I discovered later that there was a strain of the old Welsh minstrel in Alfred's blood, but small prospect there was at that time of his ever realizing the hope of studying music. For all this while the boy was steadily breaking down under the strain of convict life, the "nothing but work" on a stool for ten hours a day on the shoe contract. Physical exhaustion was evident in the handwriting of the shorter letters in which he tells me of nature's revolt against the prison diet, and how night after night he "dreams of things to eat." "I sometimes believe I am really starving to death," he writes. But the trouble was not so much the prison food as that the boy was ill.
I went to see him at about this time and was startled by the gaunt and famished face, the appeal of the hungry eyes that looked into mine. I felt as if starvation had thrust its fangs into my own body, and all through the night, whether dreaming or awake, that horror held me. Fortunately: for well I knew there would be no rest for me until forces were set in motion to bring about a change for the better in Alfred.
In the general routine of prison life, if the prison doctor pronounces a convict able to work the convict must either work or be punished until he consents to work; or——? In the case of Alfred or in any case I should not presume to assign individual responsibility, but as soon as the case was laid before the warden Alfred was given change of work and put on special diet with most favorable results as to health.
Alfred's imprisonment lasted about two years after I first met him, this break in health occurring in the second year. As the day of release drew near his hopes flamed high, breaking into words in his last letter.
"Next month I shall be a free man! Think of it! A free man. Free to do everything that is right, free to walk where I please on God's green earth, free to breathe the pure air, and to help the cause of social progress instead of retarding it as I have done."
Now, I had in Chicago a Heaven-sent friend whose heart and hand were always open to the needs of my prisoners, indeed to the needs of all humanity. This friend was a Welsh preacher. He called upon me in Chicago one November afternoon when I had just returned from a visit to the penitentiary. I was tingling with interest in the Welsh prisoner whom I had met for the first time the evening before. Sure of my listener's sympathy I gave myself free rein in relating the impression that Alfred made upon me. I felt as if I had clasped the hand of Providence itself—and had I not?—when my friend said:
"Your Welsh boy is a fellow countryman of mine. If you will send him to me when released I think I can open a way for him." This prospect of a good start in freedom was invaluable to Alfred, giving courage for endurance and a moral incentive for the rest of his prison term.
Every man when released from prison in my State is given a return ticket to the place from which he was sent, ten dollars in cash, and a suit of clothing. These suits are convict-made, and while not distinctive to the ordinary observer, they are instantly recognizable to the police all over the State. Half-worn suits I had no difficulty in obtaining through my own circle of friends. So when Alfred's day of freedom came a good outfit of business clothing was awaiting him and before evening no outward trace of his convict experience remained.
According to previous arrangement Alfred went directly to the Welsh preacher. This minister was more than true to his promise, for he entertained the boy at his own home over night, then sent him up to a small school settlement in an adjoining State where employment and a home for the winter had been secured, the employer knowing Alfred's story.
And there for the first time in his life Alfred had some of the right good times that seem the natural birthright of youth in America. Here is his own account: