“At San Quentin, in the jute mill.”
He knew all about me and put me to work as salesman in the book department. I knew something about books—I had been librarian at the county jail. I was honest—hadn’t stolen any of Graney’s money. I felt perfectly at ease among the books, and made good. Book selling grew dull later, and I was slated for a transfer to another department. At the manager’s office I was told that the only vacancy was on the ribbon counter. I looked in a mirror on the wall and saw a face in it that didn’t seem to belong behind the ribbon counter.
I said: “Mr. Schlesinger, this is a great life if you know when to weaken. I think this is where I’ll weaken.”
At lunch time I saw Mr. Older and told him about it. Fortunately, there was a vacancy at the Bulletin in the circulation department just then and I got the job. I left the Emporium with the best wishes and good will of everybody I met there. When Mr. Older became editor of The Call he found a place there for me as librarian; I still have that job.
In thirteen years I have learned to work—some day I may learn to like it. Yet it is so easy and simple and safe and secure that I now wonder how any man coming out of prison could think of doing anything else. The pity of it is that so many ex-prisoners who do think of trying to work can’t get it. I take no credit whatever for going to work. I could have done that years before.
I quit stealing and learned working because I was in a hole where I could not do otherwise. I was in hock to friends who saved me from a heavy sentence, provided me with work, and expected only that I stay out of jail. That’s not asking much of a man—to keep out of jail. The judge who cut my sentence took a greater chance than I ever did. If I had gone back “sticking up” people, the judge’s critics could have said that he, and he alone, made it possible—and that’s precisely why I quit.
If I had stolen Graney’s, the Emporium’s, or the Bulletin’s money, they could have said that Older made it possible, and had I been tempted to steal that thought would have stopped me. I cannot say I quit stealing because I knew it was wrong. I quit because there was no other way for me to discharge the obligations I had accepted. Whatever measure of reformation I have won is directly due to Fremont Older and Judge Dunne of the Superior Court. They took a chance on me, a long chance, and it will be a long time before they regret it. Fremont Older has been a rock in a weary land to me, and Judge Dunne has been a shelter in the time of storm.
It has been easy for me. The noble woman who found me rotting in jail physically and mentally is still my friend, I am proud to say. The kindly Christian couple who gave me a home with them in San Francisco and treated me as a son are still my friends. Friends everywhere, to help and advise and encourage. Even friends from the road and the jungles drop into my office and shake hands and say: “More power to you, old-timer. You’re sure makin’ good. I’m goin’ to try it myself some day.”
My feuds with the police are dead and buried. No copper has bothered me or obstructed me. Many of them have offered in good faith to help me. And so I say it has been easy for me to go on the square. I speak only of my own experience; others may not have been so fortunate in finding friends.
I wish I could sift out a few grains of wisdom from my life that would help people to help prisoners, and help prisoners to help themselves, but I can’t find them. I don’t know. All I can say with certainty is that kindness begets kindness, and cruelty begets cruelty. You can make your choice and reap as you sow.