The Man Behind the Bars

by Winifred Louise Taylor

We always had some young prisoner on hand, whom we were trying to rescue from criminal life. It was usually a cell-mate of Dick's with whom he had become thoroughly acquainted. And on the outside was Dick's mother always ready to help her boy set some other mother's boy on his feet. Our first mutual experiment along this line was in the beginning somewhat discouraging. The following extract from one of Dick's letters speaks for itself, not only of our protégé, Harry, but of Dick's attitude in this and similar cases.

"My brother wrote me that Harry had burnt his foot and was unable to work for a month, during which time a friend of mine paid his board. On recovering he went back to work for a few days, drew his pay and left the city, leaving my friend out of pocket. Now I would like to make this loss good because I feel responsible for Harry. I have never lost confidence in him; and what makes me feel worst of all is that I am unable to let him know that I am not angry with him. I would give twenty dollars this minute if I knew where a letter would reach him.

"I have never directly tried to bring any man down to my own level, and if I never succeed in elevating myself much above my present level I would like to be the means of elevating others." However, Harry did not prove altogether a lost venture and Dick was delighted to receive better news of him later.

We had better luck next time when Ned Triscom, a young cell-mate of Dick's, was released. Dick had planned for this boy's future for weeks, asking my assistance in securing a situation and arranging for an evening school, the bills guaranteed by Dick. Our plans carried even better than we hoped. Ned proved really the right sort, and when I afterward met him in Chicago my impressions more than confirmed Dick's favorable report. But Ned was Dick's find, and Dick must give his own report.

"I want to thank you for what you have done for my friend Ned. He has written me every week since he left, and it does me good to know that he is on the high road to success. As soon as you begin to receive news from your friends who have met him you will hear things that will make your heart glad. He is enthusiastic in his praise of Miss Jane Addams, has spent some evenings at the Hull House, and goes often to see my mother. He is doing remarkably well with his work and earned twenty-four dollars last week. He has no relative nearer than an aunt, whom he will visit in his vacation. I never asked him anything about his past, and he never told me anything. I simply judged of him by what I saw of him. I always thought him out of place here and now I wonder how he ever happened to get here."

I liked Dick for never having asked Ned anything about his past. Now through Dick's interest in the boy Ned was placed at once in healthy moral environment in Chicago, and he was really a very interesting and promising young man with exceedingly good manners. He called on me one evening in Chicago and seemed as good as anybody, with the right sort of interests, and he kept in correspondence with me as long as I answered his letters.

Mrs. Mallory was as much interested in Dick's philanthropic experiments as I was, and several men fresh from the penitentiary spent their first days of freedom in the sunshine of her warm welcome and under the shelter of her hospitable roof. Thus Dick Mallory, his mother, and I formed a sort of first aid to the ex-convict society.

Another of Mallory's protégés was Sam Ellis, whose criminal sowing of wild oats appeared to be the expression of a nature with an insatiable appetite for adventure. The adventure of lawlessness appealed to him as a game, the very hazards involved luring him on, as "the red game of war" has lured many a young man and the game of high finance has ensnared many an older one.

But Sam Ellis indulged in mental adventures also—in the game of making fiction so convincing as to be accepted as fact, for Sam was born a teller of stories. Perhaps I ought to have regarded Sam as a plain liar, but I never could so regard him, for he frankly discussed this faculty as he might have discussed any other talent; and he told me that he found endless fascination in making others believe the pure fabrications of his imagination. I always felt that as a writer of fiction he would have found his true vocation and made a success. He had a feeling for literature, too, and I think he has happily expressed what companions books may be to a prisoner in the following extract from one of his letters: