NED LYONS IN DISGUISE
The next morning, of course, the whole prison knew of the escape.
"If I get out I'll have you out in a few weeks," Ned had promised, and every day I was expecting some word from him.
As time went on, the confidence the matron and the doctor had in me seemed to increase rather than diminish. Soon I was allowed to accompany the matron's little daughters on long walks through the grounds outside the prison, and even as far as the village.
On one of these walks my attention was attracted by the peculiar actions of an old Indian peddler. He was a copper-colored, long-haired old chief, with Indian baskets and strings of beads on his arms. As soon as the girls and I stepped out of the prison gate this queer looking, bent old man singled us out from all the rest of the crowd and began following us about, urging us with muffled grunts to buy some of the bead goods he carried in a basket strapped around his neck.
I thought he was crazy and told him very emphatically that I didn't want any of his trash. But this did not discourage him in the least, and he dogged our footsteps wherever we went.
At last—more to be rid of the old fellow than because I wanted anything he had—I selected from his stock a pair of bead slippers.
As I handed him the money I felt him press a little folded slip of paper into the hollow of my hand.
Quick as a flash I closed my fingers over it, and in that instant I recognized—under the old Indian peddler's clever disguise—my husband, Ned Lyons.
He had come back to the very gates of the prison from which he had escaped to bring this message to me!
Kate Leary, wife of "Red" Leary, the bank burglar, was coming to see me soon—so the note said. I was to have my plans for escape all ready to discuss with her.
Now, the only way of getting out of my prison I had been able to discover was through a door which led from a little used passageway in the basement of the matron's house to a point just outside the prison walls.
This door—a massive, iron-barred affair—was seldom if ever opened. The big brass key which unlocked it hung with other keys from a ring suspended at the matron's belt.
Kate Leary could easily have a duplicate of that key made, but first I must secure a model of the original. This wasn't a difficult task—I had often done similar tricks to aid my husband in his bank robberies. I slipped into the matron's room while she was taking a nap and took a careful impression of the key on a piece of wax.
In due time Kate Leary brought the key which had been carefully made from my wax model. At the first opportunity I tried it—it fitted the rusty old lock perfectly! Hiding the key away as carefully as I ever hid any stolen diamonds, I waited impatiently for the night set for my escape.
It came at last. Between 6 and 7 o'clock was the hour, because then my household duties frequently took me into the vicinity of the basement door. It was a crisp December evening. It had snowed heavily all day, and it was still snowing and was growing colder.
About 6:30 I heard a peculiar low whistle. That was the signal that the pair of horses and the sleigh which were to carry me away were waiting outside.
There was, of course, no opportunity to get my hat and coat. Luckily I was all alone in the lower house—upstairs I could hear the matron and her family laughing and talking over their dinner.
Putting down the tray of dishes I was carrying I snatched the key from its hiding place under a flour barrel and hurried noiselessly along the dark passageway to the door that led to liberty.
My heart was thumping with excitement—my fingers were trembling so that I could hardly find the keyhole. It seemed ages before the lock turned and I stepped out into the cold winter night.
Although every second was precious, I took the time to close the door behind me and lock it. By thus concealing the way I had gone I would delay my pursuers just so much.
From an open window above me floated the voice of one of the matron's little daughters as I picked my way through the snow, bareheaded and with house slippers, avoiding the regular path.
"Mamma," she was saying; "why doesn't Sophie bring the rest of my dinner?"
"She'll bring it in a minute," the mother replied.
I heaved a sigh of relief—quite evidently my absence had not yet caused any suspicion.
Hurling the key into a snowdrift, I ran to the waiting sleigh. Ned was standing beside the sleigh with a big warm fur coat outstretched in his arms. Without a word I slipped into the coat, hopped into the sleigh, and Ned gave the horses a clip with the whip and away we dashed toward Poughkeepsie.
The long fur coat and stylish hat which Ned had brought made me look like anything but an escaped convict. After a good warm supper at Poughkeepsie, we took the night train for New York and reached there safely the next morning.
And so we were free!
But what had we gained by our escape? We shall see.
When my husband first suggested his escape from Sing Sing he promised me that if he ever succeeded in getting out he would give up crime and turn to some honest and honorable work. That promise was made while his remorse was sharpened by his sudden change from high living to poor prison fare, and I was now to see how weak his good intentions really were.
After a few weeks in New York, where we received the warm congratulations of many friends on our escape from Sing Sing, we went to Canada to visit our children who were in school there. It was not long before our funds began to get low. I thought this a favorable time to remind my husband of his promises and to urge him to get some honest employment. But he would not listen to me.
"That would be all very well if I had any money," he said; "but I can't settle down until I have enough capital to give me a decent start. Wait until I do one more good bank job and then I will think about living differently."