“I felt queer when we began to get back into Chicago. In some ways I always liked the city; I guess ever’one does, no matter how rough it is. And I couldn’t help feelin’ kind of good to see the streets and fac’tries and shops again; and still I felt bad, too. I knew that ever’one in the town was turned against me, and I didn’t have a friend anywhere. We’d got the Chicago papers as we’d come along and they was full of all kinds of stories and pictures about me, and some things that I’d said, ‘though I’d never talked a word to anyone.
“The papers said that they hoped there’d be none of the usual long delays in tryin’ my case, that I was a brutal murderer, and there wa’n’t no use of spendin’ much time over me. Of course, I ought to have a fair and impartial trial, but I ought to be hung without delay, and no sentimental notoriety-huntin’ people ought to be allowed to see me. They wished that a judge could be found who had the courage to do his duty, and do it right off quick. I had already been indicted, and there wa’n’t nothin’ to do but place me on trial next day, and the verdict would be reached in a few days more. It was unfortunate that the law allowed one hundred days before a murderer could be hung after trial; that the next legislature must change it to ten days; that would be plenty of time for anyone to show that a mistake had been made in their trial, even if he was locked up all the time. The papers said how that the Anti-Crimes Committee was to be congratulated on havin’ found a good lawyer to assist the state in the prosecution, and that the lawyer was a good public spirited man and ought to be well paid for his disagreeable work.
“The papers told all about the arrest down in Georgia, and how the marshal and a force of citizens followed me into the swamp and what a desperate fight I made, and how many people I’d knocked down and ‘most killed, until I was finally overpowered and taken in irons to the county jail.
“I can’t make you understand how I felt when they was bringin’ me into town. We come along down the old canal where we used to stone the frogs and the geese and all along the places where us boys used to play. Then we come down through the yards where I used to work, and right past the house where I left that night with the kid sleepin’ in the bedroom. That was the hardest part of all the trip, and I tried to turn away when we come down along back of the barn by the alley; but it seemed as if something kind of drew my eyes around that way, and I couldn’t keep ‘em off’n the spot. And I thought about ever’thing I done there just in a flash, and even wondered how long the old horse was tied in the barn before they found him, and whether he got all the potatoes et up before he was took away. But I looked away as quick as I could and watched all the streets as we passed, to see if I could see anyone I knew. I felt pretty sure that I wouldn’t leave Chicago again, and I guess I never will.
“Pretty soon they pulled into the big depot, and the train stopped and we got off. I wa’n’t expectin’ nothin’ in the station, but when we landed the whole place was filled back of the gate, and I could see that they was looking for me. The crowd was about like one that I was in down there once when McKinley come to Chicago. A squad of policemen come down to meet us, and they got us in the middle of the bunch and hurried us into a patrol wagon. I could hear the crowd sayin’, ‘That’s him; that’s the murderer; let’s lynch him!’—‘He don’t deserve a trial! Let’s hang him first and then try him’—‘The miserable brute!’ ‘The contemptible coward!’—I guess if it hadn’t been for all the policemen I’d have been lynched, and mebbe ‘twould have been just as well. ‘Twouldn’t have taken so long, nor cost so much money. Anyhow, I wish now they’d done it and then it would be all over; and now—well, ‘twon’t be long.
“There was a lot of people in the street and every one of ‘em seemed to know who was in the patrol-wagon, and they walked all the way over, and lots of little boys follered the wagon clear to the jail; then the newsboys on the street kep’ yellin’, ‘All ‘bout the capture of Jim Jackson! Extra paper!’ and it seemed as if the whole town was tryin’ to kill me. Somehow I hadn’t realized how ‘twas as I come ‘long, and, in fact, ever since I went away. Of course, I knew how bad the killin’ was, and how ever’one must feel, and how I wished I hadn’t done it, and how I’d have done anything on earth to make it different, but all the time I’d been away from the people that knew all about it, and I didn’t somehow realize what they’d do. But when I come back and seen it all I felt just as if there was a big storm out on the lake and I was standin’ on the shore and all the waves was comin’ right over me and carryin’ me away.
“Well, they didn’t lose any time but drove as fast as they could down Dearborn Street over the bridge to the county jail. Then they hustled me right out and took me straight through the crowd up to the door; the Dearborn Street door (that’s the one you came in, I s’pose), and they didn’t wait hardly a minit to book me, but hurried me up stairs and locked me in a cell, and I haven’t seen the outside of the jail since, and I don’t s’pose I ever will.”
Jim stopped as if the remembrance of it all had overpowered him. Hank didn’t know what to say, so he got up and walked a few turns back and forth along the cell, trying to get it all through his clouded mind. Such a night as this he had never dreamed of, and he could not yet realize what it meant. The long story and the intense suffering seemed to have taken all the strength that Jim had left.
Hank turned to him with an effort to give him some consolation. “Say, Jim, don’t take it too hard. You know there ain’t much in it for any of us, and most people has more trouble than anything else. Lay down a little while; you can tell me the rest pretty soon.”
“No,” Jim answered, “I ain’t got through; I can’t waste any time. It must be gettin’ along toward mornin’, and you see I don’t know just when it’ll be. They seem to think it’s treatin’ us better if they don’t tell us when, only just the day. Then you know, they can come in any time after midnight. They could break in now if they wanted to, but I s’pose they’ll give me my breakfast first, though they won’t wait long after that. Well, I ain’t got any right to complain, and I don’t mean to, but I s’pose I feel like anyone else would.”