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T was not until the steamer Alberta,
bound for New York from Havana was
opposite Norfolk that I noticed him.
As I looked up from my book he ap-
proached me. Suddenly he seemed uncon
sciously to change his gait. He had been
walking along with the easy, swinging stride
of one who has spent his life in the open, and
the sudden change to a stiff, mechanical gait
puzzled me extremely. Raising his eyes from
the deck he encountered my curious look. In
stantly his face flushed, his eyes became steely
hard, and his stride became natural again as
he passed on.
The more I thought over the matter the more
puzzled I became. Somewhere in the half-ob
scured past I had seen men march in that par
ticular manner, but just where, and under
what circumstances, I could not remember. It
was not a military step, of that I was positive.
Suddenly it came to me with a rush. Many
years before, I had visited Joliet prison and
had seen the prisoners march across the prison
yard. My fellow-passenger had unconsciously
dropped into the lock-step while promenading
the deck. Without a doubt, this man had
served a sentence in some penitentiary. With
new interest I watched him as he continued
his promenade. Apparently he concluded that
I had discovered his secret, as he watched me
closely out of the corner of his eye every time
he passed. He was a well-set-up man of about
forty, his clean-shaven face had a kindly look
and bore no marks of dissipation. He appear
ed to be in good circumstances —a Cuban sug
ar planter, I concluded.
As I watched him, I found myself wonder
ing how he had come to get himself crosswise
with the law. “ Probably some rash deed com
mitted in his youth,” I said to myself. He
certainly did not have the look of a criminal.
Noting my continued interest in his move
ments, he crossed over to the other side of
the ship and continued his walk. On his face
was a look of deep humiliation and shame.
“Surely,” I thought, “it cannot be possible
that this man is an escaped convict, and has
unconsciously betrayed his secret to me. He
seems more ashamed than afraid.
That evening as I was smoking my after
dinner cigar and watching the twinkling lights
of a passing steamer, he came up, and, taking
the vacant chair beside me, asked me in a
courteous manner for a match. I accommo
dated him, remarking at the same time on the
beauty of the night. He introduced himself
as W. G. Ashburn, and seemed eager for con
versation. I, in turn, gave him my name. He
seemed anxious to know all about me —my
occupation, where I lived, and places I had
visited. I answered him frankly, at the same
time avoiding asking him any personal ques
tions which might prove embarrassing.
He, however, did not seem at all averse to
discussing his affairs, and informed me —my
surmise of the afternoon was correct I—that 1 —that
he was a sugar planter, and had resided in
Cuba six years. Trenton was his home, he in
formed me, and this was his first visit since
his migration. My thoughtless remark that
bis relatives would be glad to see him seemed
to cast a gloom over him, and he became silent.
After a moment, however, he answered that
he was afraid there were not many who would
be interested in his return.
During our conversation I tried to be as sym
pathetic as possible, and that he appreciated
OUT OF THE DEPTHS
By CHARLES T. SWEET.
it was evident from his talk. He seemed to
conclude that if I had divined his secret I was
too broad-minded to allow it to prejudice me.
After some further talk on commplace sub
jects, we retired for the night.
********
The following morning I was seated under
the canvas awning when Mr. Ashburn joined
me. As we were exchanging the usual morn
ing greeting an officer came by and informed
us that we would sight the Statue of Liberty
soon, and would probably disembark about
noon. The information seemed to excite Mr.
Ashburn greatly. Rising abruptly, he went
forward, remarking that he was going to see
if he could get a glimpse of shore. A few min
utes later he returned, and sat apparently
wrapt in thought for several moments. Sud
denly he startled me with the question:
“Mr. Bell, do you think ft possible for a
man who has wrecked his life in his youth,
and estranged all who are near and dear to
him, to so rebuild his character as to regain
their love and respect?”
As he spoke I looked at him. His face was
tense; his lips set firm together; his eyes look
ed into mine appealingly.
“Why certainly.” I replied. “However low
a man falls it is possible for him to get a grip
on himself, and out of the wreck build a new
character, and become a credit to his com
munity. ’ ’
“I am glad to hear you say so,” he replied.
“Yesterday I unconsciously dropped into the
lock-step—after five years practice it’s hard
to shake off —and I saw you noticed ft.”
“Yes,” I said, “I happened to notice it,
but I am sure that whatever was responsible
for your downfall you have rehabilitated
yourself. ”
“Thanks,” he said, simply. Then, after a
moment:
“Today marks a crisis in my life, and as
you have been so sympathetic I would like to
tell you of the tragedy that brought me to the
lock-step. Probably, after hearing my story,
you could advise me.”
“Anything I can do or say to help you, you
may be sure I will,” I answered.
“I was born in Trenton, New Jersey, thirty
nine years ago,” he began. “I had the ad
vantage of a good education, and when T left
school I entered a railway office as clerk. My
associates were mainly young men employed
in the same office; and while we were not
particularly vicious, we set a lively pace.
.‘B.T—
--“By the time I was twenty-one I was mar
ried to a pretty girl of eighteen, and then, it
seems, my troubles began. The fault was
wholly mine, as I soon tired of domestic life
and returned to my bachelor associates, and
the life I had been living prior to my mar
riage. My wife stood the neglect as long as
she could, but one night I came in unusually
drunk and she began to upbraid me for my
conduct. Inflamed by whiskey I flew into a
terrible passion and —and struck her!” His
face flushed a deep crimson. “That same
night she left me.
“Well, after that —but it’s the same old
story —I tried to drown my troubles in drink,
and gradually went down and down until one
night I got drunk in a disreputable house and
—a woman was responsible for it —I shot a
man! I was tried and convicted, and — I did
not kill the man —the judge sentenced me to
The Golden Age for May 1, 1913
five years in the penitentiary.” He paused,
and gazed landward. “We should be sighting
the old girl by now,” he said.
“To one who has been away as long as you
have the Statue will, no doubt, be a welcome
sight,” I replied softly, my mind occupied with
what he had been relating. He was silent a
moment, then continued:
“I’ll not weary you with details of the tor
tures I suffered when I sobered, and came to
realize what a wreck I had made of my life.
I could not bear to think of my wife and lit
tle girl—a baby had been born since my ar
rest —and what my conviction meant to them.
My wife was living with her widowed mother,
and I had every reason to believe that she
was through with me. I knew, in fact, that
my convict stripes gave her her freedom.”
“Did she come to see you after your arrest?”
I inquired.
‘‘ Once—the day after, ”he answered. ‘‘ And
do you know what I did? Embruted by the
whiskey not yet dead in me, and my inflamed
evil passions, I cursed her! Yes, I accused her
of being the author of my woes by leaving me,
and called her every vile epithet my tongue
could command. The warden slapped me in
the mouth and led her away, and I have never
seen her since.”
“You certainly were a brute,” I exclaimed.
“God, man! If you could only know how
I have repented the madness that led me to
do as I did.”
“And your baby,” I inquired, “have you
never seen her?”
“Never,” he answered sadly. “But let me
tell you the rest; it’s soon told. Five years’
confinement affords ample time for reflection
over one’s misdeeds, and while the punish
ment was terrible, yet it was a blessing in dis
guise. It removed me beyond the temptation
of intoxicants, and as I looked upon the wreck
I had made of my life I made the firm resolve
that when I regained my liberty drink would
never bring me to that place again;
“During the time I was in prison no one
ever came to see me, and if anyone showed
the slightest interest in my existence I never
became aware of it, and the morning the war
den called me to his office, gave me a cheap
suit of clothes and five dollars, shook hands
with me and told me that I was a free man,
I walked out into the road with no plans for
the future, and believing that I had not a
single friend in the world.
“I was mistaken, however, for the good God
who watches over poor, erring moitals sent
an angel in the guise of a silver-haired woman
who met me at the gate and asked me if I had
no friend or relative to welcome me back to
the world to which I had been so long a stran
ger. Upon my replying in the negative, she
took me to her home and I told her Os the
life I had lived and the crime to which it
had led.
“Instead of showing me the door as I ex
pected, this good woman placed her hands on
my shoulder and told me of God’s abounding
love for me, and expressed her confidence in
my ability to rebuild my life, offering to do
all in her power to help me, providing I would
make a firm resolve to do it. Then and there,
I determined to lead a life which would be
acceptable in the eyes of God and man.
(Continued on page 16.)
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