# Episodes Before Thirty/Chapter 24

CHAPTER XXIV
Boyde came up with the first batch of prisoners. The portentous shadow of the Tombs prison, with its forbidding architecture, hung over the whole scene.
My first sight of him was sitting among the rows of prisoners, waiting to be called. He looked ill and broken, he made a pleading sign to me. As a reporter I had the right to interview anybody and everybody, and I made my way along the serried wooden benches. Lawler sat next him, looking very pleased to have secured his prisoner, and a good story into the bargain, without any trouble to himself; but when I tried to shake hands with Boyde, I found to my horror that he was handcuffed.
"Say, boss, be sure and git me name spelled right, and tell the reporters that I effected the arrest," was the first thing that Lawler said, using the phrase the detectives always used.
By promising the man all he wanted and more besides, I managed to get us all three into a corner where we could talk without everybody else hearing; also I got the handcuffs taken off, for they were quite unnecessary inside the building. The first thing Boyde said was to beg for a drink; he had taken a lot the night before, his throat was parched, his nerves were bad. At the moment this was quite impossible, but I got one for him in the reporters' room after his case had been called. The second thing he said was to beg me to "keep it out of the papers," though this, of course, lay quite beyond my powers. Apart from this he said very little except to repeat and repeat that he was repentant, and to beg me to withdraw the charge, though this was now impossible, the matter being out of my hands. Also, he wondered what the sentence would be—he meant to plead guilty—and implored me to leave out the forgery. He was very badly frightened. ​ That early morning hour in the stinking atmosphere of the over-heated police court was too ghastly ever to be forgotten, but there were particular moments when pain and pity, to say nothing of other strangely mixed emotions, stabbed me with peculiar ferocity. When the reporters flocked round him like vultures after prey was one of these; another was when Boyde stood in front of the Tammany magistrate, Ryan by name, and pleaded guilty. A mistake, though not actually wrong, had crept into the charge sheet. In my excitement of the night before the amount stolen had been entered as $32, and though this was the truth, I had meant to make it only $25. I was unintentionally to blame for this--it was now Grand Larceny instead of Petit Larceny. A magistrate could only deal with the lesser offence, and Boyde therefore was held for trial in General Sessions, instead of being sentenced then and there. The look he gave me as Ryan spoke the words was like a knife. He believed I had done this purposely. A third unforgettable moment was when he was being roughly pushed downstairs on his way to a cell in the Tombs: he looked back forlornly over his shoulder at me.
In the reporters' room it was decided to print the "Boyde story." I knew all the men; Acton Davies was there for the Evening Sun, specially sent down by McCloy. The reporters dragged and tore at me. I realized what "interviewed" victims felt when they wished to hide everything away inside themselves. Yet the facts had to be told; it was best I should give them accurately, if as briefly, as leniently, as possible. The sight of all those vultures (of whom, incidentally, I was one) scribbling down busily the details of my intimate life with Boyde, to be hawked later in the streets as news, was likewise a picture not easily forgotten.
Before the ordeal was over, Lawler returned from the cell. He insisted, with a wink at me, that he had made the arrest; the credit of the chase he also claimed; he had, too, additional facts about Boyde's past criminal career of which I was quite ignorant, supplied by records at headquarters. Lawler intended to get all the advertise​ ment for himself he could. I let his lying pass. On the whole it seemed best to let him be responsible for the arrest; it made the story more commonplace, and, luckily, so far, I had not described this scene.
An hour later I was talking with Boyde between the bars of his cell in the Tombs prison, while, two hours later, every evening paper in New York had a column or a column and a half about us printed on its front page. There were scare headlines of atrocious sort. There were posters, too, showing our names in big letters. News that day happened to be scarce, and the Boyde story was "good stuff" apparently. The talk with him in the cell was one of many; he was there six weeks before the trial came on.
The papers finished him; the case was too notorious for him ever to swindle again unless he changed his name. They scarified him, they left out no detail, they hunted up a thousand new ones, he had "cut a wide swath" (sic) all over New York State, as one of them printed. I had not mentioned Pauline M---- or the pastor's daughter, yet both were included. To see my own name in print for the first time, the names of my parents, and of half the peerage as well, was bad enough; to find myself classed with bad company generally, with crooks and rogues, with shady actresses, with criminals, was decidedly unpleasant. Paragraphs my brother wrote to me appeared in London papers too. Copies of the New York ones were sent to my father. "Too foxy for Algernon" was a headline he read out to my brother in his library. Boyde had even written to him, signing himself "your cousin," to ask for money for "your poor son," but had received no reply. There is no need now to mention names, but any distinguished connexion either of us possessed appeared in the headlines or the article itself. "Nephew of an earl held in $1,000 bail," "Cousin of Lord X," "Scion of British Aristocracy a Sneak-thief," were some of the descriptions. "Son of a duchess in the Soup," was another. The Staatszeitung had a phrase which threw a momentary light on an aspect of lower life in the city, when Freytag, the German reporter who had taught me ​how to write a court story, described me as "Sohn einer sogennanten Herzogin." He only laughed when I spoke to him about it. "How should I know," he said sceptically....
Boyde came up in due course before Recorder Smythe in general sessions, the most severe and most dreaded of all the judges. He still wore my thick suit, he wore also a pair of Harding Davis's boots, and, I believe, something else of Sothern's. His sentence was two years in the Penitentiary on Blackwell Island. A group of other people he had swindled, including "Artist Palmer," were in court; so was an assistant of Ikey's, with all our pawned articles. Every single thing, whether stolen goods or not, was returned to me. The doctor and Kay were also there. Some of his letters are a human document:
   Tombs, December, 1892.
   Oh, Blackwood, what black treachery I returned you for your many kindnesses, base lying for all your straightforward dealing with me! You freely forgave me what ninety-nine men out of every hundred would, if not imprisoned me for, certainly never have forgiven me. I returned evil for good, and you still bore with me. You said--I shall never forget it, for it was when you found the stamp torn off your letter--and even at that moment I had money in my pocket belonging to you, just as I had when you shared your last 50 cent. piece that night at Krisches, for I must say this, though I could tear myself to pieces when I think of it--You said, 'B. how you must hate me!'
   No, Blackwood, it seems a paradox, but I could not hate you if I tried to. I don't say this because I am in prison, or with any desire to flatter. I am sincere in everything I say and it comes from my heart. You have every reason to think from my former actions that I am not sincere above reward, but I am.
   Oh, the old, but nevertheless true remark, TOO LATE! It comes home to me with striking and horrible vividness. Too Late! I have forfeited the respect of every good and honest man, have disgraced my English name and my family. But, let me go. Five years of service will be the best thing for me. I can enlist under another name and may perhaps get a commission in time. Give me the chance of redeeming myself, please. If ever any man was sincerely repentant for the past I am that
   man.
   Arthur B.
   Please excuse mistakes and alterations. I am so fearfully shaky.
   The Tombs City Prison,, Centre Street, N. Y.
   Please read through before destroying it.
   I have begged another sheet of paper and stamp in order to make one final appeal.
   Will you not come down again on receipt of this? Please do, for God's sake. No visitors are allowed on New Year's Day, or on Sunday. New Year's Day! What a new year's day for me! Let me begin it afresh. I have a favour to ask you which I must ask you verbally; I cannot put it on paper. It is getting dark; so once more I ask you, I implore you, to have mercy on me for my mother's sake. For her sake spare
   Arthur B.
   Visiting hours 10-2. I am speaking the truth and nothing but the truth when I say that I am sincerely sorry for all that I have done and implore your pardon. This is not an insincere expression, but one from my heart. Come down again, please, even to speak to me, for you don't know the mental agony I
   am suffering.
   A. B.
   Tombs City Prison,, New Year's Day.
   It was more than kind of you to come all the way down here and then after all not be able to see me; not much loss to you, it is true, but a bitter disappointment to me. Palmer came down and talked very kindly to me and instilled a little hope in me. But this is a wretched New Year's Day.
   I was talking to an old convict this morning, a man who in his life has been about sixteen years in jail, and he said that if he had only been let off in the first instance with a few days in here, he would have been a different man to-day, but after serving one term he became reckless and has now become a notorious thief. As I said to you, think of me after 20 years' penal servitude.
   Blackwood, won't you and Palmer stay your hands once more? I will leave the country, and if ever I should return you could always have me arrested. I will never trouble you again. Let me make a fresh start once more.
   Should you decide not to press the charge you can go to the District Attorney's Office and inform them of the fact.
   I once more implore you and Palmer to have pity on me, and please come and see me! May I wish you and Palmer a bright and happy New Year, brighter and happier than the past
   one.
   Arthur B.
   Many thanks for the paper and envelopes. Bless you!
   The Tombs.
   Very many thanks for your visit yesterday. It is the only pleasure I have. I believe what you say is true--that I am reaping the result of evil done in the past and that only the real way to atone is to meet it squarely and accept my punishment without grumbling. If Karma is true, it is just, and I shall get what I deserve, and not an iota more.
   I cannot tell you how grateful I am to you for being so lenient to me and even writing to the District Attorney on my behalf. I am truly grateful, Blackwood. Please do not think I am not sorry for what I have done, or that I am not really penitent, for I am indeed.
   It was bitterly cold last night and I was awfully glad to have my overcoat, and blessed you for sending it. I know you got it out of pawn for me, and that is another kindness.
   Again, for the last time probably, I thank you for your many acts of kindness. I bitterly regret and earnestly repent for the manner I treated you, returning evil for good, and I shall think much of you when serving my time under a blazing sun
   or in my cramped and chilly cell.
   Arthur B.
   Tombs Prison.
   I have just been to the Court House and pleaded guilty. My sentence is remanded till Friday week. If I could only get that lawyer I might get the sentence reduced a little. But Judge Smythe is a very hard man. My small hopes were dashed away on hearing that you had been subpœnaed to go before the Grand Jury this morning.
   Now all hope is gone; only blank, blank despair; no hope, all is dark. I wish I could die--much rather that than suffer this awful remorse. Do you know I sometimes think I am going mad? When I come out I shall be too old for the army, and what else can a felon, a criminal, a convict do? Is crime the only refuge? Shall I sink lower and lower? Will what small sense of decency and honour I have left be utterly destroyed and made callous by propinquity with other criminals?
   What a frightful nightmare to conjure up! Nightmare? No, it is only too true; it is stern, inexorable reality. Thank you for sending the clothes. I had no change before. Bless
   you!
   A. B.
   Tombs City Prison.
   What follows I wish to write voluntarily. It is a Confession and relieves me--
   I certainly wish to convey to you the fact of my sincere and deep sorrow for the shameful manner I treated you and abused your confidence and kindness. I fear that one of my letters ​cannot have reached you, as I am sure I wrote at length on this subject. You mistake and misjudge me when you think it is only fear that prompts me to write as I do. My eyes are opened to the enormity of my past crimes, opened by thinking and seeing things in the proper light. I have been alone with my thought for days now, and God knows how many more days will pass over my head before I again face the world. It will relieve me to give you a full confession of my treachery, for I believe there is no real repentance without real confession.
   To begin with the editor. I never had a chance of the position at Rockaway, although the editor once said casually that he would try and find me some similar position. I lied to you all through in that, for I wished you to think I had prospects of paying work in view. When you used to come down with me to Franklin Street (Harper's) I waited about upstairs and looked at books, etc., and then came down and concocted some lies about what I had said and done. I once borrowed $15 from him (Richard Harding Davis, Editor "Harper's Weekly") and said they were for you. My dealings with Sothern were that he from time to time lent me money, some $50 in all, and gave me a position at ten dollars a week. I told him when borrowing that the money was for your doctor, and when borrowing more I said you had wasted it in drink. I asked him to cash several of the cheques I forged, but he would never do this. I was paid up in full by the manager and also for the extra performances of the "Disreputable Mr. Reagen." I little thought when I was playing Merivale's part that I should act it true to life. With Mr. Beattie I lied all through. He never had any money of mine or knew my mother or ever heard from her. He never bailed me out, and I never used to see him as I said I did. You and Palmer thought that I spent some time in jail this summer, but I would rather not say anything in writing about that. My dealings with Palmer were that I borrowed money from him and said it was for you. I also went to your banker acquaintance and borrowed twenty-five dollars for a specialist, saying it was at your request. I did pawn the overcoat you gave me to post to Kay, and that time you forgave me for stealing your money I had in my pocket the proceeds of three stories of yours I had given the Sun, and they had paid for. But, even in the face of your forgiveness, I wanted this money so much for my indulgences that I could not face the privation of handing it over to you. I lied in the face of your kindness and generosity, and when you even needed food I was going about drinking and womanizing and spending freely. When my funds were exhausted I came back to you, for I knew you would always forgive me. It is awful. No wonder you want to see me go to prison. I am as wicked a man as ever lived, I believe. I wonder what caused me to tell such lies. Am I a natural born liar? It ​seems like it. You wrong me in one thing--in thinking my sorrow is sham and prompted by fear and the hope of getting off. I cannot find words to express my contrition. Believe me, I would do anything in my power, and will do, when my term is up, to make reparation. I submit to the inevitable. I can imagine something now of what you must have suffered when I left you alone without food or money those four days and nights. I think, however, the worst thing I did was telling the pastor's daughter that you tried to prevent our meeting because you wished me to marry one of your sisters, though I do not know, of course, whether you have any even. That, and the taking the stamps off your letters so that I could get beer, seem to weigh most heavily with me now in my darkness and loneliness. I do not know what my sentence will be--heavy, I suspect, unless I can get someone to plead for me, and I have not a single solitary friend to do that. I am utterly alone. I have been in this cell now twenty-one days, and have a week more before sentence is given. It seems like six months. No one can realize what prison is like till they have tried it.
   Believe me, I am deeply and truly sorry. I speak from my heart. Think of me as kindly as you can when I am in the Penitentiary. I hope I shall see you once more.
   Arthur B.
I saw Boyde twice in my life afterwards; I heard, indirectly, from him once: the prison chaplain wrote to ask for "his things" which, Boyde told him, I "insisted upon keeping." He never had any "things" at all while I knew him; the letter was indignant and offensive. Boyde had evidently "told a tale" to the chaplain.
The first time I saw him was some eighteen months after he had been sent up, good behaviour evidently having shortened his term. I was walking up Irving Place and saw him suddenly about fifty yards in front of me. It was my own thick suit I recognized first, then its wearer. I instinctively called out his name. He turned, looked at me, hurried on, and went round the corner into 21st Street. Once round the corner, he must have run like a hare, for when I entered the street too, he had disappeared.
The second, and last, time I saw him was in London ten years later--at a bookstall in Charing Cross station. He saw me, however, first, or before I could come close enough to speak, and he melted away into the crowd with ​swift and accomplished ease. I was near enough, though, to note that he had grown his heavy moustache again, still wore his eyeglass, and was smartly, even prosperously, dressed. He looked very little older. From Lynwood Palmer, whom I met soon afterwards in Piccadilly, I heard that my old employer, the Horse, had seen him at Tattersalls not long before, and that he, Boyde, had come and begged Palmer not to give him away as he was "after some Jews only"! Artist Palmer took no action.