The man was utterly crushed. His old criminal record was brought to light and he found himself ensnared in the toils of his past. He was bitterly humiliated—he was in no position to earn a penny, and no channel for the generous impulses still strong within him was now open. The old buoyancy of his nature still flickered occasionally from the dying embers, but gradually darkened into a dull despair as far as his own life was concerned. But his interest in others survived, and the only favors he ever asked of me were on behalf of "the boys" whom he could no longer help. He still wrote me freely and his letters tell their own story:
"At one time in our friendship I really believed that everything was possible in my future. I never meant to deceive you— And when I realized my broken promises my heart broke too. I have never been the same man since and can never be again. I cannot help looking on the dark side for life has been so hard for me. Ah! it is a hard place when you reach the stage where the future seems so hopeless as it does to me."
And hopeless it truly was; imprisonment and dissipation had done their work and his death came shortly after his release from this prison. Since his life had proved a losing game it was far better that it should end. But was not Robert Louis Stevenson right in his belief that all our moral failures do not lessen the value of our good qualities and our good deeds? The good that Mallory did was positive and enduring; and surely his name should be written among those who loved their fellow men.
To me the very most cruel stroke in the fate of Dick Mallory was this: that in the minds of many his history may seem to justify the severity of legislation against habitual criminals. With all his efforts to save others, himself he could not save—and well as he knew the injustice resulting from life sentences for "habituals," the sum of his life counted against clemency for this class.
CHAPTER VI
Dick Mallory himself was given the maximum sentence of fourteen years for larceny under the habitual-criminal act; and he did not resent the sentence in his own case because he found life in the penitentiary on the whole as satisfactory as it had been on the outside; and when I met him he had become deeply interested in the other prisoners. But he resented the fact that the "habitual act" was applied without discrimination to any one convicted of a second offence. He was doing some study on his own account of the individual men called "habituals." I never understood how Dick Mallory contrived to know as much about individual convicts as he did know; but he was a keen observer and quick-witted, and the guards and foremen often gave him bits of information. He admitted, however, that his real knowledge of the men under the "habitual act" was meagre, and asked me to make some personal observations. To this end he gave me a list of some half-dozen men whom I promised to interview, and in this way began my acquaintance with Peter Belden, an acquaintance destined to continue many years after Dick Mallory had passed beyond the reach of earthly courts.
Peter Belden was then a man something over thirty years of age, stunted in growth, somewhat deaf, with his right arm paralyzed through some accident in the prison shop. His hair, eyes, and complexion were much of a color, but his good, strong features expressed intelligence. He wore the convict stripes, which had the effect of blotting individuality throughout the prison.
Notwithstanding these physical disadvantages, a criminal record and a lifetime of unfavorable environment, some inherent force and manliness in his nature made itself felt. He took it for granted that I would not question his sincerity, neither did I. He said nothing of his own hardships, made no appeal to my sympathy, but discussed the habitual-criminal act quite impersonally and intelligently; assuming at once the attitude of one ready to assist me in any effort for the benefit of the criminal class to which he belonged.