My Autobiography by Charles Chaplin (most read book in the world TXT) 📕

On the train he tended me like a brother, and at the different stops would buy magazines and candy. He was shy and uncommunicative, a man about forty, and when business was discussed would magnanimously remark: ‘Don’t worry about that. It’ll be O.K.’ He had little conversation and was very much preoccupied. Yet I felt underneath he was shrewd.

The journey was interesting. On the train were three men. We first noticed them in the dining-car. Two looked quite prosperous, but the third looked out of place, a common, rough-looking fellow. It was strange to see them dining together. We speculated that the two might be engineers and the derelict-looking one a labourer to do the rough work. When we left the dining-car, one of them came to our compartment and introduced himself. He said he was sheriff of St Louis and had recognized Bronco Billy. They were transferring a criminal from San Quentin prison back to St Louis to be hanged, but, since they could not leave the prisoner alone, would we mind coming to their compartment to meet the district attorney?

‘Thought you might like to know the circumstances,’ said the sheriff confidentially. ‘This fellow had quite a criminal record. When the officer arrested him in St Louis, he asked to be allowed to go to his room and take some clothes from his trunk; and while he was going through his trunk he suddenly whipped round with a gun and shot the officer dead, then escaped to California, where he was caught burglaring and was sentenced to three years. When he came out the district attorney and I were waiting for him. It’s a cut-and-dried case – we’ll hang him,’ he said complacently.

Anderson and I went to their compartment. The sheriff was a jovial, thickset man, with a perpetual smile and a twinkle in his eye. The district attorney was more serious.

‘Sit down,’ said the sheriff, after introducing us to his friend. Then he turned to the prisoner. ‘And this is Hank,’ he said. ‘We’re taking him back to St Louis, where he’s in a bit of a jam.’

Hank laughed ironically, but made no comment. He was a man six feet tall, in his late forties. He shook hands with Anderson, saying: ‘I seen you many times, Bronco Billy, and by God, the way you handle them guns and them stick-ups is the best I’ve ever seen.’ Hank knew little about me, he said; he had been in San Quentin for three years – ‘and a lot goes on on the outside that you don’t get to know about.’

Although we were all convivial there was an underlying tension which was difficult to cope with. I was at a loss what to say, so I just grinned at the sheriff’s remarks.

‘It’s a tough world,’ said Bronco Billy.

‘Well,’ said the sheriff, ‘we want to make it less tough. Hank knows that.’

‘Sure,’ said Hank, brusquely.

The sheriff began moralizing: ‘That’s what I told Hank when he stepped out of San Quentin. I said if he’ll play square with us, we’ll play square with him. We don’t want to use handcuffs or make a fuss; all he’s got on is a leg-iron.’

‘A leg-iron! What’s that?’ I asked.

‘Haven’t you ever seen one?’ said the sheriff. ‘Lift up your trouser, Hank.’

Hank lifted his trouser-leg and there it was, a nickel-plated cuff about five inches in length and three inches thick, fitting snugly around his ankle, weighing forty pounds. This led to commenting on the latest type of leg-irons. The sheriff explained that this particular one had rubber insulation on the inside so as to make it easier for the prisoner.

‘Does he sleep with that thing?’ I asked.

‘Well, that depends,’ said the sheriff, looking coyly at Hank.

Hank’s smile was grim and cryptic.

We sat with them till dinner-time and as the day wore on the conversation turned to the manner in which Hank had been re-arrested. From the interchange of prison information, the sheriff explained, they had received photographs and fingerprints and decided that Hank was their man. So they had arrived outside the prison gates of San Quentin the day Hank was to be released.

‘Yes,’ said the sheriff, his small eyes twinkling and looking at Hank, ‘we waited for him on the opposite side of the road. Very soon Hank came out of the side door of the prison gate.’ The sheriff slid his index finger along the side of his nose and slyly pointed in the direction of Hank and with a diabolical grin said slowly: ‘I – think – that’s – our man!’

Anderson and I sat fascinated as he continued. ‘So we made a deal,’ said the sheriff, ‘that if he’d play square with us, we’d treat him right. We took him to breakfast and gave him hot cakes and bacon and eggs. And here he is, travelling first class. That’s better than going the hard way in handcuffs and chains.’

Hank smiled and mumbled: ‘I could have fought you on extradition if I’d wanted to.’

The sheriff eyed him coldly. ‘That wouldn’t have done you much good, Hank,’ he said slowly. ‘It would just have meant a little delay. Isn’t it better to go first class in comfort?’

‘I guess so,’ said Hank, jerkily.

As we neared Hank’s destination, he began to talk about the jail in St Louis almost with affection. He rather enjoyed the anticipation of his trial by the other prisoners: ‘I’m just thinking what those gorillas will do to me when I get before the Kangaroo Court! Guess they’ll take all my tobacco and cigarettes away from me.’

The sheriff’s and the attorney’s relationship with Hank was like a matador’s fondness for the bull he is about to kill. When they left the train, it was the last day of December, and as we parted the sheriff and the attorney wished us a happy New Year. Hank also shook hands, saying grimly that all good things must come to an end. It was difficult to know how to bid him goodbye. His crime had been