Fools of Fortune; or, Gambling and Gamblers

by John Philip Quinn

AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF JOHN PHILIP QUINN.

Early education, family training, and circumstances often apparently accidental are potent influences in the formation and moulding of character. Yet not infrequently an event of seemingly little consequence may overturn the best considered plans for a successful career and alter the entire tenor of a man’s life. The invisible power “that shapes our ends,” to-day, lifts one born in a humble station to a pinnacle of fame and power, while to-morrow, it casts down from his exalted position the man intoxicated by the fumes of the incense of popular adulation. The Scottish bard puts this truth in those oft-quoted words:

“The best laid schemes of mice and men,

Gang aft aglee.”

This aphorism may be significantly applied to the lives of thousands. It is true of my own career. However upright may have been my intentions at the outset of life, they were early turned aside through the influence of my surroundings and of a seemingly inborn propensity for gambling. After a long and eventful experience, I have turned to a better life. My past has not been without interest to those with whom I have been brought in contact. It is here reviewed, not in a spirit of braggart egotism, but with the earnest hope that it may prove a warning to many, who are now bent upon a similar journey.

Biography is usually a simple and suggestive record, pointing its own moral, and treating, as a rule, of the scenes and actions of that everyday life, of which the subject forms a part. An autobiography should be, of all others, sincere and candid, and its writer should

“Naught extenuate nor aught set down in malice.”

To those who may think that the publication of the life of so obscure an individual as myself, and one, too, who for so many years has been a social pariah, can be productive of neither interest nor profit, I would say, that the eye of the fly is in many respects a more interesting study than that of the eagle, and the light-house of more service to humanity than the pyramids. A great artist once painted a wonderful picture. Of one of the faces in that immortal work, it was said, to him: “that countenance is ugly and revolting.” Thoughtfully gazing upon it, the artist replied: “There is more of beauty in every human face than I can comprehend.” So, in the life of every human being, there is at once more of tender charity and vicious selfishness than can be portrayed in words.

If the record of my life shall prove an example to deter even a few of those who are sporting upon the outer waters of that whirlpool whose vortex is destruction;—if its recital shall serve to open the eyes of but one of that vast host who are staking fortune, friendship, family affection, honor, even life itself, in the vain pursuit of an illusive phantom, this sketch will not have been written in vain.

I was born on the 19th day of March, 1846, three miles east of Roanoke, in Randolph County, Mo. My father was a prosperous farmer and stock raiser. He was a man of sound judgment, indomitable pluck, tried courage, generous disposition, and staunch integrity, kind and charitable to his neighbors, and a man whose “word was as good as his bond.” He was deservedly held in high esteem in the community, which he represented in the State Legislature during 1861-3. He owned some twenty slaves at the time of President Lincoln’s Emancipation Proclamation. No sooner had it appeared than he called them together, read the proclamation aloud, and informed them that they were at liberty to go or stay. A slave trader named John Robertson, who was present, at once offered fifteen hundred dollars in gold for four of the men, which my father promptly refused. The trader then offered each of the former slaves fifty dollars to go with him, but my father peremptorily declared that a million dollars could not buy one of them unless he or she voluntarily chose to return to servitude.

My mother was a “gentlewoman” in what has been, to me, the best sense of that often-abused term. Faithful to all her duties as a wife and mother, her tender devotion to her children was the controlling impulse of her life. Her generous self-sacrifice and her all but unlimited capacity to forgive, none can know so well as the wayward son, who numbers among his most bitter regrets to-day the recollection of the years of anxiety and grief which he brought upon that mother’s head and of the numberless pangs which he caused that mother’s heart.

The only early educational advantages that I enjoyed were those incident to an irregular attendance upon an ordinary border State, district school, presided over by a pedagogue whose scholastic attainments were, directly, in an inverse ratio to his zeal as a disciplinarian, and who seemed to think that ideas which could not find a lodgment in the head might be forced to germinate from the back by dint of persistent application of the rod. As a boy I was mischievous and wayward; a ringleader in all “scrapes,” and the terror of the orderly. Indeed, my reputation as an evil doer was so well established, and my name so thoroughly synonomous with every species of boyish deviltry, that I was often compelled to bear the blame of escapades which I had not conceived, and in which I bore no part.

At the time of which I am speaking, the principal diversions in country districts in Missouri were horse-racing, card playing and other amusements to which the element of a wager lent excitement. It was naturally easy for a restless boy of my temperament and disposition to contract the habit of gaming for such small sums of money as I could command, or for other property of trifling value. But the passion of gambling, above all others, fattens on what it feeds upon, and I soon began to find my native village too narrow a field for the realization of my ambition, and the few pennies of my schoolmates too small stakes to satisfy my desire for acquisition. At the age of fourteen years, accordingly, I left home without my father’s consent or knowledge, with a view to enlarging my sphere of operations. I took with me one of his horses, which might not only serve as a means of transportation, but also stand me in stead in the unknown world with which I felt myself well qualified to grapple. My life and habits, even as a child, had been so erratic, that my absence from home excited no comment; indeed, it awakened no anxiety, except in the tender breast of my gentle mother. Upon reaching Kansas, I sold the horse, and entered boldly upon the execution of my project, to lay the foundation of a colossal fortune, through the (to me) alluring career of a gambler. Then followed what might have been expected. Having watched the manipulations of a three-card monte man, until I had satisfied myself that I could beat him at his own game, I staked my all and—lost it. My only recourse then was to apply to my father for relief. He sent me money with which to return home, and in the same letter informed me of the serious illness of my sister Laura. Like the prodigal, I returned to find a welcome, but in time only to receive my sister’s last farewell.

The impression on me created by her death was but fleeting. I soon recommenced gambling with the boys of the neighborhood, at first playing poker for pennies, though the “ante” soon increased and the stakes sometimes amounted to a dollar, which was considered high play for boys in the country. Of course, I soon learned the slang of professional gamblers and was otherwise rapidly fitting myself for my subsequent career of knavery and disgrace.

Among those with whom I associated and played poker at Roanoke in those days, were Ed. and Dod White, John Pruitt, Whit Tyrell, Tom Walton, Bill Drinkard, Bob Holley and the Finney boys, all well known in Randolph County.

About this time occurred an incident which made a lasting impression upon me and aided in my initiation into the tortuous ways of the confidence man and cheat. As I was leaving the village one morning for a squirrel hunt, I fell in with a man who professed to be a billiard player. He invited me to accompany him to Fayette, where he would—to use his own expression—“throw a man off to me.” I assented with alacrity, went with him to Fayette, and was there “thrown off” myself for all that I was worth. The game was played in Charley King’s saloon and billiard hall, and the man who played it was Sam Majors, afterward a prominent lawyer and Member of Congress from Missouri.

I spent that night at Fayette, and on reaching home next morning found that every spring and well on my father’s farm had been poisoned, and that the entire family were violently ill from drinking coffee prepared from the contaminated water. This villianous attempt at wholesale poisoning resulted in the death of my only remaining sister Roma, the manner of whose taking away, no less than the sad event itself, cast a pervading gloom over our little family circle. For a time I was deeply impressed; solemn thoughts of my past and future crowded upon my brain, and I resolved to abandon my evil course, and to enter upon a new life. But I was young; my nature was volatile; I was keenly alive to the fascination of gambling; and even at that early age the habit had acquired over me a power not easily broken. My surroundings, moreover, were not of a nature either to promote reflection or encourage better impulses. That portion of Missouri was at that time over-run by bush whackers. Assaults and depredations were the rule, while robberies and murders were of frequent occurrence. Bands of from ten to twenty armed men were wont, from time to time, to ride through the streets of Roanoke, and the clatter of horses’ feet, the firing of guns, and the yells and oaths of demons in human form, converted a peaceful settlement into a pandemonium.

Among other notorious characters who visited our village, I well remember one desperate gang, armed to the teeth and flushed with pillage, who one night alighted at my father’s grocery store for rest and recreation. Among that band were the James boys, Bill Anderson, the Younger brothers, and Tom Hunter. The party was quiet, even “gentlemanly,” as that designation was then applied, inasmuch as they departed without killing or robbing anyone. They played poker, and I can well recall the cupidity awakened in my breast at the sight of the roll of bills which they staked upon the game. The play ran well up into the thousands, and never before had I seen such piles of money upon a table. I was much impressed, nor was I able to divest myself of the idea that money fairly won at cards was honestly earned. And, indeed, as compared with the outrageous robbery of unoffending, defenceless citizens, by marauding bands of armed ruffians which I saw constantly going on about me, gambling seemed an innocent recreation. Over and again, during those memorable years of the war, have I seen such gangs of desperadoes forcibly enter my father’s homestead, and with a pistol leveled at his head demand his cash. My father was determined, resolute and brave, but more than once have I seen him forced to purchase his own life and the lives of his family by partial submission to these threats.

I recall another incident of my early life, which occurred during the war, and which is worthy of mention only so far as it may serve to illustrate[illustrate] to what a degree of intensity my passion for gambling had developed. The battle of Silver Creek, which was a short but spirited engagement, was fought at night. In the morning I was sent with needed supplies for the wounded to the Union camp, which was located only three miles from my father’s store. After distributing the supplies, I opened a game of poker with a party of soldiers in a store kept by one Jas. T. Wallace. The appalling sights witnessed in the midst of the dead and dying were powerless to restrain or curb a passion which was even then stronger than death.

At the close of the war I felt myself a man and qualified to engage in business. So at the age of twenty, I went to Keytsville, in Chariton Co., Mo., and started a hardware store. I found myself unable, however, to forego the amusement of gaming, nor could I reconcile myself to the abandonment of my hopes of winning a fortune at the card table; I therefore combined gambling with business (sadly to the detriment of the latter), I divided my time between my own store and Dan Kellogg’s saloon and gambling resort. Among my associates there were such well-known gamblers as Bill and Tom Binford, Rives Williams, Jube Hurt, French Blakey, besides many others. I remained at Keytsville for a year, but failing to make any money by either legitimate or illegitimate methods, I closed out my business and returned to Roanoke.

Here, in my native village, my next venture was to start a tonsorial and bathing establishment. I had one bath-tub and one assistant. As I knew nothing about shaving (except at cards), and one of the rules of the shop was that when a customer was cut he need pay nothing, I was glad to confine my operations to transient callers, relegating regular patrons to the tender mercies of my assistant. As might have been expected, no profits materialized, and after the business had dragged its miserable length along for some twelve months, I spontaneously and cheerfully abandoned it.

My next business move was the formation of a partnership with one James Bird, familiarly known as “Slim Jim.” The firm was to manufacture and sell piano dulcimers, for which, at that time, there was a great and constantly increasing demand throughout that entire section. I was the senior partner, and furnished the capital; Jim was the practical man and had the experience; we united the two and the result may be very briefly told. To facilitate delivery of the goods, I purchased a carriage, horses and harness. I then went to St. Louis to buy materials to be used in the manufacture of the instruments. Upon my return, I found that “Slim” (it should have been “Slick”) Jim had been to Sedalia, Mo., where he had sold out the horses, carriage, etc., pocketed the proceeds, and had secured a tolerably fair start on his way to California. I trust that I may not be regarded as unduly revengeful if I frankly admit that when, thirteen years later, my quondam partner was arrested by Detective Henry Hutling while playing three card monte along the line of the Chicago and Alton Railroad, I hastened to the scene of his misfortune, and relentlessly made him disgorge by way of settlement, seventy-five dollars in money, a gold watch and chain and a diamond pin.

In the year 1868, in company with my uncle Tom, my brothers Sidney and Robert and a man by the name of Keen Viley, I went as far west as the southern portion of Dakota. For several months we located ourselves at Benton City, on the North Platte River. Here the mayor of the “city,” one A. B. Miller, in conjunction with a man named Charles Storms, conducted what is known in gamblers’ parlance as a “brace” faro game; that is to say, players could win nothing except at the option of the proprietor, and the latter lost only such trifling sums as might serve as an allurement to continued and heavier play. In this establishment I held the position of “case-keeper;” in other words, I kept the record of the game. This was my first regular employment in a gambling house. Life in the territory at that period was primitive in its comforts, but decidedly exciting in its uncertainty. Our party slept in a canvas tent, lined with slabs to about the height of three feet as a protection against the stray bullets, which came, with unpleasant frequency, from whence no one knew and went none could tell whither. During the progress of the fusilade, no sleeper in any tent ever thought of raising his head from his pillow, and the wisdom of lying perfectly still was abundantly demonstrated by the many bullet holes in the upper part of the canvas.

From Dakota I again gravitated to Roanoke, where I once more embarked in business, this time in the custom shoe trade. Being utterly ignorant of that, or any other business, I employed a shoe-maker who, after the manner of his kind, made it a point of honor to fill himself with whiskey every time he lasted a pair of boots. Naturally the business languished, and I soon sought a more congenial pursuit.

Going to Columbia, Mo., I opened a saloon; not from any desire to indulge my appetite in this direction, inasmuch as I can truthfully say that I never drank any intoxicating liquor in my life. My chief aim was to conduct a gaming establishment, for which the sale of liquor might serve as a blind. While at Columbia I used to gamble—chiefly at faro or poker—with the Hume’s boys, of whom there were six or seven with Dr. Ed. Compton, Sam Reader, James I. Brewitt, the Jacobs boys, Arthur Charleston, Jesse Forshay, Alex Bradford, Billy Booth, and many others who have since attained local prominence.

Like other young men, I was not unsusceptible to feminine charms, nor, wicked as I was, was I incapable of appreciating true womanly worth. I first felt the afflatus of the “divine passion” when I met Miss Fannie White, a fair maiden of Roanoke. For a time it seemed to me as though the sun shone only through her eyes. I prosecuted my suit with all the ardor of a first attachment, but the young lady’s parents promptly and forcibly interposed. My reputation was notoriously bad and a marriage between their daughter and myself was, they said, not to be thought of. Thus the affair was nipped in the bud. For a time I felt the blow keenly, and bitterly realized the disgraceful position which I occupied as a suitor rejected for such a cause. Time, however, and a sort of sullen resentment came to my aid. I succeeded in tearing from my heart the hopes which I had formed, as an idol is wrenched from its pedestal, and entered upon the vice of gaming with redoubled vigor.

But a few years later I formed an attachment for a beautiful and captivating lady, the accomplished daughter of Dr. Wm. C. and Mrs. L. A. Harvey, who enjoyed a position of social pre-eminence in the community.

Little May Harvey was a girl suited to fill the ideal conception of a far better man than I. Of attractive form and feature, she was modest, truthful, and a universal favorite with her acquaintances. That I should presume to lift my eyes to such a girl was enough to excite the apprehension of her parents, who at once became most bitter and unyielding opponents. But, fortunately or unfortunately, I had a powerful advocate in May’s own heart. In affairs of the heart young people are not always disposed to brook parental interference. They are apt to regard themselves as best qualified to judge of what will be for their own happiness, and to constitute themselves the sole arbiters of their own destiny. My affection for May was deep and true, and, which is a no less vital point, it was thoroughly reciprocated. An engagement to May followed as a matter of course; and, also as a matter of course, there followed an insistent demand on the part of Dr. and Mrs. Harvey that the engagement be suddenly and finally broken off. A most plausible excuse was found in my arrest on an utterly false charge for highway robbery.

The facts connected with this episode in my life may prove not uninteresting to the reader. A farmer by the name of Jesse B. Hudson, living about five miles east of Roanoke, had been robbed of a large sum of money by bush whackers. One of the robbers rode a horse belonging to John Emery, which he had taken from a hitching post in the town while Emery was on a spree. The horse was accidentally shot. Owing partly to the existence of a neighborhood feud, and partly to my bad reputation, I was arrested as a participant in the crime, and taken to Huntsville for trial. There I gave bonds in the sum of $3,000 for my appearance when wanted, two reputable farmers—W. H. Lockridge and Geo. Aulthouse—signing my bond. Among the men suspected of the crime were such notorious outlaws as the James boys, Quantrell, Anderson, Hunter, Clingman, Lyons, and others, yet I was the only one arrested. At different times before, while I was living at home, the bush whackers had aroused me at night and ordered me to supply them with liquor from my father’s store. This fact may have given rise to a suspicion that I was a member of the gang, and may have led to my arrest. Be that as it may, my innocence was easily established at the trial, and the jury promptly rendered a verdict of acquittal.

May’s fidelity was unshaken by my arrest, and my vindication was hailed by her with triumph. Shortly afterwards she was sent as a pupil to the Convent of the Visitation at St. Louis, and peremptorily forbidden by her parents to hold any communication with me. Similar instructions were given to the Mother Superior and her assistants. The sisters faithfully obeyed Dr. Harvey’s behest. Under these circumstances I had recourse to strategem. I had followed her to St. Louis, where I had engaged in gambling with many well-known sporting men of that city. Calling at the convent I asked for an interview which was refused by the Mother Superior. I had told the latter that I was from Roanoke, Miss Harvey’s home. I had expected a refusal and was not unprepared. Producing a package, I handed it to the convent Cerberus, and brazenly informed that suspicious individual that I had been commissioned by the young lady’s parents to convey it to her. The package contained a volume of Longfellow’s poems and a pair of kid gloves. In one of the fingers of the gloves was a neatly folded note, written on tissue paper, calling attention to the fact that a letter was pasted between two of the book’s pages. The scheme was well laid, as I thought, but failed to work. The bundle was opened and examined by the Superior; its contents sent to Mrs. Harvey, and the letter burned. My efforts to hold an interview with my inamorata upon the streets proved equally fruitless, it not being permitted to her to take her “daily walks abroad” unless accompanied by a watchful attendant. Despairing of seeing her alone, I started with a small party on a gambling tour to the far west, visiting Colorado and Wyoming. The trip was uneventful, and I returned to Roanoke to find that May had been at home and had been sent to school at Columbia, Missouri. Thither I followed her, only to be again denied an interview. Returning home, I forwarded to her as present from her mother, a box of fruit. A portion of the core of one of the apples had been extracted, and its place deftly filled by a letter written on extremely thin paper. No suspicion was aroused by the receipt of the fruit, which was handed to Miss Harvey. She examined every apple in the expectation of finding a letter from me but failed to discover[discover] the right one. While sharing the fruit with her schoolmates, one of them, in biting an apple, was surprised to find a pin in her mouth; the mystery was solved, and the letter reached its destination.

In due time I received an answer, full of love and encouragement, showing that neither absence nor intimidation could conquer her faithful spirit. To be near her I went to Columbia, where I opened a saloon and resumed gambling. Every Sunday I was made supremely happy by seeing her. About this time she received a letter from her mother severely reprimanding her for encouraging my attentions. Smarting under this rebuke she impulsively returned all my letters and presents, among which was the engagement ring. This blow fairly overwhelmed me. To accomplish what had now become the chief aim of my existence, any and all means seemed to me justifiable. Accordingly, on the following Sunday evening I attended the church at which I knew she would be present. At a favorable moment I sank to the floor in a simulated swoon, and was carried to the hotel by four men, whither was summoned a physician, who made me four visits. Probably he suspected the sham, but he kept his own counsel. The ruse had the effect desired. May’s sympathy was aroused, a reconciliation followed, my presents and letters were again accepted, and the engagement ring once more found a place upon her finger.

To hope for the consent of her parents to our union was, we both knew, to expect the impossible. We therefore laid our plans for an elopement. About nine o’clock on the evening of an August day in 1870 we met at the appointed place of rendezvous. I was accompanied by a friend, Frank Payne, who was to act as witness and best man. May mounted behind me one of my father’s best saddle horses, and our little party set forth in quest of some clergyman or justice of the peace to tie the nuptial knot. After meeting with sundry rebuffs, and riding all night, we reached Renick, a small town in Randolph county, about eighteen miles from Roanoke. Here we found an accommodating magistrate in the person of Esquire Butler. After Payne had sworn that Miss Harvey was eighteen years old on August 24th, and therefore of lawful age, the magistrate consented to perform the ceremony. That evening we returned to the home of my father, who was living alone, my mother having died on Oct 12, 1865.

Great was the sensation which our marriage created in our little village, and greater the indignation of my bride’s parents. Dr. Harvey promptly caused the arrest of Frank Payne for false swearing, and of Esquire Butler for solemnizing the marriage. The prosecution of Payne was soon dropped, but the magistrate did not escape so easily, being sentenced to pay a fine of $300 and to be imprisoned in the county jail for three months. Both these penalties, however, were soon afterward remitted.

For two years we lived at Roanoke, my wife’s parents refusing to recognize us even on the streets. At the end of that time we removed to Moberly, Missouri, where I lived by gaming, finding all avenues of respectable employment closed against me.

Among those with whom I gambled during this period were Joe Woods, Si. Beatty, Levi Perkins, James F. Wallace, Bill Robertson, Pat Carmody, Perry McDaniels, John Guy, Bill Williams, Dave White, and Judge Worden.

While at Moberly I formed the acquaintance of one Sam Martin, a jovial, good natured man, who first taught me the use of marked cards. I found him a congenial companion, and during the eight years from 1873 to 1881 we were partners in gambling. In the latter year Martin’s health failed and he had recourse to the waters of Hot Springs, where he died in 1885, at the early age of thirty-five.

Perhaps I may be pardoned for relating here a few incidents of our life at this time, which may serve to illustrate both Martin’s character and my own. On one of our gambling expeditions we arrived at Columbia, Missouri, and went to a hotel kept by Jim Hume. Placing a carpet satchel upon the counter, Martin blandly demanded the best room in the house. Being informed that the hostelry was full, he thrust his hand into his empty vest pocket and offered to settle in advance. This audacious piece of assurance won the confidence of the clerk, and we were assigned to the parlor for the night. At the end of a week a bill for $12 was handed to Martin, who excused himself from payment by saying that he had handed all his money to me, and that he would go and find me. It was after dark before he came across me and explained the modus operandi which he had devised. He was to lower the antique satchel from the window of our room by a string upon receiving a signal from me that I was below. I assented to the plan, and returning to the hotel, told the landlord to go out and give the prearranged whistle. This he did, and down came the string with the satchel attached, which was removed by Hume and carried into the hotel office. Here it was opened in the presence of a large crowd of “fakirs” who had been drawn to Columbia by the fair then in progress. Its contents were found to be as follows: item, one deck of cards; item, one pair of socks; item, one dirty collar; item, one rock (for ballast). Sam’s wardrobe was regarded as unique, but of hardly sufficient value to liquidate his bill. One of the amused sporting men present proposed taking up a collection for Martin’s benefit. The proposition was hailed with favor and twelve silver dollars soon jingled on the counter. The landlord joined in the merriment, and in the exuberance of his mirth offered to treat the crowd if someone would fetch Martin to participate in the festivities of the occasion. Sam was soon found, and a general jollification followed. When asked why he had not paid his bill, he replied, “What for? Why, I could go to St. Louis and board at the Lindell or Southern by paying for it.”

On the following day we started for St. Louis. On the train Martin formed the acquaintance of an old gentleman, whom he courteously invited to dine with him on reaching the refreshment station. The invitation was accepted. Martin hurried through his meal and politely excused himself to his companion. At the door he was asked for seventy five cents; pointing towards the old gentleman, he said: “Father will settle.” When his traveling acquaintance returned to the car he sought out Sam and took a seat by his side. “Pretty good dinner for seventy-five cents,” said Sam. “I should say so,” remarked the old gentleman. “I paid a dollar and a half for yours and mine, and I want seventy-five cents.” At this Martin started up in great apparent indignation, and in a loud voice asked the conductor, “What sort of a man is that who keeps the eating house? He has collected from both of us for our meal.” Before the conductor could answer, the old gentleman exclaimed, “I want you to give me that seventy-five cents that I paid out for your dinner.” Sam said that he had no small change, but the old man assured him that he could make change for “any sized bill.” I comprehended the situation and quietly remarked, “Mr. Martin, this gentleman ought to be paid. I have not enough money with me to cash your draft, but he should be paid.” My companion at once perceived his opportunity. Producing from under the lining of his hat a draft for $500, he said, “Now give me $499.25 and you are paid.” Thinking that this was an attempt to “bluff” him, the old gentleman reached down and pulled from his boot leg a large roll of bills, from which he triumphantly counted out the “change,” as he called it. Martin gave the conductor $20 to slow up and we jumped off the train. The draft was, of course, utterly worthless, but the old man apparently never made any effort to find either Martin or myself.

At St. Louis we were moderately successful in the prosecution of our nefarious enterprises, making frequent excursions into the adjacent country.

Our next objective point was Texas. At Houston, Martin won nearly $100 from a man by playing with marked cards. The dupe discovered how he had been victimized and related the circumstances to a friend giving a description of the man who had won his money. The next morning a typical Texan called on Martin and said, “I am out making collections this morning, and have a bill against you for exactly $96.50.” Without saying a word, Martin opened his wallet, and counting out the amount demanded, quietly handed it over to the “collector.” As an argument, a six-shooter is more convincing than rhetoric.

During the Centennial year, Martin went east, visiting Philadelphia, Baltimore and Washington. When he said good bye to me at St. Louis, he said that he was going to wear either diamonds or shackles. A few weeks later he wrote that it was shackles; he had been in jail three days.

In September, 1876, I went to Philadelphia myself, to join Martin. On arriving at his hotel I found that he was temporarily absent in Baltimore. The second night after reaching Philadelphia I was invited by the hotel clerk to take a hand in a game of poker. I found the cards were marked, but as the marks were very familiar I said nothing, I found the game exceedingly interesting and rose from the table a winner by $300. I telegraphed Sam to return to Philadelphia at once, which he did. On opening his valise, which he had left at his hotel in Philadelphia, he found some of his cards missing. That afternoon the clerk of the house came to him and apologized for taking a few decks of cards from his valise, they being convenient for use. “That is all right,” said Sam Martin; “you are at liberty to help yourself to them at any time, provided my friend and myself can play in the game. I only carry them with me because they are the Hart brand of cards and are “square.” They are a protection to me when I play for a little amusement. They won’t cheat me.”

Of course, every pack which he had was marked, and had laid the foundation of a great financial success. None but his celebrated “Hart” cards were used in the games at that hotel afterwards, and in less than three weeks we had won at poker something over $3,000.

While in Philadelphia I formed the acquaintance of a man named Anderson, who confided to me his troubles. He told me that he had resided in the coal regions of Pennsylvania, where he had been involved in a terrible fight, and that he was afraid to return. He offered me $100 if I would go down into that section and bring his family to Baltimore. This I did, and in the evening of our arrival in the Maryland metropolis, while Anderson and I were walking about the city together, we were both arrested and locked up. The next morning a gentleman from the place where my new acquaintances resided came to the jail and identified Anderson as the man who had recently fled from that town with $3,000 of his money. Of course, I was discharged. The gentleman from Pennsylvania was profuse in his expressions of regret at my arrest, paid my hotel bill, and gave me twenty dollars. I did not enjoy the experience, however, and as the poker games at the Philadelphia hotel showed decided symptoms of coming to an end, I determined to return to St. Louis.

But to revert to my life at Moberly. In 1874, feeling dissatisfied, I made a trip to Hot Springs, where I passed a few months, but found little opportunity of making money in the only way which I understood. Accordingly, in the autumn of that year I went to reside at St. Louis. There I was joined by my wife. Many times had I resolved to quit gambling, but as often had my determination failed. The sight of my wife’s sweet, patient face when I met her at St. Louis rekindled my desire to reform and pursue some honorable vocation. The thought that I had brought her to the shame of being a gambler’s wife was bitter. But I overcame these reflections by arguing with myself after the manner of those gamesters whose desire to reform is half hearted, being founded on impulse rather than on principle. I had tried several kinds of legitimate business and failed in each. Who would trust me in any honest employment? How was I to provide for my wife, to say nothing of myself? To these questions I could formulate no answer, and hence it was that during the six years of my residence in St. Louis I played at any and every game that promised to pay me money. In order to preserve a semblance of respectability at home, I rarely gambled in the city. Excursion boats, country towns, and county fairs formed the theater of my gaming. That description of games known to professionals as “brace” comprised those in which I engaged. My pursuits included the use of marked cards, “squeeze spindles,” roulette, monte tricks, and “bunko steering” for “brace” faro banks. When I could not win the entire stake for myself, I was content to accept a percentage. Thus I lived until April 29, 1880.

On the date last mentioned I was residing with my wife on an upper floor at No. 1517 North Eighth Street. At about eleven o’clock in the forenoon, as my wife was starting from home to carry aid to a former servant who was at that time sick and destitute, her foot became entangled in her clothing as she reached the head of the stairs and she fell headlong to the foot of the flight. She was at once carried to her room and placed upon her bed. Her eyes opened, and during a single moment of consciousness she placed both hands upon her head and exclaimed, “Where is John? O, mother! mother! you won’t forgive—you break my heart!” She then added, “take down my hair; I am dying.” Respiration ceased, and the loving, faithful heart that had for so many years beat only for me was at rest.

That morning, her mother was returning from a three days’ visit at St. Louis to her home in Roanoke; her father had just reached the National Stock Yards at East St. Louis with two car loads of live stock; and I was at Cote Brilliante Park, in training for a foot race with “Hank” Wider, and Jim Bensley for a purse of $10,000. I was not apprised of the great calamity which had befallen me until my return to my desolate home that evening. I will not attempt to depict the emotions of remorse, anguish, almost despair, which struggled for mastery in my heart. There are sorrows too deep for tears and griefs too sacred to be revealed.

I at once notified Dr. and Mrs. Harvey of the death of the daughter, whose last, agonized cry had been for a mother’s forgiveness. My preparations for the funeral completed, the form that had been so dear in life and was so sacred to me, in its sleep of death was carried to Roanoke and reverently laid to rest in the family burying ground. Revs. Talbot and Johnson conducted the last sad religious rites.

The night following the funeral I passed under Dr. Harvey’s roof, and for the first time in my life, was kindly entertained by my wife’s parents. Soon after leaving the village, I arranged for the erection of a suitable monument to mark the last resting place of my loved one.

The foot race for which I was in training at the time of my wife’s death had been declared off, out of respect for my bereavement, and when I returned to St. Louis I was without anything to engross my thoughts. Then how many good resolutions did I form to abandon the vice, which in the mood of repentance induced by my wife’s death, had grown not only distasteful but actually abhorrent to me. I saw the degradation into which I had fallen, and I resolved to make another effort to raise myself from the slough into which I had sunk.

After remaining in St. Louis for about six months, in the fall of 1880 I went to Little Rock, Arkansas, where I stumbled across the Mabel Norton theatrical troupe, then under the management of John Hogan. The combination had become financially stranded, and I advanced the necessary funds, taking the position of treasurer. After visiting the principal towns in the valley of the Arkansas river, we went to Eureka, where I severed my connection with the company and returned to my evil courses, opening several gambling houses. Here I formed the acquaintance of a number of persons who I initiated into the mysteries of “brace” games with a view to their becoming of assistance to me in the pursuit of my nefarious calling.

While I was at the last mentioned resort I wrote to Mrs. Harvey, recommending the waters for the use of her invalid daughter. Mother and daughter both visited the springs, and while there treated me with kindness and even cordiality. Their visit constituted the second occasion on which I was allowed to associate with any of the family except my wife. I felt that I was never justly entitled to their consideration, yet they always demanded my esteem, if not my affection.

I remained at Eureka Springs for seven months, encountering varying fortunes, when I again returned to my old home in Roanoke.

In the early fall of 1881, I received a despatch from Jem Sanford, a professional gambler, to come to Chicago. The dispatch conveyed a proposition to “take in” the fairs then being held in the surrounding country. The proposal I readily accepted, and going to Chicago I united my fortunes with the redoubtable Jem. Together we visited many county fairs in the states of Indiana, Illinois and Missouri. Our outfit consisted of marked cards, dice, spindles, a hap-hazard, and other devices to defraud the unwary. Considered solely from a money making standpoint our jaunt was a successful one. No games involving large stakes were played, but we reaped a constant harvest of small sums from the ignorance and stupidity of the country people.

At Marion, Indiana, however, while I was running a game of “hap-hazard” on the fair ground, the game was discovered to be “skin.” I was arrested, tried, and fined $25. I paid the fine and left the place without delay.

At the end of the fair season we returned to St. Louis. I had determined to locate in Chicago and thither I went later in the autumn. There I became a member of the commission firm of Stockton, Young & Co., who referred by permission to Wm. Young & Co., then the leading general commission house of that city. I found operating on change different from running a “squeeze spindle,” but the “squeezing” was effectually accomplished in both cases. In the spring of 1882 the composition and title of the firm was changed; Ben Demint was admitted to membership, and the firm name became Stockton, Quinn & Co.

While a member of the firm, I was causelessly arrested for defrauding a Mrs. Morgan out of $700. By way of defence I produced her receipt, and was thereupon honorably discharged.

One day, while business was dull, Demint and I were chatting in our office, when one of us (probably myself) proposed, in a spirit of deviltry, to advertise for a wife. The suggestion was adopted, and the day following the insertion of the advertisement we received fifty-six replies. At the end of a week we had received answers from points as far distant as New York and later from California and New Orleans. From the beginning I regarded the whole project as a mere matter of passing sport. Little did I think how potent an influence it was destined to exert over my future life.

Among my correspondents was a handsome, petite Jewess, named Lily Boas, whose acquaintance I formed, and by whom I was captivated at once. On July 3, 1882, we went together to Milwaukee, where we were married. My former experience in the matter of securing parental consent had not been of a sort to encourage me to ask for it in this instance, and as my fiance was content without it, we agreed to regard it as a needless formality.

I was determined that my second wife should not be subjected to the humiliating circumstances which had embittered the life of May. I determined to abjure gambling then and forever. To remove myself from the temptation, I determined to withdraw from business in Chicago, and once more to take up my residence on my father’s farm. The monotony and ceaseless toil of a farmer’s life were irksome to me, but I hoped to find in them a refuge from my overweaning passion. Better the dullness of a plodding routine than the fitful excitement of a gambler’s checkered life; better an aching body than a ruined soul.

For a year I led a rural life, and in September, 1883, I removed to St. Louis. There I found employment with McDonald’s Detective Agency, whose proprietors I faithfully served for two years, retaining their confidence at the termination of our relations. While with this concern, I returned to my former pursuits, running games at fairs, picnics, etc., and on excursion boats.

While living in St. Louis at this time, I became involved in two or three transactions which brought me into some unpleasant notoriety. The first was in connection with the sale of a saloon, known as the “White Elephant,” on 6th Street, near Chestnut. I had an interest in this place, jointly, with a man named Henry W. Huthsing. Huthsing sold out the business to one Fred. Beckerer, of East St. Louis, for $1,900. Payment was made in nineteen $100 four per cent. U. S. bonds, and my partner, finding that the premiums and accrued interest amounted to $375 gave Beckerer his check for that sum, greatly to the latter’s surprise. Becoming dissatisfied with his bargain, the purchaser set up the claim that the bottles and barrels in the place were chiefly filled with water, a statement which was utterly untrue. He brought suit against us and caused our arrest. Our experience before trial was not of a character seriously to impress us with respect either for the administration of justice or for the integrity of some of the legal luminaries of the St. Louis bar. We gave bonds in $1,000 each, signed by Henry W. Godfrey, an old-time gambler and well-known in the courts of that city. We retained as counsel ex-judge Wm. Jones and C. R. Taylor, paying them retainers of $50 and $100 respectively. When the case was first called, Jones demanded $50 additional, having ascertained that Taylor had received $100. The demand was accompanied with a threat of withdrawing from the defense and allying himself with the prosecution, and we complied with his request. The case was continued, and soon afterward we gave Godfrey $300 upon his representation that the prosecuting attorney, R. S. McDonald, had agreed to dismiss the suit. What became of the money I cannot tell, but Godfrey repeatedly told us that he had given McDonald $250, and we supposed that the matter was settled. Several months later we were surprised to learn that the case was about to be called again. Huthsing was obliged to give Judge Jones his note for $100 to appear and defend. The day before that set for the trial Jones wrote to Mrs. Huthsing that the note must be paid at once or he would refuse to appear. The money was not paid and we were accordingly deprived of the valuable services of the “Hon.” (?) Judge Jones. I gave another attorney, Col. Nat. Claibourn $10 to move for a continuance, which was granted, and subsequently retained ex-Governor Charles P. Johnson, as our attorney. The case was called on January 16, 1887, and at the request of my counsel, I was granted a separate trial. At the suggestion of Gov. Johnson, the evidence was submitted without argument to the jury, who re-entered the court room in exactly nineteen minutes with a verdict of acquittal. The case against Huthsing was then dismissed. Thus the “White Elephant” was disposed of and the cheerful prophecy of the St. Louis Globe-Democrat came to naught; that paper had said before the trial, “the way things look, it appears that softly the cuckoo is calling for Quinn to come up the road.”

Another unpleasant experience of mine while sojourning in St. Louis was in connection with the Van Hennessey-Wolff “gold brick” swindling case in 1885, in which one U. S. Wolff, of Madison, Indiana, was defrauded of $5,000. The victim offered a reward for the apprehension of the man who had defrauded him. The matter received wide publication and attracted general attention. A detective named Page, came to St. Louis with the papers necessary to secure the extradition of Van Hennessey.

I knew Van Hennessey only too well, and had no reason to regard him with affection. I had advanced to him some $1,200 to embark in the business of running a Wild West show, no part of which sum had been returned, and he had given me a note for $700, which I yet hold. I had pawned my own watch and chain and my wife’s diamond ear drops to obtain the money. The stock was to have been mine, but I discovered too late that Van Hennessey and his brother John had mortgaged it for its full value. While my child was ill I asked John Hennessey for money with which to buy medicine, and was refused, although I knew that he had several hundred dollars in his pocket at the time. When the Indiana detective appeared upon the scene I thought my time had come. I accordingly proposed to point out his game, knowing that the man he wanted was in Tennessee. The result was an arrangement that Page (the detective), one Backenstoe, and my brother should proceed to Tennessee, where they should collect my note and then allow Hennessey to go. The amount to be collected was to be divided equally between Page and myself, after Backenstoe had been reimbursed for the money he was to advance for expenses.

In the meantime, a wealthy man of Nashville, Tennessee, by the name of Oscar F. Noel, had been swindled out of $6,000 by the gold brick scheme, and when they arrived in Tennessee they found that Hennessey was then engaged in a similar enterprise to defraud a man from Marietta, Georgia. They soon found their man, whom my brother captured at the point of a pistol. On their return trip they stopped at Nashville, where Hennessey said that he could raise the $700. They placed him under the care of my brother, and Page went out for a little while on “business.” About ten o’clock that evening the latter returned with an officer, representing the authorities of Nashville, to whom he turned over Hennessey, on the charge of swindling Noel, receiving for his services in that connection, it was said, the sum of $1,150. The Indiana requisition was returned and Hennessey was tried, convicted, and sentenced to the Tennessee penitentiary for a term of five years. After serving two years in prison Hennessey was pardoned. He was brought to St. Louis a hopeless consumptive, and died in a few days. The next result of the expedition was that Backenstoe was “out” the money advanced for expenses. I found the amount of my note to be a permanent investment, and my brother was obliged to pawn his pistol to obtain money with which to get home. The detective, after the manner of many of his class, “sold out” not only us, but his state as well, and was probably well satisfied with himself.

This was the era when the gold brick swindlers were reaping a rich harvest, and I was induced, through cupidity and vicious propensities, to embark in that line of operations myself. I soon got into trouble. In September, 1886, in company with a party known as “Doc” Kerns, I was arrested at St. Louis, charged with attempting to sell a bogus brick to one Bob Basket, of Howard County, Missouri. While we were held in jail a Jew named Levi Stortz, a small manufacturer of jewelry, came to the Four Courts and identified me as one of the men from whom he had bought one of these fraudulent articles. A formal charge was thereupon made against[against] me, and Kerns was liberated. I was released on $1,500 bail, John Vittie becoming my surety. Ex-Governor Johnson being absent from the city, John I. Martin was employed as my attorney on the strength of his representations that he “could influence” the judges. Stortz had sworn that he paid $3,700 for the bogus brick on July 15. Mr. Martin and I went together to St. Paul, Minnesota, where we obtained depositions from the proprietor of a hotel where I had stopped, and from the cashier of the city water works, and several other business men to the effect that I was in that city on July 12th, and for two weeks thereafter.

Several months after my arrest, two men, named Frank Aldrich and “Billy” Adkins called on me, and the former told me that he had been the cause of my arrest. He said that he had induced Stortz to make the charge because he had understood that I was endeavoring to have him sent to the penitentiary. He added that he had offered $100 to a grocer on Jefferson Avenue to go to the jail and identify me as the swindler who had tried to defraud him in a similar way. The latter part of this story was corroborated by Adkins, who said that he had been present at the time. Aldrich also stated that he had endeavored to retain Governor Johnson to assist in my prosecution, but that the latter had refused to entertain the proposition. He went on to express his deep regret for all this, saying that he wished to “bury the hatchet,” and as an earnest of his desire to make atonement he handed me two ten dollar bills. Before going to St. Paul I had myself retained Governor Johnson as counsel and he forwarded a letter from Aldrich sent in his care, offering to establish an alibi for me by swearing that I was with him in Chicago at the time named by Stortz. This offer was indignantly rejected. All the facts were brought to the notice of the prosecuting attorney, and as a result the case was dropped.

I now come to the recital of the gloomiest chapter in my life’s history, a chapter of legalized intimidation, of perjury and the subornation of perjury, and of gross and wanton outrage upon personal liberty committed in the name of justice and under the forms of law. I refer to my arrest, trial and incarceration in the Southern Penitentiary of Indiana for a crime of which I was as innocent as any of my readers and the perpetrators of which, were to me entirely unknown. On August 7, 1887, accompanied by “Doc” Kerns and John Forbes, I left St. Louis by way of Terre Haute, at which place our party stopped for a few days. While eating supper at a restaurant, two strangers, who afterwards proved to be detectives, entered and accosted Kerns, who soon called me forward and introduced me. These men, whose names were Vandeveer and Murphy, placed us under arrest and took us to police headquarters, whither Forbes was soon brought by Vandeveer and Chief Lawler.

Some two months before this a farmer by the name of Zach Deputy, living near North Vernon, Ind., had been victimized by three confidence men to the tune of $3,000, and it was this offense which was laid at our door.

Upon our arrival at headquarters, an effort was made to extort money from us under the guise of “a compromise.” Had we been actually guilty, this would, of course, have been an attempt to compound a felony, but for that, these zealous officials, who had been sworn to enforce the law whose majesty they so flagrantly violated, cared little.[little.] The proposition was declined, and we were searched, when it was disclosed that our entire cash assets aggregated $8.65.

After we had been placed in jail, we were visited by an alleged lawyer calling himself Thomas Harper, who was permitted to interview us by the grace of the police authorities. He wanted $100 for services which he offered to render in the capacity of attorney. We declined his proposal and he indignantly spurned our suggestion that $10 were probably all that his services were worth. On the following Sunday Vandeveer called on us, but we refused to recognize him, and on Monday morning the authorities telegraphed to Webb Benton, a North Vernon detective that they were holding the men who had fleeced Deputy. On receiving the telegram Benton took with him a livery stable keeper named Burge and started to convey the tidings to the old farmer. He had previously offered a reward of $200 for the arrest of the guilty parties, and was easily persuaded to enter into a written contract to pay the sum of $300 if Benton and Burge would point out to him the men who had robbed him. This having been done, the trio went to Terre Haute, and the three prisoners were brought before Deputy for identification. After he had looked us thoroughly over, Benton asked him if he recognized us. The old man shook his head, but pointing to Kerns said: “That man looks some like one of them, but he is too small.” Thereupon Chief Lawler and Vandeveer sent for Kerns and advised him to settle the matter by paying $1,500. “Doc” replied that he had nothing to settle. Then the officers suggested $1,000, but Kerns still proved obdurate. In order to secure the $200 reward it was absolutely necessary that Deputy should identify us as the men who had swindled him. To induce him to do this, Lawler and Vandeveer told him that we had just robbed a country bank of $6,000, and that if he would swear that we were the right parties, we would gladly settle with him. This line of argument overcame his scruples and he at once swore out warrants for us. It is, perhaps, unnecessary to add that the $200 reward was promptly demanded and eventually paid.

The next day (Tuesday) we were arraigned for the preliminary examination, Tom Harper, the alleged lawyer aforementioned, who had indignantly shaken the dust of our cells off of his feet a few days before, now appeared in the role of our attorney and asked for a continuance. We promptly repudiated him, and Forbes told the court that we would waive examination. Accordingly we were remanded to jail, and the next day were taken to Brownstown, the county seat of the county in which the crime had been committed. It was a slight mitigation of our condition to be placed in the custody of Sheriff Wicks, whose kindness was in delightful contrast to the blackmailing tactics of the police officials of Terre Haute. Thomas Harper, Esq., who had so magnanimously volunteered to ask for a continuance which we did not wish, easily obtained possession of the watches taken from Kerns and Forbes by the police, and retained them, alleging that he had a lien of $200 upon them for his professional (?) services. They were subsequently redeemed by Al. Burkey, of St. Louis, who paid that amount to the over-zealous practitioner, when the watches were sent C. O. D.

At Brownstown we retained Lon Brenneman, a lawyer of some local reputation. The next morning we telegraphed to Lieut. Governor Smith, of North Vernon, who came to us at once, and agreed to appear in our behalf. The Friday following, we had a preliminary hearing before a justice of the peace. At that examination Deputy, under oath, identified Kerns, because he was “bald-headed,” although he admitted that he was smaller in stature and lighter in build than at the time when he alleged that he committed the crime. He explained this discrepancy by swearing that he believed the prisoner’s clothes were stuffed when he first saw him, and added that on that occasion Kerns wore false whiskers. On cross-examination the witness admitted having been instructed by Lawler and Vandeveer to identify us as the men who had robbed him, because he would thus recover his money and also admitted the making of the contract with Burton and Burge. On this evidence we were held for trial on September 12, in bonds of $3,000 each.

Gov. Smith, our counsel, strongly urged us to retain Jason B. Brown, Esq., to which suggestion we assented. He himself went to Kansas City and St. Joseph, Mo., to obtain depositions in our behalf. These were secured from reputable citizens of those cities, and established the fact that we were not in the state of Indiana at the time Deputy swore that we had defrauded him.

The trial came off on the day appointed. Our consciousness of innocence made us confident, and we asked for no delay. Deputy repeated his story as told at the preliminary hearing, adding this time that when he first saw us we all wore false whiskers and wigs and all had our clothes stuffed out until we must have resembled a group of veritable Daniel Lamberts. He not only made the same damaging admissions as before on cross-examination, but also acknowledged that he had agreed to pay the prosecuting attorney $500 in the event of our conviction, or 25 per cent. of any money that we might pay by way of compromise.

Burge, the North Vernon liveryman, from whom the three swindlers had hired rigs, swore that we looked like the precious trio. He also testified to the fact that a gray horse was attached to one of the buggies. In this latter statement he was corroborated by all the witnesses but one, who, however, was positive in his identification of us. Others swore to having seen us in the neighborhood about the time of the robbery. This constituted the case for the state.

For the defence, were read the depositions taken in Missouri, which have been already referred to as establishing an alibi on the part of Kerns, and in addition witnesses were introduced in behalf of Forbes and myself, who swore positively that we were both at St. Joseph, Missouri, on the day when the complaining witness was defrauded. Among these were Harry Trimble, now the clerk of Judge Baker’s court in Chicago, and James Whitten, a responsible real estate owner of St. Joseph, both of whom were well acquainted with me. It is worthy of remark that Mr. Trimble was immediately arrested on the charge of perjury after giving his testimony, but it is needless to add that he was never tried.

In addition, a number of prominent citizens of North Vernon who had seen and remembered the men who had swindled Deputy were positive that we were not the parties. Among these was a Mr. Curtis, a wealthy stock man and the marshal of the town; another was a responsible merchant, and yet another Mr. Douglas Snodgrass, proprietor of the Snodgrass House at North Vernon, where the swindlers had stopped on the day of the perpetration of the crime, and where one of them had stayed for a week previously. The latter was corroborated[corroborated] by his wife, mother and three sisters.

After being repeatedly urged by me, my counsel, Honorable Jason B. Brown, called for the production of the contract between Deputy and the prosecuting attorney, in which demand he was sustained by the court. The attorney, Douglas Long, rising with flushed face and hang-dog air admitted the existence of the contract but stated that it was not in his power to produce it. This satisfied the court and the matter was not pressed.

While the trial was in progress, I observed in the court room the presence of a man whose name and residence were subsequently learned. He was one Higgins, and he came from Detroit. It was also afterwards ascertained that he had attended in the interest of Charles Stewart, Ed. Rice and “Punch” Mason, the actual robbers. He appeared nervous and deeply interested, and before the proceedings were over left the town, ostensibly for Detroit, saying that he was going for the purpose of raising money to clear the three innocent men then on trial. Although he did not return, this incident furnished a clue to the guilty parties and their whereabouts. After the rendition of the verdict, I laid these facts before Sheriff Byrnes and warrants were obtained for the arrest of the parties named.

Our trial consumed five days, and during its entire progress popular sentiment against us ran very high. In the streets of Brownstown, the demonstrations were almost riotous. Bonfires were lighted in the evening and threats of violence were freely and openly made. The jurymen were undoubtedly aware of these facts and were probably not uninfluenced by them. We were informed that no man charged with crime, however innocent he might be, could be acquitted in Brownstown “unless he brought his jury with him,” and were asked to advance thirty-five dollars to be used in “convincing” seven of the jurors.

After the evidence was all in, my counsel, Col. Brown, addressed the jury in stentorian tones. His plea was alleged to be in our behalf, but at its close I found it necessary to ask him on which side of the case he had been speaking. The prosecuting attorney demanded a conviction (in which he was ably seconded by the howling mob outside), the jury, and the twelve “good men and true” withdrew from the courtroom, ostensibly to weigh the evidence, but in reality to formulate a predetermined verdict of guilty. Their foreman announced their conclusion (?) upon their return, and the farce was over. For some unexplained reason Col. Brown had retired from the room, during the absence of the jury, and it devolved upon Lieut. Gov. Smith to make the stereotyped motion for a new trial, which was promptly over-ruled.

The verdict fell with crushing effect upon my wife, who had been at Brownstown throughout the trial, and whose natural grief at the conviction of a husband whom she knew to be innocent, was rendered more poignant by the reflection that she and her only child would be now thrown upon the “cold mercy of an unfeeling world.”

I made a personal appeal to the presiding judges to defer sentence, urging that I would be able to introduce additional and stronger proof of my innocence, and in all probability to trace the parties really guilty. My prayer was of no avail, and we were then and there sentenced to three years’ imprisonment in the penitentiary at Jeffersonville. I forbear to comment upon what I feel satisfied the reader will agree with me in regard to the indecent haste of these proceedings.

That night we passed in the county jail, which was doubly guarded, with a view to our protection against the angry, yelling crowd outside, which surged backward and forward through the streets, rending the air with demoniac shouts and clamoring for our execution by the light of the great bonfire, whose livid flames danced fitfully upon the walls of our prison. The next morning, in charge of Sheriff P. T. Byrnes, one of nature’s nobleman, we started for Jeffersonville. We were permitted to stop at the Snodgrass House, to say good bye to the family who, at the risk of their own popularity and that of their hostelry had so zealously yet fruitlessly identified themselves with our cause. They had kind[kind] words for us in that hour of our humiliation[humiliation] and distress, and their generous sympathy stirred us as nothing yet—not even the murderous mob, thirsting for our blood—had stirred us; we broke down and wept. At Seymour the train was boarded by that matchless[matchless] orator, that eminent jurist, that advocate without a peer, the great, the only Col. Jason B. Brown. Words of honeyed cheer fell from his lips like rain, but alas, they were not as “water to a thirsty land.” We had lost faith in the redoubtable Colonel, and his assurance that he would “have us out of prison in a week” fell upon our ears like the hollow echo of a mocking laugh.

Arriving at the penitentiary, we went through the customary routine. The necessary descriptions were entered, the formal minute of our conviction, the county from which received, the crime charged, length of sentence, etc., etc., was made. We were given the regulation bath, duly shaved by the convict barber, and then we donned the stripes, that badge of infamy which burns into the soul as the branding iron into the quivering flesh. We were assigned to labor in the shoe-shop.

I feel that it would be folly for me to hope to convey to the reader who has never tasted of the bitterness of prison life even a faint idea of the feelings of him who for the first time enters the gloomy gates of a penitentiary to do the State involuntary service as a felon. The overwhelming sense of shame, the sickening feeling of isolation from all that makes life sweet, the bitter memories of the past that crowd, like a horde of mocking demons, upon the brain—all these might well plunge into an agony of despairing grief, a stouter heart than mine. Nor is the unvarying routine of prison life calculated to draw a man from that self-contemplation which is at once the most tiresome and the most dangerous of all mental exercises. I shall never be able to recall without a shudder those wearisome days of bootless toil, rendered all the more unbearable by the alternation of those dark nights of loneliness;—nights whose bleak shadows were deepened rather than dispelled by memories of home, of wife and child, and of all that the heart holds dear. It is out of the utter agony of such a life that the helpless soul turns to its Creator as its sole remaining refuge, or in the bitterness of its torment curses even Him who made it.

After Sheriff Byrnes had safely landed us in the penitentiary, he proceeded to Indianapolis[Indianapolis] with the warrants for the arrest of Stewart, Rice and Mason, for the purpose of securing requisitions for their surrender. I had had a surfeit not only of Indiana justice but of Indiana lawyers as well. I therefore wrote to St. Louis and retained the services of Ex-Gov. Johnson. He came to the prison and learned from me all the facts of the case. Forthwith he set about securing the extradition of the guilty parties from Canada, whither they had fled.[^[A]]

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[A]. In her anxiety to secure the release of her husband, Mrs. Kerns went to Detroit to see Higgins. Stewart was there in Windsor, Can., where Mrs. Kerns and Higgins found him. He politely handed her twenty dollars and told her to return home as “as every one must skin his own eel.” That was the only satisfaction she obtained.

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It will not be out of place here to recount the heroic and magnanimous (?) zeal which Col. Jason B. Brown displayed in our behalf in due time. Some three weeks after our incarceration he made his appearance at the penitentiary and requested an interview with us. He did not leave us long in ignorance as to the object of his visit. He told us that old Deputy had been in debt to the amount of about $6,000 before that unlucky day, when, at one fell swoop, he lost both his $3,000 and his confidence in mankind. “If,” said the Colonel, “Mr. Deputy’s debt could be squared up, I could arrange to have you pardoned in about ten days.” This generous proposal being “declined with thanks,” he suggested $3,000, and later $2,000 as a sum the payment of which might at once convincingly prove our penitence and measurably solace Mr. Deputy under his existing weight of misfortune. Finding his mission fruitless he left us, but subsequently opened a correspondence, in the course of which he offered to accept $1,000, which sum he gradually reduced to $300, as the price which we were to pay in consideration of being pardoned for an offense which we had never committed. These letters, of course, were read by Mr. James Patton, the warden of the prison, who advised us to have nothing to do with Col. Brown, inasmuch as he was quite as likely to oppose our pardon as to champion it.

Meanwhile, requisition papers had been obtained from the Governor and sent to Detroit by Sheriff Byrnes. The Detroit authorities showed great vigilance. A watch was placed upon the houses in that city where the families of the guilty parties resided, as well as upon their accustomed haunts. The result was that one night in November, 1887, Stewart and Rice were arrested at their homes and Mason at a gambling hell. Although a messenger was despatched to Rice to warn him of the impending danger, the police were on the alert, and he was brought to headquarters within a few hours after his confederates. Sheriff Byrnes was notified and went to Detroit at once. For five weeks the rascals fought extradition in the courts, and the sheriff was offered $1,000 to drop the prosecution, an offer which he indignantly spurned.

While in jail, the prisoners were photographed. Rice was obstinate and had to be held during the operation, in consequence of which the picture obtained showed him with closed eyes and open mouth. Poor as the likeness was, however, it was recognized by no less than ten persons as that of the man who had stopped at the Snodgrass House in North Vernon on the day when Deputy had been victimized. The other two were easily identified, and Stewart was recognized as the man who had boarded at that hotel for a week preceding the crime. When the Detroit court finally directed the surrender of the prisoners to the Indiana authorities, there ensued an attempt to rescue them by force, but the officers succeeded in placing them in a wagon in which they were driven to the Indiana State line. Albert Boebritz, a detective, and James J. Houston, a deputy sheriff, both of Detroit, accompanied the party to Brownstown.

The best legal talent of the State, including such eminent advocates as United States Senator Dan Voorhees and John Lamb, of Terre Haute, were engaged for the defense. The trial was had in January, 1888. The accused were positively identified by twenty-three reputable witnesses, among them all the members of the Snodgrass family. The fact of their driving out of town on the morning of the day of the robbery with two of Burge’s teams, was also established, and a liveryman from Kentucky testified to their having hired a rig from him.

It grieves me to say that the aged Deputy and Colonel Jason B. Brown did not appear in a favorable light in connection with the investigation. Relying upon the assurance that the nature of his evidence should be kept secret, the old farmer went before the grand jury and identified the men then accused, virtually admitting that he had lied while giving his testimony at our trial. It was also learned afterwards that the unsophisticated old man, under the tutelage of the astute Col. Jason B. Brown, had received from Stewart and company $1,000 not to appear as a witness against them at the trial, and had been promised the remaining $2,000 of his loss immediately upon their acquittal. Kerns, Forbes and myself were brought from the penitentiary to testify that we were not within the State at the time the crime was committed. Upon our parole to accompany the officers quietly and make no attempt to escape, we were permitted to go without hand-cuffs in custody of Deputy Warden Barnes and Mr. Lemons, one of the guards. At Brownstown we were kindly treated, occupying a private room in the sheriff’s house.

After the case of Stewart, Rice and Mason had been submitted to the jury and that body had deliberated for thirty-six hours, a ballot showed eleven for conviction and one for acquittal. Finally the jury returned, announcing that an agreement was impossible and they were discharged. It was understood that the final vote was nine to three in favor of conviction. Sheriff Byrnes had predicted a disagreement from the first. He had himself been offered $500 if he could induce the court to reduce the prisoners’ bonds to $1,000 each, and afterward said that he had learned that Philip Davis, one of the jurors, had been promised $300 and an increase in his pension if he would “hang” the jury. It is unnecessary to state that the sheriff rejected the offer, but the judge, Collins, saw fit, of his own motion, to make the desired reduction. The prisoners then gave bail and fled the country, their bonds being declared forfeited at the next term of court.

The officers of the penitentiary now took an active interest in securing our release. A strong petition for pardon based upon the allegation of our innocence, was addressed to Governor Gray and was endorsed by Senator Voorhees and John Lamb, counsel for Stewart, Rice and Mason, who not only wrote to, but also personally called upon, the executive, Governor Johnson of Missouri, rendered invaluable service in securing favorable action upon the petition. He demanded, not clemency, but justice. He had sifted and weighed all the evidence bearing upon the case, and he spoke with no uncertain sound. Words such as his, prompted by the deliberate judgment, unerring instincts and warm heart of one of the greatest criminal lawyers of the Mississippi Valley, could not fail to carry weight. The result was inevitable. The executive of the State in whose so-called courts of justice we had suffered such a grievious[grievious] wrong, restored to us our liberty and citizenship by his pardon. But to remove from us the stigma of the felon, to atone for the weary months of suffering which we had undergone, in a word, to put us back where we were upon the morning of that day when we first became entangled in the machinations of that diabolical plot,—these were boons which even this great seal of the Sovereign State of Indiana could not bestow.

In a private letter written by Governor Johnson some months ago in reference to this matter he says:

St. Louis, May 4, 1889.

Dear Sir:—Your letter of inquiry as to Mr. John Quinn is received. Permit me to say in response, that if ever there was a case of judicial wrong and oppression, he has the misfortune of affording the illustration. At the solicitation of his friends I became his attorney after conviction and sentence, and visited him in prison, at Jeffersonville, Indiana, where I heard the statement of the facts in his case. I immediately went to work to find out the truth of the recital. I examined into the matter exhaustively and became convinced of his innocence of the perpetration of the crime charged against him. I collected all the facts and circumstances going to show that my opinion was correct and worthy of consideration, and in laying them before Gov. Gray, of Indiana, he righted a great wrong and pardoned him. He is not the first man in my experience who has suffered so great a misfortune. I am very truly yours,

Chas. P. Johnson, Atty.

Of my prison life I care to say but little here. Not that my memory of it has grown indistinct, or that I might not say something that would awaken interest. To dwell upon it in detail in this place would swell to too great dimensions a sketch which has already outgrown my original intention. It is enough to say that I was what is known as a “good” convict, respectful in my demeanor to the officials and yielding unhesitating obedience to every command. I think that I do not exaggerate when when I say that I won and retained the confidence of the officers, from whom I received every kindness compatible with the necessarily inexorable discipline of a penal institution. I shall always recall with gratitude the generous words of encouragement repeatedly spoken to me by the warden and his deputy and by many of the guards, and notably from Messrs. Miller and Wilkinson. In the solitude of my workbench and cell I had ample leisure to reflect upon the follies of my youth, and the graver offences of my maturer years. My wasted life, with its miserable vacillation of purpose, passed before me in all its shameful reality of color. While cleaning out the rubbish from under my bench one day, I picked up a battered Testament, upon the fly leaf of which were written the words, “From your broken-hearted wife.” The entire sacred volume contains no more touching epitome of a blighted existence than was laid before me in this inscription, with its pregnant suggestion of early love, girlish confidence, marriage, womanly love, home, perhaps paternity, crime, misery, punishment, and, at the end, the despair of a broken heart. But I do not intend to moralize. It is enough to say that within those four stone walls in which I passed so many sleepless nights, and behind that grated door which so effectually barred all communication with the outer world, I felt the first emotions of what I still believe to have been true penitence. To prove it such shall be the aim of my future life. Acting under these newly found impulses, I became the teacher of a Sunday school class, and was one of the ten convicts who founded, under the supervision of Chaplain Bornhill, a Young Men’s Christian Association[Association] within the prison walls. I was made assistant librarian—under Mr. Martin, a lifetime prisoner—and entrusted with the writing of a considerable proportion of prisoner’s letters to their friends.

I entered the penitentiary on Sept. 19, 1887, and just two months afterwards I received the most severe blow of my life. It happened on Thanksgiving day. On the recurrence of anniversaries such as this, one’s mind naturally reverts to thoughts of home and kindred. On this particular day I was lying upon my prison bunk, lost in a day dream of my wife and child, when my musings were suddenly broken off by the abrupt announcement of the death of my darling, my only, boy. The shock of the awakening was too great for me to endure, and I fell senseless on the stone pavement of my cell, nor was I able for days to realize the overwhelming force of the blow that had stunned me.

I have already said that my wife was with me during my trial at Brownstown. She also visited me twice during my imprisonment in the penitentiary, and on both occasions had expressed unshaken confidence in my innocence and had assured me of her unswerving fidelity to her early love. Very precious to me were these pledges of undying constancy, and on my part I had vowed that not even death itself should ever abate my love for her. Her letters, down to April 15, 1888, overflowed with tender sentiment. She gently chided me for even seeming to question her devotion to me in my hour of darkest need. It may conceived, therefore, with what mingled emotions of astonishment and grief I received from her, on May 5, the following letter:

“Chicago, May 5th, 1888.

John:

Yours received. I had hoped your attorney would inform you of my intentions. * * * I have studied long and earnestly, and have concluded that this is best for me. I do this of my own free will. It was my intention to wait until you were free, but it is best to be candid with you now. You know the way we have lived in our six years of married life. There was nothing but sorrow and poverty. You took me from a good home, to which I have returned, and I hope you will leave me in peace. Heaven knows I pity you, but look deep into your heart, and see if you can drag my young life further, as it has been. I don’t wish you to blame anyone for this but myself, and I don’t wish to have further correspondence with you. If you have anything further to say you can say it through your attorney; but don’t expect a reply, as I have filed for a divorce. Wishing you good luck and a speedy release, I am,

Yours respectfully,

Mrs. Lily Quinn.”

This blow, following close upon the death of my little boy, well nigh prostrated me. I saw that I was also to lose my wife. Only the Searcher of all hearts knows the depth of my affection for the mother of my child, since whose death she had seemed doubly dear to me. The thought of her had been, next to my newly found trust in an all-merciful Providence, my main-stay amid the misfortunes which had engulfed me; and when I had thought of my release from prison (and at what hour of the day did I not think of it?), I had looked forward to her affectionate companionship as the only refuge and solace of my earthly life.

I well knew on what grounds she would demand her divorce. The State of Indiana had branded me as a convict, and this was enough, in the eye of the law, to release her from a yoke which she had come to regard as galling. Defence was impossible. Nor did I hope to be able to move her heart by entreaty. Yet I could not forbear to write to her once again, even if only to say farewell. As this last letter of mine embodies my inmost feeling at the time, I venture to hope that the reader who has honored me with his interest up to this point of my narrative may pardon me if I transcribe it here. It ran as follows:

“Jeffersonville Penitentiary, May 13, 1888.

My Dear Wife:

I feel that I cannot say anything to do justice in this case. But as an act of justice to God and our child in heaven; to you in Chicago, to myself in the penitentiary, I will make this feeble effort.

I am alone in my little home—a cell of 6 by 8 feet,—suffering my own afflictions, and knowing it is far beyond my power to touch your strange heart in sympathy; after what you have done to one you once loved, and one who loves you still.

I do not blame you for trying to get my attorney to impart the sad information to me, for your own conscience’s sake. I know it was a hard trial to tell me what you have written, knowing I am innocent of the crime for which I am placed here.

You tell me you did it with your own free will. Let us not question the cause, but the effect. It is—that much we know. You say: “Heaven knows I pity you.” If this is what you call pity, Heaven forgive those who despise. You say, “I took you from a good home, and from a father and mother who love you.” You ask me to look deep into my heart; that I have done. Never did I forsake a friend while in trouble.

Let me ask you to seek seclusion in your own unhappy reflection. Sit down quietly and let conscience penetrate the deepest recesses of your heart, and you will right this terrible wrong. You act as though God was asleep, and his all-merciful care was dormant.

You say you do not wish any further correspondence with me. Are you so cruel after exchanging so many testimonials of affection with me during the past six years? There is a letter in the office, addressed “Dear Wife” to you. There is a little boy above us, looking down on us both.

You have clung to me in many trials of adversity, and have proved to be a brave, sweet little woman. I have neglected God for you, and it may be better that this has happened now, for the day might come when I would be dependent on you, and you cast me into the poor house.

When I go out of this prison I shall begin a new life; as the woodsman in the forest hews out a new home. Where, I do not know, but will trust to the kind hand of Providence to direct me. You conclude your letter by saying you wish me “good luck and a speedy release.” I thank you for that. You know I am overpowered, I surrender. I am not a William Tell, and feel that any attempt to keep your affections would be ineffectual.

I have had many trials. I have dwelt in the mansion of sorrow and pain. I have associated with the neglected and forsaken here, and have listened to the sad stories of those whom their wives have forsaken, with tears in my eyes. But the husbands of these wives were guilty.

But that my own dear wife, whom I love so devotedly, should forsake me in the hour of trouble, when she knows I am innocent, is a heaviness of sorrow of which there can be no avoidance,—the severity of a mental torture from which there can be no escape. It forms a complication of horrors that will impel me to a convict’s grave.

Since you have turned from this scene of distress, it has shown me that interest alone moves you, since by your actions you punish misfortune as crime, and raise crime to a level with misfortune. Have you forgotten the last night in the jail at Brownstown, where you said you would never forsake me, knowing that I was not guilty? Did you not tell Mrs. Withy you would never forsake me? No, never; that I had been so good to you? And so many letters I have received to the same effect. Your letter before the last one addresses me as “Dear husband.” * * * Quite a change in so short a time.

Let us hope that mamma, Georgie and papa may some time occupy one of those beautiful mansions prepared by the Friend of sinners, which will prove as happy as the one at 1405 Olive Street, four years ago the 29th of last April, when our child was born. O, wife; if you could only stand at the foot of my old straw bed and hear my cries, you would weep for me.

Did we then think that this would ever happen? No, no, no. If I had thought so, you would have heard the cries and groans, and witnessed the streaming tears, and more than mortal anguish of a broken-hearted husband, who is now in the penitentiary, innocent, yet forsaken by the mother of his child, my wife.

The fatal blow falls hard upon me. In this hour of my deepest woe, weakness seems to have seized upon me for my total destruction. Every poisoned shaft, which malice could invent, has been hurled against me.

Our child has been dead nearly six months, and I have not yet heard the story of his sickness. You began it in one of your letters (now before me) when the doctor came in and told you that he would not live thirty-six hours. You screamed, and the poor little darling put his arms around your neck and said: “Mamma, don’t cry; I won’t die.” You then walked him over and showed him my picture, and asked him who it was. “That’s my papa,” was the reply. * * *

When I realize that you know I am innocent and utterly powerless, I shrink with pain to think that the wound of my child’s death has only began to heal when it is made to bleed afresh from the blow of an iron hammer in the hands of my wife, the mother of my child. * * *

You have filed an application for divorce. Now comes the struggle. I love you too well to oppose it if you ask for it. If you have asked for it because I am in the penitentiary, change your complaint, for you will have to make oath, and you know I am innocent, to which you must swear. * * * Place it upon any other grounds and I will sign the necessary papers.

Of course it is nothing to you now whether I stay here or not. I may tell you that Mrs. Forbes and Mrs. Kerns will be here to meet their husbands at the old iron door, and take them back to their affection. Who will meet me and take my hand? I will stand alone. Where will I go? * * * If you won’t come send Fankie (an adopted boy). I will let him tell me what to do.

May God forgive and direct you in the path of virtue and truth, is the prayer of your affectionate husband.

John Quinn.

P. S.—I will say good-bye with the last words of our baby’s prayer: ‘God[‘God] bless mamma and papa, grandma and grandpa, and everybody. Amen.’”[Amen.’”]

I was pardoned November 9, 1888, and two days later, when the long hoped for document reached the prison, I was discharged. I was at liberty, but carried in my heart a double desolation. Not for me did the sun shine and the face of Nature smile. In a cemetery at St. Louis was a little grave that held the sacred dust of the being once dearest to me on earth, and in my heart I carried the tomb of a buried hope.

My foreman in the prison shop, Mr. George H. Eastman, welcomed me to liberty, and invited me to his house, where I was most hospitably entertained for a week. I next went to St. Louis, but remained only one day; long enough to gaze once more at the home where I had last lived with my wife and child, now gone from me forever. A sense of utter loneliness came over me; the world seemed strange; my identity was all that I could call my own.

From St. Louis I came to Chicago, where I sought out my old friend and quondam partner, Ben Demint, whose warm greeting was a cordial to my heart, and under the influence of whose genial encouragement I began to look upon the world as not altogether lost.

Two objects were uppermost in my mind. One was to prepare and deliver a lecture, in which I might demonstrate my innocence of the crime of which I had been convicted; the other was to publish a work on gambling, through which I might, by exposing the cheats and frauds of the professional gamester, deter others from entering upon the path “whose gates take hold on Hell.” My first lecture was delivered in the auditorium of the First M. E. Church, at Chicago, on the evening of Monday, May 20, 1889. My book (the present volume) is before the public.

The fact that I was contemplating issuing the present volume became known to some members of the “profession” in Chicago a year ago, and on June 27, 1889, about ten o’clock in the forenoon, I was arrested by detectives Kehoe and Flynn, without the shadow of a charge having been preferred against me. For five hours I was deprived of my liberty. What a commentary upon the nature of the relations existing between the “profession” and the custodians of public morals.

In this connection I desire to return thanks to John Cameron Simonds, Esq., and Mr. Matthew W. Pinkerton, of Chicago, for their generous intervention in my behalf. To their kind efforts I owe my speedy release.

During my lifetime I have thus far been called upon to mourn the loss of father and mother, three brothers—Dick, Robert and Victor—and two sisters—Laura and Roma. Of eight children, but three of us survive, George Sidney, who still lives in Randolph County, Missouri, where he was born and reared; Hatsel Seldon, at present at Hot Springs, Arkansas, and myself.

To the press of Chicago, which so kindly encouraged him in his early ventures in the lecture field, the author desires to express his grateful acknowledgements. Unknown and friendless, he felt the timidity incident to one inexperienced in public speaking, and who carried in his breast the knowledge of his own past wrong-doing. But the journals of the city in which he made his maiden effort, those leaders and exponents of public sentiment, sustained him, and their words of commendation imparted to him fresh courage.

I hardly know how better to close this recital of a part whose shameful recollections might well overcome a stouter heart than mine, than by the following quotation from an old verse-writer, which have long floated through my memory. They present, in homely language, a truth which strikes a responsive chord in the heart of every man who is not panoplied in serene satisfaction with his own virtues. The lines run as follows:

“Thou may’st conceal thy sin by cunning art,

Which will disturb thy peace, thy rest undo;

Yet conscience sits a witness in thy heart;

And she is witness, judge and prison too.”