there are outside, and more, too. I can't associate with a fellow like that." So after he moved to the city he still endeavored to care for the social standing of our guests, and in this connection some interesting incidents occurred. A THE QUEERNESS OF FRITZ FTER Charley came to the city and went to work in his new position, a burglar who was living with me came to the city one Sunday for a little recreation. During the day he got to drinking, and that evening he went to Charley's room to call on him. Because he was drinking, he probably was more talkative than he would otherwise have been. He told Charley that he had just robbed a woman of the underworld of six dollars. Charley said, "Where are you going tonight?" Charley was in bed. He sat up, and said, "Don't you DARE! Don't you dare go to Older's ranch with stolen money in your pockets. You come with me." Charley leaped out of bed, dressed himself and made the burglar go with him to the woman and give back the money. Then, with a warning, he allowed the burglar to come back to our place. Ordinarily, Charley was quite sympathetic with exprisoners; that is, if they were of his class, had never been stool pigeons, and had played the game according to his code of how it should be played. He loved Lowrie, Buck English and Jack Black. There was nothing he would not do for them. Loyalty was very strong in him, and a kind of character that held him sternly to his own code of morality. The difference was that his code was not the code of ordinary men. In San Francisco he was highly regarded by everyone who knew him. Finally, Governor Johnson pardoned him and he again became a citizen and a voter. He never let it be known who he was, he kept his history secret from all his new friends. More than a year ago he located in Texas and the last I heard from him he was well and happy. During my acquaintance with Charley a number of things had vaguely disturbed my belief that men in prisons are just the same as men outside. But it was perhaps Fritz Bauer who was first to shake that belief deeply. Fritz certainly was not like normal men. He was a big, fine, well built German, about 30 years old, apparently a perfect specimen of a man. He came to my office after having been out of prison for a few days. He was hungry, not having had any food for two days, and he wanted to go to my ranch. I told him that I had no place for him there, but he was so insistent that I said I would take him down anyway and let him work on the ranch roads, that I would give him $30 a month and board, although I really had all the help that I could afford. He was very glad to go. The first month he behaved so well that Mrs. Older felt that he was a really normal human being. There did not seem to be the slightest kink in his mental makeup. I said, "We can't be sure until the first pay day. Let's see how he acts when he gets his money. On Saturday night I paid him $28. He had drawn $2 in advance. I said to Mrs. Older, "Now, we'll see if anything happens." Fritz was all right on Sunday, amused himself about the ranch. On Monday night when I came down he was acting queerly-sullen aud sulky, avoiding looking at me. I asked him what was the matter, and he said, "Nothing." The next morning he didn't come up to breakfast. I asked the ex-prisoner who usually came up with him, "Where's Fritz?" He said, tapping his forehead, "Brain storm." I went down to the farmhouse, found Fritz and asked him, "What's the matter, Fritz?" "Nothing." "Oh, yes there is. Has anyone hurt your feelings or wounded you in any way?" "No." "Well, why don't you go up to breakfast, and go on with your work as usual? Of course, if you don't want to stay, I don't want you. You're free to go; I'm not getting any advantage out of your being here. But why don't you stay and have another month's pay? Then you'll have $58, instead of $28. You know you were near starvation when I met you, and another month will put you just that much farther away from a similar situation." He would not answer. I urged him again to tell me what the matter was, if anything had happened that he didn't like. He finally said, "Well, I boiled up.” I didn't understand what he meant, and he made no further explanation. However, he stayed at the ranch, and next day was eating as usual. The following Sunday Jack Black came down to visit us, and when Fritz saw Jack, his face lighted up. He knew that Jack would understand. He said, "Jack, you know, I boiled up. You know. Don't you understand?" "Yes," said Jack. "I understand.” Later, Jack explained to me that men in prison frequently get into a state of mind where they will not talk to anyone for a week or more, and sometimes will not eat. Jack did not know what happened to them, but he knew that it was a common occurrence. Fritz stuck it out for twenty days and then quit. I brought him to the city with me and paid him. A few days later, a policeman rang me up and asked me if Fritz Bauer had ever worked at my ranch. I said, "Yes; why?" "Well, we think he stole a suit of clothes from a ship.' Fritz was a sailor and had been down to the waterfront. Being an ex-convict, of course, he had been suspected when the theft was discovered. He may have been guilty. I don't know. At any rate, I got him out of the scrape. Later he was arrested again, and I got him out again. He met Jack Black one day in front of the Bulletin office and said, "The big fellow may have to get me out again," and Jack said, "You keep this up, Fritz, and the first thing you know the big fellow will stop getting you out. Then you know what will happen. You'll get twenty years when he gives you up." Later I got Fritz a job as a sailor on a sailing vessel, and he seemed quite pleased. This seemed to be the thing he needed. Months afterward, he came up from Central America and brought us a parrot, which showed that in his muddled head and through all his boilings up, he remembered the kindness we had shown him. Later in his voyages he sent postal cards to Mrs. Older and me, always remembering us on Christmas day. I don't know what became of him. I am still puzzled as to why he acted as he did. He had a comfortable place on the ranch; he had all the chance that Charley had to save money and to make his way in the world; he certainly hated prison, and had no desire to be hungry and cold and friendless. Nor was there anything vicious about him. There seemed simply to be a flaw, something lacking, in his mind. If we only knew what it was, we might have better knowledge of how to treat men who violate the law. George was another ex-prisoner who increased my doubt of getting very far in determining why men break the penal code and seem unable to keep pace with the rest of us. An old cellmate of George's interested me in his case. He insisted that George was 100 per cent right. "I know him," he said. "I lived in the same cell with him for three years, and we never had a cross word. A loving husband and wife could hardly pass that test, locked up to |