Ed became a pickpocket right after he left school. From the reform school to the house of refuge, from the house of refuge to the state reformatory, from the reformatory to the penitentiary, he has climbed all the rungs of the ladder of crime.
He soon discovered that "lonesome," single-handed thieves were crushed in the struggle, so he joined the Benevolent Association for Mutual Protection of "dips" and "guns," paid his dues, and then when he was caught, he got off with a light sentence. His return to prison was part of the game; he came back philosophically, as a travelling salesman returns to his favorite hostelry, as an intermittent but familiar visitor, recognized by the keepers and convicts, and knowing all the ropes along the prison line of least resistance.
Ed barely looks his age, although his face bears the stamp of his dissipated life and the mannerisms peculiar to his breed. He is a perfect fruit of the criminal system. Sodden with all the sexual perversities acquired in prison, he has finally caught the white plague, is afflicted with several venereal diseases, and has become an inveterate dope fiend. Although keen of intelligence, he seems to be without moral prop or ideal of any kind; coldly and cynically he surveys society as his natural prey, his rightful enemy, and an object of his revenge.
Morally, intellectually and physically as crooked and shifty as a mountain trail, he seems utterly beyond redemption, human or divine.
II
The view from the hospital window shows the bridge on the right; in front, the row of cheap tenement houses and streets abutting on the river front from the forties to the sixties; and on the left, looming out of the city-scape, appears the Metropolitan tower. Behind the innumerable painted signs on the river front, the Cathedral on Fifth Avenue, the Plaza Hotel and the St. Regis can be seen distinctly; the Times Building is also vaguely outlined. In the daytime the sight is commonplace; but after the sun, like an enormous ball of fire, has dipped behind the city line back of the streets in the fifties, the scene becomes inspiring to a painter.
The shadows, full of greens and purples, cover as with a charitable veil all the ugly details of the river front; the skyline becomes darker, as if cut out with monster scissors; the sky appears more resplendent and luminous with gorgeous tints, until the fiery blaze slowly dies out, and bluish tints, gray and purple predominate; and then the city lights, those on the bridge and in the Metropolitan tower, shimmer like innumerable stars.
Sometimes with a clear sky, sometimes in fog, in a snow storm, in rain or in clear moonlight, every night for ten months I have watched an ever recurring picturesque metamorphosis.
Through the north window I have watched the dawn come up behind the Queensboro bridge, and seen the sun appear like an enormous Japanese lantern of pure vermilion—a sight to gladden the heart of a Claude Monet.