Part 2

“But that wasn’t what I got you here for. I really wanted to talk with you. You see no one that I knew has been to see me since I came. I don’t s’pose I ought to expect they would. I used to know a good many fellers who went to jail but I never went to see ‘em. I always kind of thought they wa’n’t fit for me to associate with, and I s’pose that’s the way most people believe. But since I came here somehow it don’t look quite the same. Maybe that’s on account of what I done. I told the priest I thought you’d come because we was always such good friends, and he told me he would go and see you. He’s been awful good to me although I never went to church any when I was out. He talks to me as if I was just like other people. Of course he tells me I done wrong, and I know I did, but he don’t tell me as if I was the only one that ever done wrong, and as if he and everyone else was so much different, and as if he couldn’t see how I done it. He talks just as if my soul was worth as much as anybody’s and as if I’d have a better chance afterward than I ever had before. Anyhow he’s done me lots of good and I honestly believe he’s made me a better man, and if I only had a chance to do anything now I’d amount to something; but of course I can’t. But still, I wanted to tell you a few things that I couldn’t even tell him, for you know that, no matter how good he is, he somehow seems different from you; you know I kind of feel as if you was just like me. You’ll excuse me, I know, for saying this, bein’ as the time is so short.

“You remember about my boy. Now of course I always was a rough fellow and never did quite right ever before that, but still I guess you know I always loved that kid. Strange thing, he’ll be four years old tomorrow on the very day—well, poor little fellow, I hope he don’t know nothing about it. You remember the time that kid had the croup and how we thought he couldn’t get well, and you know I went down to the yard to tell you about it and how bad I felt. I almost wish now he’d died, but maybe that’s wicked and God will take care of the kid better’n he did of me. Well, I haven’t heard a word about that boy since I came to the jail, or since I left him at the house that night, except a little bit in court and what that good guard says. He kind of holds out that he’s in some kind of an orphan asylum where he’s gettin’ plenty to eat and where he’ll learn what’s right and wrong, and be a good man, and that’s all right, but I’d like to know where the kid is. He says if I thought so much of him I ought to have showed it before, and I s’pose I ought; but I did think lots of him; just as much as them rich folks think of their boys. I want him to be taken care of and to be educated and grow up to be a good man, and maybe it’s a good deal better if he never knows anything about his father, but somehow I can’t help wantin’ him to know who I was and don’t want him to think of me just like the newspapers and everybody else does. I wouldn’t want him to grow up like that guard, even if he is real good. And you see there wa’n’t any one but you that I could send for and tell them just how it all happened. No one yet has ever known how it was, and everybody says I was to blame and that I’m a demon and a monster, and I thought maybe if I explained the whole thing to you, just as it was, you could see that I wa’n’t so much to blame; anyhow that there was some excuse for what I done, and then some time when the boy’s growed up he’d know that I wa’n’t so bad as everyone says I was.

“Of course I know you can’t, for I know you’re poor like me, but so many times when I thought about the boy I thought that maybe you and your mother might raise him just the way I would have done; and then your mother was always so good to all of us. I remember how she used to raise the little geese down along the canal if anything happened to the old goose; don’t you remember about that? My, but them was fine times, wa’n’t they? Of course if you could do it I don’t know but the alderman would help you; anyhow he’d get free books and clothes off’n the county when he went to school. How are politics up in the ward? Is he goin’ to run again? I never hear anything only what I get out of the papers and they’re all against him, but I think he’ll show ‘em yet. Wish I was out so I could help. But I must go on with what I brought you to hear. I’m goin’ to tell you the whole story just exactly as it is, and you know that I wouldn’t tell you a lie tonight with what they are goin’ to do in the mornin’. I can’t make you understand unless I commence clear at the beginnin’, but I know you won’t mind, seein’ it’s my last time.”

II

You know I was born in Chicago and never was out of it but once until the night it happened. I don’t know anything about my father and mother except what my aunt told me. You know she raised me, and I can’t make any complaint about the way she done it. I was real small when I went to live with her. She stayed all alone down on the canal. I guess you knew me when I was livin’ with her. She worked hard, but, of course, ladies of that kind don’t get much. She used to go over to the south side to do washin’ and to clean houses, and things like that, and sometimes when I was small she took me along. They were awful nice houses where we went. That’s how I got to know so much about the way rich people live. When I got bigger, she used to send me to school. I was pretty steady in school and got clear up to the sixth grade. I know it must have been awful hard for her to send me the way she earnt her money, but she seemed to think as much of me as if I’d been her own boy. She could have got along better, but every time she got five or ten dollars laid up it seemed as if there was a funeral of some of the neighbors and she had to club in and hire a carriage, and that took her money almost as fast as she could earn it.

“You remember how we used to play around the canal in them days. It smelled pretty bad but we didn’t seem to mind it much. We used to sail boats and go in swimmin’ and catch frogs and do ‘most everything. There was quite a gang of us boys that lived there. It don’t seem as if any of ‘em ever amounted to very much. Most of ‘em are in the stock yards or switchin’ or doin’ somethin’ like that. The only ones that I can think of that growed up down there and amounted to anything is the alderman and Bull Carmody, who went to the legislature. They call both of ‘em Honor’ble, you know. I guess anybody is honor’ble who ever had an office or tried to get one. Us boys used to get arrested quite a good deal. Of course we was pretty tough, you know that. We was always in some devilment. All of us rushed the can and chewed tobacco; then we fought a good deal and used to play ‘round the cars. Some of the boys would break into ‘em; but I never stole anything in my life unless you count coal off’n the cars, and I don’t know how we could have got along in the winter without that. Anyhow I guess nobody thinks anything of stealin’ coal off’n cars.

“But I don’t s’pose there’s any use goin’ over my whole history. I don’t know as it has anything to do with it anyway, only it kind of seems to me that I never had a very good chance and as if mebbe things would’ve been different if I had.

“Well, you remember when my aunt died I had got to be about fourteen. Then I found a job out to the stock yards. I never liked that work; I used to see so much killin’. At first I felt sorry for the cattle and the hogs, and especially for the sheep and calves—they all seemed so helpless and innocent—but after I’d been there awhile I got used to seein’ their throats cut and seein’ blood around everywhere, all over the buildings and in the gutters, and I didn’t think any more about it. You know I stayed there quite a while. Then I went to work for the railroad company. First I was in the freight house unloadin’ cars. This was pretty rough, heavy work, but I didn’t mind it much; you know I was always kind of stout. Then I thought I’d like to work in the yards; it would give me more air and not be quite so confinin’. So I got a job as switchman, same as you. Well, you know all about that work. It ain’t the nicest thing in the world to be a switchman. Of course if they’d make the couplers all alike then there wouldn’t be so much danger; but you know when one of them safety couplers comes against one of the old kind that the boys call ‘man killers’ it’s pretty dangerous business. Then, of course, when a car is run down a switch and you have to couple it onto another car just as it bumps in, it’s kind of dangerous too. Of course, the rules say you must use a stick to put the link into the drawhead, but nobody ever uses a stick; you know all the boys would laugh at a feller that used a stick. There ain’t nothin’ to do but to go in between the cars and take hold of the link and put it in. If anything happens to be wrong with the bumpers and they slip past, of course you get squeezed to death; or, if you miss the link, or it gets caught or anything, your head or arm is liable to be smashed off. Then you’ve got to watch all the time, for if you stub your toe or forget for a second, you’re gone. I kind of think that the switch-yards make a feller reckless and desperate, and I don’t believe that a man that works in the switch-yards or stock yards looks at things quite the same as other people. Still you know them fellers ain’t bad. You’ve seen ‘em cry when they went home to tell a lady how her man had been run over, or tell some old woman about how her boy had got hurt, and you know we always helped the boys out and we didn’t have much money either.

“You remember we was workin’ together in the yards when the strike come on. I was in debt, just as I always have been. Somehow I never could keep out of debt; could you? The rich people say it’s because we drink so much, but I’d like to see them try to live on what we get. Why, you know we hardly ever go to the theater, and if we do we go up in the gallery. I never had a job of work done on my teeth in my life except once when I paid a quarter to get one pulled. Do you s’pose any of us would ever think we could get a gold fillin’ in our teeth? Now that suit of clothes over on the bed is the first whole suit of new clothes I ever had. The guard brought ‘em in a little while ago, and I’m to put ‘em on in the mornin’. But I guess they won’t do me much good. I’d rather they had taken the money and give it to the kid for a rockin’ horse or candy.

“But I was tellin’ about the strike. My, the way I go on! I guess it’s because this is the first time I’ve had a chance to say anything to anyone since it happened, and of course it’ll be my last. As soon as I got back my lawyer told me not to talk to anyone, but I don’t see what difference it would have made—them detectives seemed to know everything and a good deal more, they knew more about me than I ever knew about myself.

“You remember all of us went out on the strike. I guess most of the boys was in debt, but they all struck just the same. The papers abused us and said we hadn’t any right to strike; that we hadn’t any grievance, and it was worse for us to strike on that account. Now it seemed to me that it was better to strike for the Pullman people than for ourselves—it didn’t seem so selfish; but the papers and the judges didn’t look at it that way. Of course the strike was pretty hard on all of us. I got into the lock-up before it was over, though I never meant to do nothin’. I guess I did hit a scab over the head, but he was comin’ to take our job. It’s queer how everybody looks at things a different way. Now I never thought it was so awful bad to hit a scab who was takin’ another man’s job. Of course I know some of ‘em are poor and have families, but so have the strikers got families and we was strikin’ to help all the poor people. If you read the newspapers and hear what the judges say you would think hittin’ scabs was worse’n murder. I don’t s’pose it’s just right, but I don’t hardly see what else is to be done. You remember that scab, don’t you, that worked with us on the road, and you remember when he got his leg cut off, and how all the boys helped him, and the railroad fought his case and beat him, and yet they always seemed to think more of him than any of the rest of us. Now it seems to me there’s lots of things worse’n hittin’ scabs. If I was one of them packers I know I’d give a lot of meat to poor people instead of fixin’ every way I could to make ‘em pay so much, but the rich people don’t seem to think there’s anything wrong about that, but it’s awful to hit a scab or to strike.

“Well, you know after the strike was over none of us could get a job anywhere, but finally I changed my name and managed to get in again. I believe the yard master knew who I was and felt kind of sorry for me. Anyhow I got the job. Then you know the time Jimmy Carroll got run over by that limited train. I sort of lost my nerve. I wouldn’t have thought about it if all the cars hadn’t run over him; but when we had to pick up his head and his legs and his arms and his body all in different places, I somehow got scared and couldn’t switch any more. So I quit the yards. But I’ve been runnin’ along so over things that really don’t have anything to do with the case that I’ve almost forgot the things I wanted to tell you about. But just wait a minute; I hear someone comin’ down the corridor and I want to see who it is. No, it’s only one of the guards. I didn’t know but possibly my lawyer might have sent—but I guess it’s no use.

“Let me see; I was goin’ to tell you about gettin’ married. You knew her, Hank. You remember when we got a job again after the strike and you know the little restaurant where we used to board? Well, you remember she was waitin’ on the table. All the boys knew her and they all liked her too; she was always real friendly and jolly with all of us, but she was all right. Of course she couldn’t have got much wages there for it was only a cheap place where the railroad boys et, but somehow she always seemed to keep herself fixed up pretty well. I never thought much about her, only to kind of jolly her like the rest of the boys, until the time she got that red waist and done her hair up with them red ribbons. I don’t know anything about how it was, but them seemed to ketch my eye and I commenced goin’ with her, and used to get off as early as I could from the yards, and when she got through washin’ the supper things we used to go out and take street-car rides, and go for walks in the parks, and stay out late almost every night.

“Finally I made up my mind that I wanted to settle down and have a home. Of course I knew ‘twould be more confinin’, but then I thought ‘twould be better. So one night when we was out walkin’ I kind of brought it ‘round some way and asked her to marry me. I was surprised when she said she would, because she was so much nicer than me or any of the rest of the boys; but she said she would right straight off, and then I asked when it had better be and she said she didn’t see any use waitin’, so long as it was goin’ to be done. Of course, I hadn’t thought of its comin’ right away, and I wa’n’t really prepared because I was considerable in debt and would like to’ve paid up first. I told her how I was fixed and she said that didn’t make any difference, that she’d always heard that two could live as cheap as one, and she was savin’ and a good manager and it wouldn’t cost us much to start, for she’d noticed the signs in the street cars about four rooms furnished for ninety-five dollars with only five dollars down, and we wouldn’t need but three rooms anyway. Then, after I’d asked her to marry me and had made up my mind to do it there wa’n’t no excuse for waitin’, so the next Sunday we went over to St. Joe and got married. She asked me if I didn’t think that was just as good as any way.

“When we come back we rented three rooms down near the yards for ten dollars a month, and went down to the store to buy the furniture, but the clerk made us think that so long as we was just startin’ and I had a good job we ought to get better things than the ninety-five dollars, so we spent one hundred and fifty dollars and agreed to pay ten dollars a month, and the furniture was to be theirs until it was paid for.

“Well, we started in to keep house and got along pretty well at first. She was a good housekeeper and savin’ and I kind of liked bein’ married. Of course, it cost us a little more’n I expected, and when I came to buy clothes and shoes and pay grocery bills I found that two couldn’t live as cheap as one, but I hadn’t any doubt but that she thought they could. I guess all women does. Then I got hurt and was laid off for two months and couldn’t pay the installments, and got behind on my rent, and got in debt at the store, and this made it pretty hard. When I went to work I paid all I had, but somehow I never could catch up.

“Well, about that time the kid was born, and then we had to have the doctor and I had to get a hired girl for a week, for I wanted to do everything I could for her, and that all kept me back. Then they commenced threatenin’ to take the furniture away, and every week the collector came ‘round and I did all I could, but somehow I couldn’t make it come out even.

“I s’pose you don’t see what all this has got to do with my killin’ her, and I don’t think I quite see myself, but still I want to tell it all. Sometimes I think if I hadn’t been so poor and in debt I never would have done it, and I don’t believe I would. I was so much in debt that I felt sorry when I knew we was goin’ to have the child. I didn’t see how we could bring it up and make anything out of it, and how it could ever have any better chance than I had. And then she’d been doin’ a little work to help out on the furniture, and I knew that she couldn’t do any more after that. But still as soon as the child was born I was always glad of it, and used to think more about him than anyone else, and I would have done anything I could for him. She liked him, too, and was always good to him, and no matter what I say about her I can’t say that she didn’t treat the boy all right.

“Well, after the kid was about a year old we began to have trouble. She was always complainin’ that I didn’t bring home enough money. She said I went ‘round too much nights and that I drank too much beer and chewed too much tobacco and smoked too much, and she complained ‘most all the time, and then I got mad and we had a row. I don’t mean to blame her, ‘specially after what happened, and since I’ve been here so long doin’ nothin’ but countin’ the days and waitin’ for my lawyer to come, I’ve had time to think of ever’thing a good deal more than I ever did before. And I don’t say she was to blame. I s’pose it was hard for her, too. Of course, the rooms was small and they was awful hot in the summer and cold in the winter, and then the collectors was always comin’ ‘round, and I used to be tired when I got home, and I was so blue that I said things without really knowin’ that I said ‘em. Ain’t you done that when somebody was talkin’ to you and your mind was on somethin’ else, kind of answered ‘em back without knowin’ what they said or what you said? I presume I was cross a good many times and mebbe it was as hard for her as ‘twas for me. Of course, I used to wish I’d never got married and that I was boardin’ back there to the restaurant when I didn’t have all the debts; and I s’pose she’d been better off back there too, waitin’ on the table; anyhow she always looked better in them days than she did after we was married, so I guess she must have got more money at the restaurant than I gave her. But after the boy was born I never really wished we wa’n’t married, for I always thought of him and knew he never would have been born if we hadn’t got married; but of course, that didn’t keep us from fightin’. I don’t mean that we fought all the time. Sometimes when I got home she was as nice as she could be, and had supper all ready, and we’d read the newspaper and talk and have a real good time; but then, again somethin’ would happen to put us out and we’d fight. I can’t say that she always begun it. I guess I begun it a good many times. I found fault because the bills was too big and the way things was cooked, and the way she looked, and, of course, if I said anything she got mad and answered back. I’ve thought a lot about our fights and that awful one we had last, and I don’t believe one of ‘em would have happened if it hadn’t been for the money. Of course, I s’pose other people would make some other excuses for their fights and that no one would be to blame if you would let ‘em tell it themselves, but I’m ‘most sure that if I’d only been gettin’ money enough to keep a hired girl and live in a good place, and get good clothes and dress her and the boy the way they ought to have been, and not get in debt, we wouldn’t have fought.

“The debts kep’ gettin’ bigger all the time and I begun to get scared for fear the furniture would be took away—we hadn’t paid more’n half up and then there was a good deal of interest. I went one day to see a lawyer, but he didn’t tell me anything that done me any good and I had to pay him ten dollars out of my next month’s wages, so that made me all the worse off. Lawyers get their money awful easy, don’t they? I always wished I could be a lawyer and if I had my life to live over again I would be one if I could.

“It seemed as if things kep’ gettin’ worse at home and I stayed out a good many nights because I didn’t want a row for I knew there’d be one as soon as I got home. So far most of our fightin’ had been only jawin’ back an’ forth. Once she threw a dish at me and I slapped her in the face, but didn’t hurt her, and I guess she didn’t try hard to hit me with the dish; anyhow if she had wanted to she was near enough so she could.

“One night though, I come home pretty late. I’d been out with the boys to a caucus and we had drunk quite a bit. The alderman was running again and had got us a keg of beer. I didn’t really know what I was doin’ when I came in. I was hopin’ she’d be in bed but she was waitin’ for me when I come in and said: ‘There comes my drunkard again. This is a pretty time of night to get home! You’d better go back to your drunken cronies and stay the rest of the night,’—and a lot of more things like that. I told her to shut up and go to bed, but that made her madder and then she called me a lot of names. I told her to stop or I’d choke her, but she kep’ right on talkin’, callin’ me a drunkard and all kinds of names, and tellin’ me how I’d treated her and the boy; I couldn’t make her keep still; the more I threatened her the more she talked. Finally she said, ‘You cowardly brute, I dare you to touch me!’ and she kind of come right up to where I was. Of course I didn’t really half think what I was doin’, but I drawed off and hit her in the face with my fist. I guess I hit her pretty hard; anyhow she fell on the floor, and I ran up to her to pick her up, but she said, ‘Leave me alone, you coward,’ and then I was madder’n ever and I kicked her. The next day she went to the police court and had me arrested. The judge was awful hard on me, told me if he had his way ‘bout it he’d have a law made to have wife-beaters whipped with a cat-o’-nine tails in the public square, and he fined me one hundred dollars.