“Arrest that man.”
Instantly a rough hand was upon my shoulder. I demanded of the man, “Why do you arrest me? I have done no wrong.” But my appeal for release was absolutely ignored.
I resolved not to reveal my identity to anyone, and was taken half a block down the street, where a patrol wagon was waiting, in which were seated seven other unfortunate, homeless men like myself. Remember, the patrol wagon was waiting for me a half block away from the “Star of Hope Mission”! Why? Because it was so much more respectable than to have it waiting for the victims of the Mission in front of its door.
After I had been forced into the wagon, while it passed the bright street lamps I studied the faces of my unlucky companions in crime. All these young fellows were between the ages of eighteen and thirty-three and were skilled workers. As I looked upon them I immediately recognized one of them as a young fellow to whom I had spoken that afternoon while looking for work. He, also, was in the same condition that I was in, stranded and homeless. He told me the police, that very day, ordered him out of town but because of his ill health he was unable to walk. He also said that he was afraid to risk going into the railroad yards to get a freight, as the police were liable to arrest him, so as the night was very cold, fearing with his poor health that it might be fatal if he should sleep outdoors, he finally decided to go to the “Star of Hope Mission,” where, as a sick man, instead of being given relief and shelter, he was thrown into prison.
Arriving at the jail, we were immediately searched. While the night captain took my record, I told him that I was there, not because of having committed any crime, or as a political critic, but simply to study the conditions of the unemployed in the city; to study the chances of an honest workingman, temporarily out of work and without means to get the necessaries of life in Houston. Having never heard of me, the Captain gave me an audible smile of suspicion and ordered me thrown into the bull-pen, a dungeon of almost utter darkness.
The docket of the Houston City Jail for the night of November 28, 1910, has the names of eight victims of the “Star of Hope Mission,” including myself. They were all run in by the Mission because they were unfortunate enough to be without a night’s resting-place, and had appealed to this so-called Christian institution, maintained supposedly for the express purpose of sheltering homeless boys and men.
While in jail I interviewed most of my fellow victims, and learned that not one of them had ever been in jail before. The torture of their humility was clear to me, for while speaking to them, they continually reverted to kind parents and a loving home. We were all sitting or lying down on the stone floor, as there was no other accommodation. While all of them were gloomily silent, I remarked:
“Well, cheer up boys, this is not so bad. It might be worse.”
One of them quickly answered, “You’re right, Mister. I hope they won’t let us out until morning for I have no place to go.”
Then I said, “Supposing we were in a condemned prisoner’s cell and were to be put to death to-morrow,” and one of them quickly replied, “I wouldn’t care if we were for I have nothing to live for anyway.”