The sergeant went out, promising to “look into it right away.” Our cell—it was more like a room—was in a small corridor set apart for the women prisoners’ quarters. Down the hall I could hear them calling to each other and chatting back and forth from their cells. Somewhere a colored woman was singing a mournful dirge about “That Bad Stackalee.” The verses were endless. The point of the song seemed to be that the negro bully, Stackalee, had been killed with “a big forty-four gun over a damned old Stetson hat.” In the most harrowing tones at the end of every verse the singer moaned the sad refrain, “That ba-a-d Stackalee.”
Later I came to know that this song is a favorite among negroes when in great trouble, such as being locked in jail, being double-crossed by a friend, or parting with their money in a dice game. At such times thirty or forty verses of “Stackalee” invariably restores the laughing good humor and child-like confidence of the wronged one.
We heard a rattling of keys and a door opening. George put the side of his face against the cell door, so he could see down the hall.
“Get your hat, kid; here they are.”
The detective came up with my two bosses—the milkman and Tex, the gambler. The trusty opened the door.
“Out you go,” said the detective, “and the next time you get jammed up say something before you get thrown in. Holler before you’re hurt; that’s my motto.”
I said good-by to my benefactor, George, and thanked him awkwardly. When I met him years after and had a chance to return his kindness, I learned he was a most distinguished criminal; a man who had stolen fortunes and spent them, who had killed a crooked pal, and served many prison sentences.
“Forget it, kid, and don’t let them scare you out of your job. You go right back next week and collect your bills.”
Tex and the milkman escorted me to the cigar store. The evening games had not started when we went into the back room, so I told my story again. The milkman sympathized and promised to raise my commission on the bills. Tex was relieved to learn that I had not mentioned his “store” to the police.
Collection day came around again, and I made my rounds without incident till I got to Madam Singleton’s, the last place. A colored maid, the only person that escaped arrest the week before, opened the door. When she saw me she screamed at the top of her voice: