossible spots m America, nevertheless he wanted to live. He was but twenty -eight years old- -too young-too wicked to die. But without fit food no life, and without money no fit food and how to get the money? That was the question. There was no chance to forge a check in prison. But there were ways of earn- ing money in prison. Eytinge saw prisoners .raiding hatbands and belts of horsehair and ornamenting them crudely with silver rosettes hammered from Mexican dollars, all to be sold through the bars to chance visitors from trains that were some- times delayed at the railroad station. Tlmt afforded an idea, but Eytinge was in the chrome ward, with no chance to see visitors or to sell; yet necessity was laid heavily upon him. From the advertising pages of some journal he cut the names of two Western curio dealt 115 4i| i r i ill If If THOSE WHO HAVE COME BACK and wrote them letters, offering to furnish horsehair souvenirs to be sold to tourists. The dealers responded. Eytinge put his friends to working, making hatbands and belts; he learned to make them himself, to twist the hair, to braid it, to hammer the silver, to chase and model it— to do all the mechanical work. Business began to grow and money to be made. There were nineteen men in the chronic ward, and Eytinge kept them busy. With the pro- ceeds the men bought themselves comforts. Eytinge got his milk and eggs, and, instead of dying in six months, was alive at the end of a year and gaining in weight. Then a sudden blow threatened the life of the infant industry. The prison authorities concluded that some of the letter-writing sales- men were over-doing the matter and loading up their appeals with a quantity of "sob stuff" that amounted to faking. With a bang the iron hand came down. This all but wiped Ey- tinge off the map. He staggered for a bit, but, instead of going under, reorganized his business. From dealing with forty retailers 116 •^0=.- THE CASE OF EYTINGE per week, he undertook to do business with two wholesalers in each seven days. And thereby k learned the value of a let- ter. When a man can write but two letters a week, those letters become exceedingly im- portant. They must hit the mark; they must be aimed true; must contain no wasted words, and none that are worse than wasted, as some- times words are. More than that, they must be letters of compeUing power. It may be doubted if in the history of business any man ever framed seUing letters under such com- pulsion as Louis Victor Eytinge in those days. It was life or death for him. Behind him the httle group of nineteen men in the chronic ward, weaving their horsehair belts and hat- bands, hammering their trinkets of silver, get- tmg for them a few pesos a month, to spend for small comforts or to send home to families who could live a week upon a dollar— before him the wide, wide, consuming world and his line of communication, two white wings a week. SmaU wonder that Eytinge weighed the value of his words, that he studied the psychology of 117 if IB • ,1 i TP E WHO HAVE COME BACK selliii that he sent out letters that for puUing power are the marvel of the business world. Moreover, while learning how to write a selling letter that had power in it, Eytinge made the, to him, startling discovery that truth is the fundamental element of power in the formula- tion of the selling appeal: that a letter with an obvious misstatement or an apparent exagger- ation wounded itself, fluttered into the waste- basket and died. He had to write the simple truth about his goods in order to sell them, and discovered, too, that when he undertook to write nothing but the truth he could do it with a force he had never felt before. All his life he had been doing crooked things because it seemed more effective to fabricate a he than to hew out the truth. Now he mad- this striking discovery that truth was power Not only was that a great big lesson in sales- manship, but all unconsciously it became a great big lesson in character. Louis the Crooked began to be Louis the Straight, for the sake of power. 118 THE CASE OF EYTINGE About this time also personal influences be- gan to affect No. 2608 favorably. Arizona had taken thought to itself and moved the prison from torrid Yuma, far up the Gila Valley, to Florence— hot enough, the ther- mometer tells me on this July day, when it is 106 in the shade as I write— but not unhealth- ful. Here Eytinge, weighing 190 pounds and lookmg the picture of health, heard the phys- ician pronounce him cured of tuberculosis. In the prison at this time was a parole clerk with a great enthusiasm for his work. He had Eytinge taken from the chronic ward and assigned to duty with him. He called Ey- tmge friend, p-it his hand upon his shoulder, made hun partner of his own enthusiasm for the paroled prisoners who were trying to make good. This gave Eytinge a new zest for life, and took some of the cynicism out of him, so that it began to seem a long time since he had regarded an honest man as a dub. In fact, he began to have respect for honesty. Along in February, 1912, came the inaug- uration of Arizona's first Statehood Governor, 119 rL ,-|, -I ■ III !'.. i,f 'I >it ' - :_ m 4 .^(L 'n THOSE WHO HAVE COME BACK George W. P. Hunt, and with it a complete change in prison policy. Governor Hunt was a very humane man with advanced ideas on penology and scrupling not at all to put those ideas instantly into effect. For his prison warden he chose Robert B. Sims, who, though having no previous experience with criminals, was a clean young man of real strength of character, honest and willing to learn. He has proved a valuable executor of the new hu- manity represented by the Governor. The liust important result of the new man- agement, so far as Eytinge was concerned, was to take away the restrictions upon his mail privileges. It is the theory of the present ad- ministration, and its parole clerk, J. J. San- ders, that the more letters a prisoner can ex- change with home and friends and the right kind of people generally the better it is for him. Such interchanges mean contentment and inspiration; they protect men from brood- ing; they give cause of hope from day to day and week to week that is invaluable in char- acter building. Yet the majority of prisons 120 f THE CASE OF EYTINGE in i\inerica reslJct a convict in his letter writ- ing to from one letter a week down to one in two or three months, while to some classes the privilege is altogether denied. Through unlimited letters Eytinge was now permitted to thrust an oar into the stream of outside activities and to feel the tug of normal life currents. For son-e time he had been sub- scribing for the busir.ess magazines, "Print- ers' Ink," "System," "Letters," and the like, and was studying especially the science of ad- vertising. He found the same rules holding good there as in the writing of selling letters The advertisement of power was the advertise- ment of honest goods honestly represented. No other advertisement would pay in the long run. Of course Eytinge was not the discoverer of this idea, except for himself. What may be termed the evangelistic move- ment in advertising had been on for some years. Eyting' had no part in bringing it about. He was still a crook when the theory was be- ing grasped by leaders in the advertising world. 121 THOSE WHO HAVE COME BACK But to watch that new tide rise gave a pleasur- able sensation, like the sight of reenforcements, and strengthened his own determination to be honest for the sake of power. Through correspondence he got in touch with some of the leaders in this movement. The convict's letters were big with personality: they were full of amateurish fervor, but packed with well-ripened thought and salted with a wide-ranging faculty for friendship. Their recipients were surprised at letters emanating from a prison which struck blows in behalf of honesty. Most of these men unhesitatingly hailed Eytinge as a fellow spirit, though in prison. They gave him commissions to exe- cute; they wrote, offering high-salaried posi- tions the moment he was at liberty, and, to hasten that moment, they wrote the Governor of the State, urging his pardon. Public recognition of the value of his writ- ings also began to come. His articles on ad- vertising science and some essays on character building were eagerly seized upon and printed in technical magazines. His writings upon 122 if THE CASE OF EYTINGE penological subjects as well won high respect. Of his tract on the indeterminate sentence, a sociologist wrote: "I have found no keener insight, no fuller structural knowledge, no more thorough un- derstanding than in the pamphlet by the in- mate of Arizona's prison at Florence." Naturally all this greatly fed the prisoner's ambitions. It confirmed his intention to make his life snap and sparkle with the power that comes of basic integrity; and, besides, it gave him a wonderful sense of achievement. They had penned him up to die, and he would not die. They had put his body in prison, and now his mind was going everywhere. They sent him to jail, a crook, and lo, his voice was a power for honesty. He had himself deliber- ately thrown his life away, and now he was drawing it back again through prison bars and a slot in a mail box. To him it was all very wonderful and exciting. It was impossible that the man's throat should not be lumpy at times over his satisfaction. He was beginning to rise — to conquer! 128 . >ri m i:f THOSE WHO HAVE COME BACK Still the soul of Eytinge was barely halter broken. He had discovered rare new powers witnin him, but they were like dynamite: they exploded with equal force in all directions. He stood greatly in need of friends who could be gun pointers and range finders, who would hold back his finger from the trigger till the barrel of his gun was drilled out with the ri- flings of self-control. And this sort of friend- ships were coming and had been for some time. McCrary, the old parole clerk, was a great help to him. Sanders, the new parole clerk, a man of seasoned wisdom, and the prisoner*s com- plete opposite in temperament, holds his con- fidence and has helped him greatly in the battle for elf -mastery. But two friends in particu- lar from the outside have worked with him upon the drill ground of his soul, greatly to the advantage both of esprit and discipline. The first of these was a woman, that frail hu- man dynamo, Kate Barnard of Oklahoma, who has fought so many successful battles for the underdogs of our day. She came to Flor- ence for a few weeks* rest as the house guest of 124 THE CASE OF EYTINGE Warden Sims, and while there did much to crack the shell of Eytinge, broadening and deepening his sympathies and chiseling still more of the cynicism out of his heart. And then, most important of all, came Thomas Dreier, editor of "Associated Adver- tising" and "Character," riding into the life of Eytinge behind the flap of an envelope. Young man as he is, Dreier is a sort of priest of the Melchizedekian order in that esoteric group of writers of advertising philosophy who try to put soul and a spiritual ideal into the body of the ink-and-paper salesman. To-day, when Eytinge sits down and casts up his debts to the world, he finds himself owing most to Dreier. '"Dreier/* he says, "made me look up to the law of service—he taught me to give the best that ivas in me at all times, and it would hnng the best from others** Strange words, are they not, to fall from the hps of a life termer? And yet they do not sound like cant. Eytinge spoke them soberly, reflectively, ahnost gropingly, as he was try- 125 i'fii THOSE WHO HAVE COME BACK ing to explain his debt to Dreier. Here are some more which I quote from a letter of his: "/ believe that he who loves must climb, not 80 much for himself, but for the sake of those others on whose bent back he stood" Of course it is possible for cynical persons still to question the genuineness of Mr. Ey- tinge's reform. It is not, however, possible to question the value of the service he is rendering to society. He is not exactly popular in prison. He is too brilliant, too different in his clay not to be envied, misunderstood, and some- times opposed, and too impetuous in his na- ture not to be blamable for some of this him- self. Yet there are abundant evidences that he has been of great service to his fellow pris- oners. He taught them to standardize their output of curios and trinkets, and greatly en- larged the market for them. Since t^ie pot of his own higher aspirations began to simmer, he has been ready to help every man who could be helped by the sort of appeal Eytinge knows how to make. He has 120 THE CASE OF EYTINGE been a leading spirit in the Prisoners' Mutual Improvement League. Eytinge has made considerable money for a prisoner these last few years, perhaps from sev- eral himdred to a thousand dollars. And yet he has none. What becomes of it? Here is a quotation from a letter which explains in part at least: "To my personal knowledge Eytinge's money has paid for milk and eggs for men who were too sick to eat prison fare. Ejiiinge's money has paid for sending paroled prisoners home to die. He has given many men going out of prison money to start life on. In doing for others Eytinge has found himself." Even his relatives, who have suffered so much through his failures, begin to have faith and to write him words of encouragement that are priceless, while some of them who are in business go so far as to give him conmiissions for the preparation of advertising. "Some day you will come out,'* I said to Louis; "you will get the chance you are earning. Do you think there is any danger 127 ■ '1 I 'A h m THOSE WHO HAVE COME BACK that you will fall back into the old ways?" With folded arms he was leaning forward upon his desk. For a moment his shoulders were bowed in deep thought. "No," he said at length, deliberutely and gravely, like a man who sensed the full pleas- ure of possible temptations. "It backs down fundamentally to the old question of money wants. I shall want money as badly as ever, but I know a better way to get money than by forging a lie; and there is more pleasure and exhilaration of achievement in the new way. Besides, I have found there is more in life than money. I have tapped new sources of satisfaction in life which titillate nerves I did not know I had. No—" and his strange eyes lighted with the look of a man who sees a vision— "no, after seeing what I have learned to see in life, I do— not— think— I— ever could/" That is Eytinge*s carefully consid- ered judgment upon the state of his own being. I believe it is entitled to consideration. If Eytinge's judgment is correct, it is vastly more than individually unportant, for it is one 128 THE CASE OF EYTINGE more proof that America is finding a better way with her criminals. Last year there were 108,000 penal commitments in these States of ours. Eytinge is a type of many of them. He was American bred and bom and schooled; he was ruined by the commonest American sin, extravagance. Yet the country concerned it- self little enough about him till he became so- cially unendurable. Then it sequestered him and concerned itself less. It entombed him, banned him, forgot him. But a new spirit comes stealing into our prison management and a new attitude into the public mind, and both overlook this sealed-up soul. In few prisons outside of America, and indeed in but few here, and in those but recently, could a life termer have en- joyed the privileges which are redeeming Ey- tinge. And where but in America would busi- ness and professional men have responded to uninvited letters from an unknown lifer with that ready sympathy and frank brotherliness which have reacted so remarkably upon the character of the man? 129 i : (I i' 1^^ THOSE WHO HAVE COME BACK As a matter of fact, the whole setting of the drama is typically and modemly American. Arizona, with her twin, is the newest of our States. Her benignant Governor, thirty years ago a waiter in a restaurant in a mining camp, a storekeeper almost to the day of his inaugu- ration, is essentially a type of our times and country. The prisoner himself, rolled in the dust, scarred, stung, but unbeaten, making his prison bars rattle with defiance to the fates, and sitting down to write: "How far I'll climb is not for me to say — ^but — if aim and in- tent coimt for anjiihing — and confidence, too — ^then I'll not limit myself," breathes the dauntless American spirit. Nor is he just one man alone. Rather he is one of a class, and with this class America be- gins to find a better way. 180 i JS THE EETUBN OF "lUCKY BALDWIN" Lucky was no relation to the late California horseman. Baldwin was not his name. It was only his "moniker." The man was a vi- cious Bowery thug— too*/ Yet his physiog- nomy is most attractive. It advertises frank courage an(? broad good humor. There is something in its honest strength which makes us feel like trusting that man. Still by study- ing liis countenance one may pick out the in- cidents of a very remarkable criminal career. If, for instance, those full lips should smile, they would disclose no natural teeth at all, but only an imitation in gleaming ridges of gold. That is because, while two deputies held him helpless, an Alabama sheriff vengefuUy beat in all his front teeth, after which he kicked the insensible body till he was tired and ordered it flung into a bull-pen till the man should die; 131 THOSE WHO HAVE COME BACK and this because Lucky had previously worsted that Sheriff in single combat. Again tiuning to his physiognomy we can- not fail to observe a great slashing scar across the eyes. That came one day when four "harness bulls" were bent on taking Lucky to jail. He went, but imconscious of his going. If you were to look at the back of the man's head instead of the front, a spot like a bull's- eye, as large and as bald as a golf ball, would stare us uncannily out of coimtenance. In some melee or other, in some place or other from New York to San Francisco, at some- time or other between the years lT seventeen and thirty-seven, this occipital knob was de- nuded of hair, follicle and root, chipped to the very bone, and Lucky by no means pretends to remember where or when or from whom he received that tonsure-like brand. If, now, we had a skiagraph, one of those shadow-pictures produced by the Roentgen rays, we might discern that some of Lucky's ribs are thickened and gnarled like the ex- posed roots of a weather-twisted tree. Many 182 RETURN OF "LUCKY BALDWIN' men, beside the Alabama sheriff, it would seem, have taken r kick at the ribs of Lucky. And yet no amount of scrutiny of Lucky would disclose to us the next startling fact, which is that four years ago at thirty-seven years of age, this bright-looking man, bom of an Irish mother and an English father on Man- hattan Island, and growing up and gathering the most of his living there, was unable to read or write, nor could he utter a grammatically correct English sentence of ten words. In- deed, forty-eight months ago he was only a kind of animal, depraved in disposition and treacherous in temper. His speech was a thieves' patois with only an occasional impol- luted word and the main stream of conversa- tion was hurried forward on a flooding tide of profanity. Indeed, when first he stripped his sentences of the profane, no sentences re- mained. He was suddenly phraseless. He had no adjectives, no language of emotion, of admiration, of astonishment, of disapproval or disgust — ^he simply could not express himself. 133 ^m THOSE WHO HAVE COME BACK To-day this man is the very salt and savor of likeable human qualities; yet for twenty-five years Lucky Baldwin led a criminal life. If there is a crime in the calendar which he did not commit during that quarter of a century of life in the underworld, he does not know what it was. Yet he never served a prison sentence. That was why he was y-clept "Lucky." City and county jails, road-gangs and rock-piles and bull-pens held him occasionall3% but he never wore a stripe. And no one need blame society for those twenty-five criminal years. Lucky doesn't. And no one need indict environment. Lucky doesn't. The environment, to be sure, was not extra m*ce. On the contrary it was exti i bad. But Lucky had brothers and sisters. They passed up through that same environment to honest, sober living. Lucky knows he might have done the same. There is in his story no whimpering attempt at palliation. He delib- erately went bad. And then he turned about and delibe: te\y— but that w the story! Lucky's birth-name was Balf, Christian J. 184 RETURN OF "LUCKY BALDWIN" Balf ; and the place of his nativity was Cherry Hill, which is under the Manhattan end of Brooklyn bridge. To-day the Hill is squalid Italian; forty years ago it was fighting Irish. A gang of young truck thieves "hung out" in the block in which Lucky lived. They would steal a bag of coffee or a tub of butter from a passing truck, trundle it into an alley and from there whisk it away to a "fence." "A 'fence/ " says Lucky, to-day, falling back upon his Bowery gutturals, with welts of horror contort- ing his face, "a 'fence' is de woist ting in de woild." The little Irish lad made these young crim- inals the heroes of his dreams. At eleven years of age came his first chance to emulate them. He saw a driver unload twenty-five small kegs of beer in front of a saloon. The bar-keeper came out and counted the kegs and returned to the saloon, after which the driver began to roll them in one by one. For an interval with each he was out of sight behind the swinging doors. This interval was the opportunity of the little, red-headed, freckle-faced Chris. In one of 135 ' i ig i:f: 1;^ m THOSE >VHO HAVE COME BACK those fraction* T a minute, he sent a keg spin- ning into Ih ' iiuirow alley which had so often served as u n*^ run-way. The driver, hav- ing count H I 111 J f)eer once, never missed this keg, and ^ 'id. le had mounted his wagcm Chris had I ^amicr* ^ n .c bung, and with his friends ar.>« ,A }»'? ad entered upon his first debauch, dr.jikin.i i-.nself sodden drunk. His father, a hard-working stationary engineer, performed his duty sternly. Chris resented the beating he received and it was three months before the home-folks saw him again. Then he swaggered down the street of his birth and exhibited himself to his brothers and sisters. His twelve-year-old bosom was swollen with pride and conceit. He could smoke, he could drink, he could lie, he could steal, and upon these resources he could sustain life. He was a man I From that first boyish theft and intoxication. Lucky Baldwin sorrowfully dates his criminal career. At fifteen he was an expert thief and belonged to a gang which was affiliated with a "fence." The desperate nature of these as- 186 UMWI RETURN OF "LUCKY BALDWIN" sociates is summed up now when he says of them sadly, "Some of 'em is dead; some of *em is in prison, and some of 'em is hung." At seventeen, big and strong, some impulse sent the young tough to work as a truck-driver. But he confesses: "I was bounced as often as I was hired. To save my life I could not stop stealing. I would open up cases, take out what I fancied, and put it in my feed-boxes." From truck-driving, he graduated to a posi- tion m a Bowery restaurant, famous as "Sui- cide Hall." Here he became proficient in the art of short-changing. He could serve a pat- ron with sedulous concern, encourage 'lim to talk, gain his confidence, and ^hen, in th* mo- ment of giving him his change, rob h'm. From a five dollar bill he could get one doiiar and fifty cents from a ten dollar bill, t our col- lars, and from a twenty, six doll us and fifty cents. It was in part legerdema'n, and in part a confidence j^ame; and Lu k> played both with equal skill. Fifty or sixiy dollars a week was the "take-out," but tnis sr»on became too slow for Lucky's impatient ap])etites. He re- 187 i THOSE WHO HAVE COME BACK sorted to methods requiring less finesse and producing larger returns, but one of these ven- tures came near to whelming him in disaster. He was arrested on a charge of "horse-steal- ing and highway," as he puts it. The case against him was perfect. But Lucky was young. His face was engaging. Crime at that time had put no stamp upon it. His peo- ple stood well in the neighborhood and despite his wildness, were devoted to him. His sister came into court with a certified check for the amount of money involved. She made a dra- matic plea upon her knees for the liberty of her brother; so the jury, ignoring the evidence and all law but the universal one of mercy, decided to give the boy another chance. It was this acquittal and other "narrow squeaks" like it, that earned the sobriquet of "Lucky Baldwm" for Christian J. Balf. But Lucky disappointed his faithful sister. He misused that jury's well-meant mercy, and soon was "hanging out" on the Bowery again. The curve of his criminal bent developed rap- idly now. His offenses became more 138 RETURN OF "LUCKY BALDWIN" grave. He degenerated into a sort of human beast of prey. For fifteen years he was a leader of the tough gang that centered about the Bowery and Houston Streets. His life during all this time was unpurposed and unor- ganized, a mere succession of physiological re> actions. He lived from impulse to impulse. His wants begot his impulses and his impulses begot his crimes. He was a mixtiu*e of cim- ning, courage and prowess. Officers seldom got a hand upon him; when they did he fought and usually worsted them; and even when they conquered they never could convict him. Drink played a greater and greater part in his life. His first theft at eleven years of age of the keg of beer seemed to have baptized his whole career in the fumes of alcohol. Occasionally the necessity of lying low in New York, or some vagrant wanderlust caused him to roam out over the country, and where- ever he went he contrived to get himself em- broiled and to do things that made men put a price upon his head. He even became a strike- breaker. Probably there is nothing in Lucky's 139 ml a nft tr- "Ml .'4 THOSE WHO HAVE COME BACK past of which he is more ashamed than this. But the dash of adventure, the large pay and little work, with the promise of a head-cracking fight every day, appealed to him as it does to hundreds of his kind. Upon one sti ke-breaking occasion Lucky started for San Francisco as one of Farley's lieutenants, but he arrived there in chains, guarded by sixteen deputies armed with Win- chesters, who gave out that he was one of the most desperate criminals ever brought into that city. Just what Lucky had attempted en route ought not to be set down very broadly here, but it w as one of the most desperate enter- prises of his life. As usual, however, his lucky star was twinkling brightly and he went free. After a time he drifted back to the Bowery and to his old tricks. But the years were pass- ing. Twenty-five years is a long time in the criminal world. Lucky's enterprises began to miss fire. His "work" grew coarser. His cunning limped. He fought as bravely as of yore, but he was beaten oftener. He grew crabbed and morose. His pals, the policemen 140 RETURN OF "LUCKY BALDWIN" on the beats, the very women on the street be- gan to whisper that old Father Tune was get- ting the "hook" for Lucky. Father Time at thirty-seven I It was not Father Time. It was Uncle John Barleycorn. One night Lucky "stuck a man up" and took thirty-five dollars from him. It was his last trick. In forty-eight hours he was broke again. The pangs of a terrible thirst were gnawing him. He did not walk but prowled along the Bowery like an emaciated cat on an alley fence. He was sore in his heart. His professional pride was hurt. It was Thanks- giving Day, 1908, but Lucky saw no particular reason for thanksgiving. He had a feeling that this was an ungrateful world. But presently he spied a "prospect." This perked him up. However, he abandoned all finesse in his approach. Lucky wanted a drink very badly. The man stood with his hands in his pockets. "I thought he might have his mit on his wad, you see," he explains, "so I grabs his elbow and jerks his fist out of his pocket." 141 H iili \ u THOSE WHO HAVE COME BACK A shower of small coins clinked upon the pavement; but a "harness bull" who had evidently been trailing Lucky dashed up. At his appearance the victim took to his heels. He had some reason for not wishing to meet the police. As for Lucky, he ducked the wrong way and was caught. But he made no resistance. His fighting spirit was gone. However, instead of making an arrest, the officer delivered two stinging blows of his club upon Lucky 's back and said: "Now, Lucky, you keep off my beat. I know what you done the other night, and the next time I find you on my walk, I'm going to give you the collar. You ain't a thief any more, you're only a dirty bum. Now beat it." With this he gave Lucky a final clip with the club that jarred every bone in his body. It was a very dejected, unluck-appearing Lucky, who slunk on down the street, rubbing his sore spots as he went, while a flood of mis- givings welled up into his mind. He was penniless. His strength, and for the time being, his nerve, were gone. He stood, shud- 142 RETURN OF "LUCKY BALDWIN" dering, shivering, helpless. The policeman was right. He was a bum. He could no longer hold up his head like a self-respecting thief. Up to that hour he had never doubted himself. Now he admitted something was queer. He had played the game wrong some- where, but for the life of him could not see where nor how. He tried to think, to devise a new "game," but could not. His mind, as usual, was muddled by alcohol. And yet, if Lucky had been gifted with clairvoyance, he would have known that the biggest trick he had ever pulled off in all his life was coming right up the Bowery to meet him; but he had no such gift and he did not divine what was impending. He only stopped rubbing the sore spot on his back with his right hand, and began to curry it gently with his left. It got easier and he leaned against a lamp-post; but the cop must have cracked him on the shoulder blade also, for he flinched at the weight of his body on the iron and straightened up quickly. Perhaps this was as well, for it put him on the alert. 143 ; f ml m THOSE WHO HAVE COME BACK And his fate was really coming up the street, coming in the guise of a man who offered Lucky a ticket to the Jerry McAuley Mission on Water Street. Lucl^ accepted the ticket as in his state he would have ac- cepted a bone offered him by a dog, but all the while considered kicking the man on the shins and gomg through him to see what be- sides rescue mission tickets might be in his pockets. But in the meantime he heard with amazement that by presenting the ticket, he could get a cup of coffee and a sandwich. He abandoned his shin-kicking project and manoevered unmediately but circuitously after the thief's habit in the direction of the mission, entered and furtively claimed his boon. Two bites of the sandwich were enough, but he gulped the coffee. He heard a Gospel meet- ing announced for the night, and came back, perhaps hoping for more coffee. He sat through a large part of this meeting in a kind of bestial slumber, but with oc- casional lucid intervals when he stared about stupidly, heard the testimonies that men 144 RETURN OF "LUCKY BALDWIN" around him were giving, and got some glim- mering idea of the picture of a clean life that was being painted. To be prepared for what follows, it must be borne in mind that Alias Lucky Baldwin was a man of decision of character, and all his life had been. Within thirteen seconds after he decided to do a thing that thing was usually either done or doing. Action followed swiftly upon the heels of resolution, whether the thing resolved was the stealing of a keg of beer or the slugging of a policeman. Now, as he listened in his maudlin way, some sense of what was happening and what it all meant got through Lucky's ridged and knotted skull. He weighed it all swiftly against his own "game" and concluded that the new scheme was better. The leader of the meeting was deaf, and was wearing a thing like a telephone receiver upon his head. ^ "Tell dat guy to telephone to Gowd dat I'm a comin*," Lucky called out, as he rose and went lurching up the aisle. He sank on his knees with a row of supplicants, and was soon 145 :i^l -1 ■/im\ THOSE WHO HAVE COME BACK asleep, so that when Mr. Wybum, the super- intendent of the mission, who himself had been reclaimed from dnmkenness upon that floor, came to him, he had to be wakened. As Mr. Wybum, kneeling before the poor wretch, told the story of the sufferings of the One who went to the Cross, and that it was all for him. Lucky felt himself strangely moved. A great lump came into his throat. He swallowed at it in vain. Something scalding hot was washing down his cheeks and splashing on the stained bottom of the chair. Lucky gazed at these drops in surprise for a moment without recognizing them. They were tears, his tears, the first he had shed since boyhood. "Now pray the publican's prayer, brother," advised Mr. Wybum, gently. To his surprise the drunkard rose up hotly, his face like a red and angry sun. "I ain't no Republican," he declared with a look of loathing; then added, proudly, "I'm a Dem - crat." This revealed two things, the man's de- 146 I I. RETURN OF "LUCKY BALDWIN" plorable ignorance and his admirable loyalty. Lucky was an adherent of the Tammany or- ganization. Here was a subject upon which he had convictions. He would not have prayed a Republican prayer to get himself out of the lowest hell. Yet Lucky did pray that night, and then got up and rocked out into the street. The missioners had given him a bed ticket but he was afraid to go to bed. He walked the streets all night and his feelings were the strangest that had ever come to him. He thought of his wasted life, caught a vision of its awfulness and terrible remorses over- whelmed him while he dreamed at times of getting some honest work to do among Chris- tian people. The idea of turning back after his new resolutions there in the mission, never once occurred to him. Lucky was not a quit- ter. He had played one string out to the end. Now he was entering upon another. He tried to think out a new future for himself but had great difficulty in thinkhig at all. At the least excitement, his brain became obscured by 147 !:if THOSE WHO HAVE COME BACK r an alcoholic cloud. His tissues were so sod- den with spirits that, as he says, *'If I just took a drink of seltzer and jumped around a bit I was jagged.** The next night Lucky was back at the mis- sion in a condition that inspired hope. For a week faith and loyalty grew. And then an incident put both to the test. On the Bowery he came face to face with Jim Hall, a well- known gang-leader and an old time rival. Hall was quick to note a change in Lucky's appearance. "What's de matter wit you. Lucky?" he de- manded with an oath. "I am a Christian, now," replied Lucky, martialling his features into a smile. "A what? A Christer?** sneered Hall. This tone angered Lucky, whose unchained temper was to trouble him for months to come, but here was a chance to tell the story and prove his loyalty to that strange new some- thing which had come into his life. Hall was a hard subject, but not more hopeless than Lucky himself had been, so the queer neophyte 148 RETURN OF "LUCKY BALDWIN" faced his opportunity bravely, opening with: •'It's real, Jim; it's reaiy And again he manceuvered that lugubrious, swollen-lipped smile. "It's a fake and you and all of 'em is fa- kers," af&rmed Hall, supporting his statement with oaths which may not even be indicated here by dashes. Words suddenly failed Lucky. He had in- stant recourse to the only arguments in which he placed entire dependence. "It's the Gawd's truth," he roared, shooting in a short arm jab to the ribs that made Jim grunt. "It's a lie, I tell you, an' you're a liar," hissed Jim, between clenched teeth, as he struck back. In a fraction of time the two men were roll- ing in the gutter, clawing, striking and kick- ing. Lucky, as he could get breath, continued to blurt out fragments of his experience, and to expound the principles of the Gospel of sal- vation as he had grasped it. Never was the story of the Cross told more earnestly, and probably never under stranger conditions. 149 4it i! THOSE WHO HAVE COME BACK "Will you believe?" gasped Lucky, after a time, as he held Jim's head in chancery. "Xo," groaned Jim, gritting his teeth, "and no coffee and sandwich pew-warmer like you can make me believe, either." "Will you?" Lucky questioned, at another stage of his discourse, while he squeezed Jim's throat till his face was purple. "No," wheezed Jim, as he broke the hold upon his throat, "No, blame you, I won't." But Jim was growing weaker. Lucky re- doubled his efforts. "Now, will you?" he de- manded as he slipped over a most eloquent punch to the point of Jim's jaw. "Will you believe?'* And again Jim's head rocked against the curb. "Yes," Jim gulped, suUenly, "I believe." And this was Lucky's first convert. He does not know whether Jim "stuck," or not. He told me in Chicago with a dry smile, that he feared not. "Gee, but my work was raw," he murmured, regretfully, blaming himself, and then added cheerfully, "But, I was doin' 150 i-m RETURN OF LUCKY BAiJ)VVIN t» the best I knew. No guy could beat nie to it on tellin' the story." No one should accuse this man of sacrilege. Instead he should have credit for zeal and loy- alty. He was only six days from being a criminal Bowery bum. A few days later when he first stood up in the Mission to give an extended testimony, and tiirned 'o exhort the fringe of huiian wrecks aliout him, a stream of profanity gushed i'rom his lips. The good mission-folk knew that tins was un- intentional on Lucky's part. He was so ig- norant that he did not know it was profanity. To him it was only the language of strong emotion. Mr. T. S. Clay, a Wall Street merchant, who spends much of his spare time at the mis- sion, was attracted to the man and saw that he needed friending. He made himself own brother to the outcast. For days on end he had him take both luncheon and dinner with him. Lucky was like some jungle-man, vora- cious and unmannered. Despite his service as a waiter, now some twenty years behind 151 ^^! -a 'i THOSE WHO HAVE COME BACK him, Mr. Clay had to teach Lucky again the use of napkins, and the proper limitations upon knives, forks and fingers. He foimd Lucky "with the worst temper a man ever had.*' By turns he was humhle and contrite, conceited and arrogant. When the man was far enough along to go to work, Mr. Clay gave him "a new front, new lid and new kicks." Great was Lucky's disgust to find he had "a woman for a boss" in the garment factory where he found his first job. At the only order she ever gave him, he looked her over in angry scorn and exploded: "Say, Slim! Beat it, or I'll drop you out de window like a spool o* t'read." The fore-lady fled in terror, and from a safe distance "fired" Lucky high and wide. WhcT* his rage had subsided, the jungle- man blamed his temper sorely, and in deep contrition suffered the two weeks' idleness which intervened before he found his next em- plo5nnent, which was as a helper in Bellevue Hospital. There he toiled indomitable and 152 T V. 