P PEDRO EDRO had the soul of a poet and the habits of a sybarite. His eyes were large, dark and languorous. His skin was olive, his features regular, his figure perfect. He dressed in excellent taste and simulated the air and manner of a young man of wealth and leisure. He was 26 years of age when I met him in my office eight years ago. "I live in Los Angeles, Mr. Older," Pedro began. "On the train coming north, I met a young man who is a very dear friend of mine. He was in great trouble, and wholly trusting me, he told me his story. Two years ago he forged a check, for a small sum, was caught, tried, convicted and sentenced to five years in the Colorado pentitentiary. His conduct in prison was excellent. His youth and good behavior appealed to the kindly warden, who paroled him after he had served one year of his sentence. He was allowed to return to Los Angeles, where his father and mother lived. They did not know he had been in prison, and he determined they never should know. He got a job in a laundry and was earning $75 a month. In a short time, a deputy sheriff in Los Angeles who knew he had been in prison and was out on parole called on him and threatened him with exposure if he didn't give him $60. My friend paid the money. A month later the deputy sheriff made another demand for money. This he also met, although he had to borrow a part of the sum. "The deputy sheriff waited a month or two and made another demand for money. This time he wanted $90. My friend did not have it and could not borrow it. He was desperate, and fearing immediate exposure, he passed a forged check and paid the man what he asked. Feeling this new crime would soon be discovered, my friend bought a bottle of poison, removed all identification marks from his clothing and took the train for San Francisco. Arriving here he intended to commit suicide. His body would not be recognized. It would be buried in an unknown grave, and his parents would never know what had become of him. On the train he read a chapter of Donald Lowrie's story, 'My Life in Prison.' Believing that the editor who was publishing Lowrie's story might be sympathetic with him, he decided to call on him and tell him his story." "I am sympathetic," I said, "and will help him. Where is your friend?" "It is my story," said Pedro. I called in Lowrie. I wanted him to hear the tale and pass his expert judgment on it. Pedro told his story over again to Lowrie. Lowrie believed it and confirmed me in my judgment that I should go at once to Los Angeles with Pedro, expose the deputy sheriff, pay the man who had cashed the forged check, reinstate Pe dro in his job, and give him a chance to make good. Pedro agreed to go with me on the Lark that evening. He had only $8 in money. I told him he could pay for his berth with $5 and I would provide the railroad tickets. We were to meet at the station in time for the Lark. Meanwhile, Lowrie took Pedro over to the Argonaut Hotel and got him a room so that he could change his clothes. He had a long talk with Pedro and was further convinced that he was telling the truth. He took the bottle of poison away from Pedro and brought it to my office. The train for Los Angeles left at 8 o'clock. I arrived there at a little before 8. I saw Pedro walking up and down the waiting room, immaculately dressed, his hands gloved. He was carrying a very large and very beautiful bouquet of roses. I was staggered, but I had said goodby to Mrs. Older, and had also confided my errand to my friends, and I still hoped in spite of the bouquet of roses and the gloved hands, that his story might stand up. "I have your ticket, Pedro. Come with me and buy your berth," I said. "I am sorry," he said, "but I have spent the eight dollars that I had this afternoon. I needed a new pair of gloves, and I am very fond of roses, and I couldn't resist this bouquet." Still I didn't weaken. I bought his Pullman, and we went to Los Angeles together. Arriving there in the morning, I sent Pedro to the law office of a friend of mine and instructed him to remain there until he heard from me. I would go first and settle with the manager of the taxicab stand at the Alexandria Hotel, who had cashed the bogus check. I called at the hotel and introduced myself to the taxicab man. I told him I had come from San Francisco to straighten out the Pedro transaction. He stared at me as if he thought I were mildly insane. "What do you mean by straightening it out?" he asked. "I mean," I replied, "I am ready to pay the $90 Pedro owes you. You probably know the boy was hard pressed for money." "Hard pressed, hell," he said. "He's a crazy fool. He hired an automobile from me, with a driver, at $30 a day. He drove around in it for two days." "Where did he go?" I asked. "Oh, nowhere in particular. Down to Santa Monica and back and then around town, showing off. He owed me $60 for the machine for two days. He gave me a check for $90 and I, thinking he was the son of a rich man, out for a time, accepted the check and gave him $30 change." "Did he seem to have been drinking?" I asked. "No; he showed no signs of liquor. He is just a damned fool." So the taxicab man was the cruel deputy sheriff who was threatening with exposure a poor, hard working boy if he didn't pay him hush money. I was pretty weak by this time, but I took a taxicab from the hotel and drove out into the suburbs and found Pedro's brother. I asked him if he knew what his brother had done. "Yes," he said, "the poor boy flooded the town with bogus checks and skipped out." Pedro had bought the poison to be used as an effective part of the story he had planned to tell me. I rang him up at the attorney's office and told him what I had learned, and added that I could do nothing for him. I took the train home that evening feeling rather cheap. A day or two later I received a bill for $90 from the Alexandria taxicab man. He had evidently become convinced that I was insane. I have never heard from Pedro since. I suppose some prison warden has him and is solemnly at work trying to make Pedro walk straight by a form of punishment which would make a strong man stagger. W DOUGLASS HILE visiting Donald Lowrie at San Quentin, a short time before he was released, Warden Hoyle showed me some excellent verse published in one of the magazines and written by a prisoner. Douglass was the name signed to the poems. It was not the author's right name, but it is the name I shall use in this story. There was a rare poetic quality to the lines. Douglass had interpreted the sufferings of men in prison in a very dramatic way. He had caught the prison atmosphere as no other writer to my knowledge had ever done. This perhaps was more clearly shown in a poem of his the warden showed me, "The Garden of Death." It was a passionate protest against capital punishment. I give it here: THE GARDEN OF DEATH Safe bound by locking waters A fortress stands, remote and gray, The flanking walls that round it sweep Where warders grim their vigils keep With locks and bolts and bars. In old San Quentin's garden The morn is sweet with blooms; A little square in God's pure air And in a fountain's mirrored depths, Bare, mocking walls on either hand And through that glimpse of paradise Above San Quentin's garden The loophole grates look down, Where shotted cannon frown; Along a steel-bound tier, In cells of death men hold their breath For death is in the air they breathe Through old San Quentin's garden And in the prison yard beyond, Men spoke with bated breath, Of men who send God-given life O'er old San Quentin's garden And on the title page I read: "The Brotherhood of Man.” At once I became deeply interested in Douglass and asked the warden about him. "It was drink that brought him here," said the warden. "Running out of money while under its influence, he would forge a check for a small sum, pass it on a barkeeper and continue his spree. When sober he is a fine, honorable man, |