“In Russia,” I said, “the beard is the patriarch’s badge of sanctity.”
“So it is in Jersey and several other States,” he replied. "Many a so-called hobo with two weeks’ growth of beard on his face may be at heart only a conscientious respecter of the law—for it is a misdemeanor in New Jersey to carry a razor. It is legally declared to be a concealed weapon. Many a poor rascal against whom a charge of vagrancy could not be maintained has found it so much the worse for him, and has been forced to go to prison for carrying concealed weapons in the form of a razor. So you see in Jersey, as well as in Russia, a beard may be only proof of honor.... The cleanly shaven man who knocks at your side door and wins the unsuspecting wife’s confidence with that time-worn platitude of Vagabondia, ‘Lady, all I want is work,’ may have a weapon concealed upon his person, while the unshaven wanderer, the sight of whom makes the women folks bolt doors, may be a homeless fellow who really wants work, and would rather be unkempt in appearance than chance a prison-term for carrying a razor."
“So you have sold your razor?” I asked.
“Not because I am trying to compete with your Russian patriarch in sanctity. I sold it because I’m desperate.”
“Then you were not afraid of the misdemeanor charge?”
He replied with a laugh that I did not like, and I felt quickly to see if my watch was still in my possession.
“I don’t want your watch,” he said, “but it isn’t the fear of doing time that holds me back. I know what my friend wrote about me. I have made up my mind to play square. You may not believe it. You have heard too many mission testimonies to believe much in them. But if I live right—it isn’t because my heart is softened, my heart is cold and hard as a paving block.”
“Your friend wrote that you weren’t such a bad fellow.”
"Don’t believe him. In Elmira they have a scheme of percentage, and if a man gets above a certain percent he can win his freedom. In the four years I was there I was safely within the required percentage—all I had to do was to continue my good behavior. I was within a few days of freedom. Did you ever sense hatred—pure hatred? Shylock felt it when he refused to accept money to cancel Antonio’s bond; when he would not listen to threats or entreaties, but only muttered, ‘I’ll have my pound of carrion flesh.’ I know what he felt. In the night, after weeks and weeks of patient study and labor—after months of good conduct, when I played their game and won the chance of freedom. In the night, without reason, I jumped from my bed and battered at the bars and yelled and cursed at them all, until they put me in the dungeon and took from me my high percent. I lost a year that time."