It was day before yisterday. I had hunted for work all day. I had had nothin to eat for a whole day and nite. I was passin up Ontario Street, near Hull & Dutton’s big clothin store. I saw a well-dressed man, with a high silk hat on, with a hand full of paper money, talkin loud and offerin to bet $500 that McKinley would git the delegates from Allegheny County. There were several fellers standin there a listenin and talkin, and two policemen. I stepped up and asked the feller with the money if he could give me enough to git me a supper and bed. I was so hungry and nearly sick by sleepin outdoors. The feller turned around and looked black at me. Then, turnin to the policemen, he ordered them to arrest me, sayin: “Ime d—d if I dont intend to break up this beggin on the streets.” The policemen took hold of me and jerked me out of the crowd and pulled me down Champlain Street hill to the city prison, and locked me in a iron cage. I asked one of them who the big man was that ordered me arrested. He said it was “the Director of Charities, one of the leadin city officers.” You may have read in the papers of him a havin a tramp arrested for askin him for somethin to buy bread with. That tramp, Betsy, was me. They say he gits $5,000 a year for bein “Director of Charities.” Well, they tried me next mornin and found me guilty. I am up for ten days. I cant find any work or a place for you till I git out. They brought me out here in a wagon with a cage on it. They call it the “Black Mariar.” There was a lot of us in it. Betsy, pity me. Dont blame me. Your lovin husband, JOBE GASKINS. Mistur Editure, I cant comment. I feel so bad. [Illustration] CHAPTER XLI. A SORE HAND. I AM sick. I have been sick since day before yisterday. I have a high fever. My head bothers me. I cant rite. Here is another letter I got from poor Jobe. Oh! how I wish he was here. I know he would care for me and watch over me and do for me while Ime sick. Read his letter and return it. They seem so near to me. I havent been able to be out of bed much to-day. If Jobe was only out of that dreadful place. JOBE’S THIRD LETTER. CLEVELAND WORK-HOUSE, CLEVELAND, O., March 9, 1896. _To Betsy Gaskins._ DEAR WIFE:—I got your letter yisterday. I cant tell you how I felt when I read of them a puttin you out. Betsy, I little thought, the day you stood beside me and become my wife, that the time would come when you would have to sleep outdoors in the big road.