He called at the jail soon, but instead of having me out to the office he came down to my cell, squeezed his bulk through the doorway, and sat down on the edge of my bunk. Waving the guard away, he produced cigars, helped me to a light, and asked, in a voice that rang to me like a twenty-dollar piece, what he could do for me. For once all my mistrust, suspicion, and hatred vanished.

I said: “ Mr. Older, I’m afraid you will waste a lot of valuable time trying to do anything for me. I have twenty-five years. I’m guilty. I’m plastered over with prior convictions. The police hate me, the jailers dislike me because I tried to escape, and the trial judge is sore because I’ve done everything possible to obstruct the judgment.”