“Huh!” he grunted. He felt for the watch, took it out of its pocket, “hefted” it in his hand, and put it back. “You keep your face to that fence till I get out of the block or I’ll ‘spray’ you with this automatic.”
I did.
That’s the way I deal with a stick-up man.
There is no way I know of to protect yourself from the starving moron who pounces on you out of a dark doorway, knocks you on the head with a “blunt instrument,” and goes through your pockets after you are on the sidewalk. That kind of “work” is unprofessional, unnatural, and disgusting, and does not concern me. The psychiatrist might explain and classify it; I cannot.
After circulating around with my pistol for a few months I was arrested and, almost by chance, identified as a fugitive from California justice. In short order I was brought back to San Francisco.
The first man that came to see me in the city prison was Sam Newburgh, the attorney who had my case when I escaped from the jail.
Two days before I had escaped, the last fifty-dollar payment on his fee had come due. At that time I was almost sure I would escape and get away without any trouble, and I was tempted to defer this payment and put him off until later, because I saw I would have use for the fifty dollars myself.
But when he came out to the jail I paid it to him.
He remembered this, and when I was brought back he was the first man there to see me. To my surprise and delight, he told me that my legal status was just about the same as when I left. My appeal was still pending.
I had some thoughts that Mr. Older might feel I had abused his confidence in leaving the jail, when he was trying to do something for me. But he knew at the time that I was turned down by every one and didn’t have a chance of getting my liberty, so I hoped he would understand.