Below is the OCR text representation for this newspapers page.

9888 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.) 3