Partners three : a novel

Chapter I

Y ESTERDAY was the second anniversary of my arrival here in a cell at Sing Sing. I figured it out that I shall have nearly two years more, at the lowest calculation, making the maximum allowance for good behaviour. How I came to be brought here, what crime I committed, how I was caught and tried, are matters which have very little to do with the story I am starting out to tell. I will touch upon them later on at the proper place if, indeed, I am able to get on so far with my tale.

It seems rather silly that I should have the presumption to sit down and undertake the writing of a book. But, after all, it can do me no harm to try. I can tear the pages up after J. have written them, if I choose, and no one will be the wiser, or I can keep them to thumb over in days to come, when some of the memories that are now so clear in my mind might fade away without some written reminder. Those memories are indescribably sweet to me now, as I sit here day after day, surrounded by stone walls and bars of iron, No matter what the future may have in store for me, they will always remain, I am sure, the most cherished treasures of my life.

It is somewhat odd that if this story is to have any beginning and end at all, it will begin and end, so far as my own participation in it is concerned, amid the surroundings of prison life.

Four years ago, last May, I was an inmate in the House of Refuge, a reformatory institution, as it is called, or a penitentiary for the young, which is built on an island in the East River, lying off the upper part of New York City. I had been there nearly two years at the time; I had no family to visit me or inquire about me, not a friend in the world outside of the island, no place to go to, if the authorities took it into their heads to set me free. My name at the House of Refuge was “ No. 343 ” ; at least, that was the only name used to designate me. This is the custom. Each boy is given a number on the books when he is brought in, and is known only by that number until his discharge. In the course of my two years there I formed two friendships. One was a Jew boy; the other, Irish. The Jew called me “ Ikey,” and the Irish boy, “ Pat.”

My real name is Patrick Isaac Ennis, and I was sent to the House of Refuge for being one of a gang of counterfeiters. This has very little to do with my story, and a practised novelist would probably leave it all out and begin with a description of the two strange and handsome visitors that dropped down upon the institution one day, as from the sky. But if I felt that I had to begin my tale with an artistic flourish, and arrange events with an eye to impressing an imaginary reader, I should never be able to get on at all. The only guide and teacher I ever had, in the matter of writing, encouraged me always to be simple and natural and to try to put into words, with as little labour as possible, the thoughts and feelings that came to my mind. That is all I shall try to do throughout this story.

I will put down, then, in as few words as I can, how I came to be sent to the House of Refuge.

My father, William Patrick Ennis, was a stonecutter, and from what little I know about him, he was a thrifty, hard-working man. He was very skilful with his hands, in all manner of ways, and about the only recollections I have of him are associated with pieces of carpentry work and wood carving that he used to do by the light of the lamp in our dining-room after mother had cleared away the evening meal. He made little boxes, cabinets, wall brackets, and other things of the most ingenious workmanship, which filled me with wonder.

My earliest ambition was to become a carpenter, and my father encouraged this bent by giving me a set of tools and teaching me how to use them. I can also remember that he drew pictures of animals and funny men and that he spent much time and patience in teaching me how to draw. My father died when I was about eight years old; he was killed by the collapse of a wall where he was at work. All I can remember of this is the awful grief displayed by my mother, when his body was brought into the house on a stretcher. Her piercing shrieks and wild lamentations, as she rushed about from room to room, completely terrified me.

My father, it seems, had saved up some money, and his life was fairly well insured through some labour association. In addition to this, my mother, with the help of a lawyer, collected quite a tidy sum from the building company. Mother was a very capable and resourceful woman, and after the first outburst of grief, she quickly set about repairing the loss of her bread-winner. We moved to a larger and more attractive house, where mother took in single men for boarders. Everything was kept spick and span, and none of the rooms were ever long vacant. In addition to her boarders, she took in sewing and trimmed hats. My cousin, Rachel, helped her with this work and came to live in the house with us. Later on, another girl was brought in to work by the day and the house became a veritable dressmaking establishment. I was crowded out of my little bed-room by the clothes and sewing machines, and put to bed on a cot in the attic. I did not mind this change. I took my box of tools there with me, made a carpenter’s bench, and accumulated a stock of fine wood. Many times when I was supposed to be sleeping quietly, if any one had climbed up to the attic, they would have found me in my night clothes, with a pair of worsted slippers on my feet and a lighted candle on* the carpenter’s bench, working away at some childish creation. During all this time, my determination to become a carpenter never wavered.

I have not mentioned yet that my mother was a Jewess. It is doubtless to this fact that I owe the incongruity of my names — Patrick Isaac. At the time of my birth, my mother, it seems, had no liking for the name of Patrick and had elected to call me Isaac Abraham. My father was bitterly opposed to both these names and wanted me to be William Patrick, Jr. I have heard the incident discussed many times. It was repeated throughout my young life whenever any comment was made concerning my names, which were a natural cause for comment. Mother was a large woman and very determined. She managed to get the best of father in most things. But in the matter of my names father refused to give in, so that finally a compromise was reached on “ Patrick Isaac.”

I was eleven years old when mother took her second husband. He was a Frenchman, Adolphe Francisque Vipont. He was a very good-looking man, with a pointed black moustache, and oily black hair, brushed straight back from his forehead. He had been one of our boarders and mother had shown him special attentions, almost from the start. He was several years younger than she, very gay and witty in his manner and conversation, and he had a fine singing voice. I remember when a piano was brought into the house for his benefit. 'After that, nearly every evening after supper, Monsieur Vipont would sit down at the piano and sing all sorts of songs, mostly in French, but sometimes in broken English. The funny expressions of his face, the antics he used, and the odd sound of the words never "failed to enthrall me.

No sooner had mother become Madame Vipont, than a sweeping change was effected in our household arrangements. The boarders were sent away, dressmaking abandoned, Rachel went back to her family in Brooklyn, and the large and once so busy house was transformed to a quiet love nest for the undisturbed bliss of Monsieur and Madame Vipont, with Olga, the cook, in the kitchen and Patrick Isaac in the garret.

Monsieur Vipont was an engraver. He received quite a large salary from a company that manufactured bank notes and stock certificates. After his marriage to my mother, as time wore on, he and I got to be first-rate friends. He took an interest in my carpentry work and showed me how to make boxes with brass 'hinges and brass tops on which he engraved fantastic designs. I found that I could sell these boxes at a shop on Third Avenue for a dollar apiece, and this filled me with a sense of pride and importance. On my birthday, Monsieur presented me with a set of engraver’s tools and with the money I made I bought ebony, mahogany, rosewood and brass fittings for more boxes. Under Monsieur’s influence, my ambition gradually changed and I decided that I would become an engraver. Monsieur knew how to draw much better than my father; he made designs for me to copy and encouraged me in making pictures. One picture of mine pleased him very much. He made a frame for it and mother hung it in our dining-room. She showed it to a friend of hers, one day, in my presence, and Monsieur, who was there also, patted me on the head and made my cheeks bum by announcing that I had remarkable talent for a little boy, and was going to make a great engraver when I grew up.

As his interest in me increased, he took to teaching me French songs and then he began talking to me in French. Little by little, I learned to understand him in his own language. I did not imagine that this would ever serve me any useful purpose, but it so happened that my knowledge of French was a thing that decided my fate at a crucial moment and procured for me the greatest happiness I shall ever know.

Monsieur Vipont had two faults. He was a gambler by nature and he was very fond of absinthe. In the end, they proved his undoing. In three years, after his marriage to my mother, he had gambled away the last cent of her money and there were many stormy scenes in our house. He was too much for mother, however. She could not resist him, and if he had insisted, I believe she would have sold the last piece of furniture and the clothes off her back. She was spared this humiliation; for, just at this time, she was stricken with a violent fever and after a short illness she died. In the meantime, Monsieur had lost his position at the engraving company. He drank heavily and often frightened us at the house by his queer looks and behaviour.

After mother’s funeral, everything in the house had to be sold at auction. I did not know what was to become of me and Monsieur did not know, either. He said he was going away, for a time, and could not take me with him. I was then fourteen; I had gone regularly to the public schools and had stood well in my classes ; I could draw and engrave and was handy with tools, and I could speak French. I suppose I could have got a job of some kind, sooner or later, but there was no one to get it for me. I did not want to go to my Aunt Rebecca’s, in Brooklyn. I hated her and she did not want me; but after the furniture was taken from our house, there was nothing else to be done. So over to Brooklyn I went, determined to get away and shift for myself at the first opportunity.

Aunt Rebecca lost no time in getting me a job, as a grocer’s boy, for which I was paid two dollars and a half a week. She took every cent of this from me, in payment, she said, for my board. I stayed there a month, feeling desperate and rebellious and trying to hit on some plan by which I could escape from my bondage.

One night, when I came back from the grocer’s, I found Monsieur Vipont waiting for me at Aunt Rebecca’s. He took me to one side and asked me whether I wished to go with him and share his fortunes. It was risky business, but it might make him rich. In that case, he would take me to France and I should become a gentleman. If things went wrong, there was no telling what might happen to us. It was for me to decide.

The idea of something dangerous and exciting thrilled me with joy. I told him how glad I would be to go with him, and the matter was settled. We left Aunt Rebecca’s that night, crossed the river, and took a train out into the country. We got off at a little station, after a short ride, and walked half a mile over a lonely road till we came to a dingy-looking house at the edge of the woods. Monsieur Vipont knocked three times on the back door with his cane and it was opened by an Italian, who carried a lantern.

This house proved to be what is known in the newspapers as a “ counterfeiters’ den.” Down in the cellar, were a printing press, steel plates, engravers’ tools, and small bundles of paper, — all that was needed, in fact, to turn out five- and ten-dollar bills, by the hundred.

I never left this house for ten days. Monsieur Vipont and the Italian were usually absent, in the day time, and all of our work was done at night. I quickly learned to do my share and received only words of praise for what I did. On the eleventh day, just as the sun was setting and I was alone in the house, there came a loud

PARTNERS THREE n knocking on 'the door, which was not in accordance with the signal agreed upon. I made no noise, as I had been instructed to do in case of such an emergency. The knocking was repeated many times and then the door was forced open, with violence, and I found myself in the hands of detectives and policemen. The counterfeiters’ game had been discovered and one of the confederates had turned state’s evidence. Monsieur Vipont and the Italian were both arrested when they came to the house that night and several other members of the gang were captured the following day.

Monsieur Vipont was sent to prison for ten years. It was discovered at the trial that he had already served a term in jail in France, before coming to this country. I was sent to the House of Refuge, being at the time a little over fourteen years old.

Chapter II

I T was on the ninth of May, of my second year at the House of Refuge, that the strange event occurred which was to change everything for me. In the afternoon, we ended the day’s work with a military drill on the parade grounds. The superintendent and his wife nearly always came out and stood by the benches under the chestnut trees to witness it, and they were frequently accompanied by visitors, friends of the superintendent, or a trustee and his guests. It was here that the institution showed itself in its brightest and most pleasing aspect. We were glad to be seen and admired, and the more spectators there were, the better we liked it.

On this particular afternoon, there were only two visitors. One was a tall, fine-looking man, who wore a large-brimmed soft hat and carried himself in such a way as to start the boys whispering that he must be an army Officer. He had his daughter with him, or at any rate, a girl of sixteen or seventeen, who wore a light blue dress and a large black hat with flowers on it.

From the beginning, I had won the praise of our drill masters for the way I took to the exercises. I was quick with my hands and it came 12 natural to me to keep time. At the end of my first year, I had been put in charge of squads of new-comers, to break them in, and now I had just been promoted to the highest honour on the parade grounds, that of leading the “ silent drill.” Herman Goldstein, who preceded me, had finished his term at the institution, the previous week, and obtained a job with a plumber. The silent drill was the last thing we did before the flag came down. All the companies were lined up on three sides of a square, while I, as leader, was stationed in the centre. There was no music and no commands. At a given signal, it was for me to go through the movements, while all the others followed in unison.

I was by nature, I think, a rather shy or timid boy, and each day, when I took my place in the centre of the square, a feeling of self-consciousness seized hold of me to such an extent that it was all I could do to keep my wits. I dare say it would have worn away, in time, but, that afternoon, my nervousness was not a bit less than it had been, on the first day. It seemed to me that it would be terrible if anything went wrong in the presence of that “ army officer ” and the girl in the blue dress.

Something did go wrong. When the drill was about half over, my left hand slipped its hold on the gun, in one of the quick shifts from right to left. I made a frantic effort to prevent a catastrophe, but it was no use; the gun flew from my hands and went to the ground, with a bang. I rushed to pick it up, and fell sprawling on top of it ; my chin landed on the barrel, and the knock was hard enough to half stun me.

When I gathered myself together and scrambled to my feet, the drill master had run up to me. He asked me whether I was hurt.

“ No,” I said, “ my hand slipped.”

He looked me over very sternly, for a minute, and asked me whether I felt like going on with the drill. My head was humming and there were tears in my eyes, but I stammered out, instinctively, “ Oh, yes, I’m all right.”

“ Take your place,” he commanded, “ and begin again.”

I drew myself together and saluted and he returned my salute. He marched off to his position; I stepped into mine and waited for the signal. Then, curiously enough, my nervousness seemed to vanish. I led the drill, as easily and methodically as if I had been practising by myself in the yard.

When we had finished parading and returned to our quarters, I was called out by the overseer and told to report to the superintendent’s room. I had not the faintest notion of what was in store for me. I imagined it was some sort of a reprimand for my blunder at the drill. When I reached the outer office, however, I found three of the boys already there and two more followed me in. They all began asking one another what was up, when the superintendent opened the door and informed us that it was a question of a job. The gentleman inside wished to have a look at us. We got in line and were marched into the room, and halted in a row.

Standing by the superintendent’s table was the tall gentleman who had been a spectator at the parade. The girl in blue was behind him, a little to one side. We looked at them and they looked at us. I will not attempt just yet to describe their appearance in detail. Fate willed that I was to see much of them in days to come and there will be plenty of opportunity to comment on their looks at another time. It is enough to say that the gentleman could not fail to impress you as very distinguished looking, very easy and graceful in his manner, with bright, kindly, laughing eyes. He had light hair and a reddish beard that came to a point and was trimmed close to the sides. The girl seemed to me, at the first glance, the loveliest creature I ever beheld. She had dark hair, large dark eyes and a modest, gentle, smiling way that made her seem quite different from most girls.

The superintendent whispered to the gentleman and referred to a sheet of paper which apparently contained our records. When they had finished consulting it, the gentleman turned to his daughter. She had been standing modestly apart, all this time, gazing at us slowly, one after the other. It was easy to see from the expression of her face that she pitied us all. At the same time, she seemed a little embarrassed to find herself being stared at by a lot of boys.

Her father evidently asked her what she thought of us, for they kept looking along the line, as they talked together in a low voice. Mickey Flanagan, whom I have before referred to as one of my best friends on the island, was on the other end of the line from me. He was a big, strong fellow, nearly six feet tall, with black hair and a very red face. He had lived most of his life in the country and had a broken nose and a funny looking scar on his cheek, where a horse had kicked him. Most of the talk between the man and the girl seemed to be about Mickey. They did not waste much time looking at the other boys, but kept turning back to him.

I was the smallest boy in the line, and rather thin, too. I had a pale, freckled face and red hair, which grew so thick that it stood out from my head, on all sides, like the bristles of a bottle cleaner.

I mention these things, because, as I look back on the scene, it seems very strange that I should have been considered at all. It must have been fate. The older I get, the more confident I am that it is folly to seek any other explanation for most of the important things that happen in our lives. I have read a great many wise books in the last few years, especially books dealing with science and art. They all seem to assume that everything in this world is logical — that such and such a result necessarily follows from such and such a cause. Life seems to me altogether different. In my own life, I am sure, and in the lives of other people whom I have known most intimately, very few of the things that count most have been in the least bit logical. Take my mother’s case. Why should a woman of her resourceful and practical nature have come to the end she did ? A dozen other examples come to my mind, but what use is it to cite them? It is enough to say that many of the happenings in this story will be apparently in defiance of logic and without an explanation. I shall simply try to tell them as they actually occurred.

After the scene of inspection, which I have described, all the boys were marched out of the room, with the exception of Mickey. It seemed as good as settled that the job, whatever it was, had been awarded to the big Irish boy. He would be leaving us in a day or two, and I knew I should miss him a great deal. That, no doubt, had something to do with the feeling of loneliness and disappointment which came over me, as I started out, along the corridor. But the truth of the matter is that from the moment I entered the superintendent’s room and had a good look at that man and the girl in blue, I yearned to meet with their favour. Something seemed to tell me that happiness was in their keeping and an opportunity such as would never come into my life again.

I had taken only a few steps along the corridor when I heard my name called out behind me.

It was the superintendent’s clerk. He beckoned me back and told me to wait in the outer office. After a few minutes, the door opened and Mickey came out. There was no time to exchange words, because the superintendent appeared at the door, just then, and bade me enter. I glanced back at Mickey, as I went in, and saw that he was not going back to quarters, but had been told to wait in the outer office, until they finished with me. When I entered the room, this time, the gentleman was seated in a chair, at one side of the table, while the girl stood back by the window, half turned away. The superintendent said the gentleman wished to ask me some questions, so I marched up and stood by the table. The superintendent excused himself and left the room, closing the door behind him.

The gentleman leaned back and looked me over, and although his face was straight, his eyes seemed to be laughing at me.

“ Well,” he said, “ Number 343, suppose you tell me something about yourself. What kind of a boy are you ? ”

I looked down at the floor and was absolutely tongue-tied. I could feel the blood rush to my face.

“ Come,” he said, “ look at me.”

I glanced up and tried to meet his gaze. His eyes were still laughing at me and one of his eyebrows cocked up in a comical, kindly way.

“Don’t be afraid! I am not going to eat you! You’re a very, very bad boy — I know that. That’s why you’re here. I was a bad boy once, myself, and I don’t mind bad boys a bit. — Let’s hear what you have to say for yourself. — What’s your name?”

“ Patrick Isaac Ennis, sir,” I answered, all in one breath.

He leaned back again, as if taken by surprise at the sound of my voice, and raised both his eyebrows. He looked me over from top to toe, and I thought he was going to burst out laughing.

“ Patrick Isaac Ennis ! ” he exclaimed.

44 That’s a very fine name ! Where in the world did you get it from?”

This was a question I had been asked before, and I could answer it without hesitation.

44 My father’s name was William Patrick and that’s what he wanted to call me. Mother’s father was Isaac Abraham and she chose that name. They couldn’t agree about it, so they called me Patrick Isaac.”

He turned to the girl at the window.

44 Tony,” he said, 44 do you hear that? His father’s name was William Patrick — his grandfather’s was Isaac Abraham — they call him Patrick Isaac. The result is an out-and-out American boy, who, for all we know, may become president of the United States ! ”

The girl at the window turned and gave me a look that was full of friendliness and sympathy. She glanced at her father with a half smile on her face, as if she were trying to tell me that he meant no harm, and I needn’t be afraid.

4< Patrick Isaac Ennis,” he repeated, slowly, 44 P. I. E. — a most original name. If you were my boy I should call you 4 Pie.’ — Perhaps that’s what your friends call you, already? ”

44 No, sir,” I blurted out, 44 no one ever called me that. Mose Eckstein calls me 4 Ikey,’ and Mickey calls me 4 Pat.’ ’Most everybody else calls me 4 343.’ ”

44 Very well,” he said, 44 but your mother and father knew better and they meant that you should be called 6 Pie.* — Now, Pie, tell me, — did you ever live in the country ? ”

“ No, sir,” I said, “ except for ten days, and then I stayed in the house all the time.”

66 Did you learn how to feed chickens? ”

“ No, sir.”

“ Did you plant any sweet-peas or cabbages ? ”

“ No, sir.”

“ Have you ever chopped wood and made a fire? ”

“ No, sir.”

“ Do you know how to row a boat or sail a boat? ”

“ No, sir.”

“ Do you know anything about machinery? ”

“ No, sir.”

“ Did you ever run an automobile?”

“ No, sir.”

He drew back again with an air of mock seriousness, but he was still laughing at me with his eyes.

“ Well, Pie,” he said, “ I am looking for a boy who can help me feed the chickens, plant cabbages and potatoes and sweet-peas, row a boat and sail a boat, chop wood, make a fire and run an automobile. I want a boy who is big and strong and willing — a boy who likes work as well as he does play and who is ready to accept with a smile or a laugh any kind of experience that may come our way — How does it strike you? Do you think you are aualified for the position ? ”