Some of the cases made a lasting and horrible impression; some even terrified. The behaviour of individuals, especially of different races, when sentence was given also left vivid memories; negroes, appealing hysterically to God and using the most extraordinary, invented words, the longer the better; the stolid, unemotional Chinamen; the voluble Italian; the white man, as a rule, quiet, controlled, insisting merely in a brief sentence that he was innocent. In a story, years later (_Max Hensig, Bacteriologist and Murderer_), the facts were taken direct from life. It needed more than fifteen years to dim their memory. I remained the Tombs reporter for the best part of a loathed, distressing, horror-laden year. There were pleasanter intervals, of course. The French paper, _Le Courier des Etats Unis_, published a short story every Monday, and one day I translated an exceptionally clever one, and submitted it to McCloy. It was printed; subsequently, I was allowed an afternoon off weekly, provided I translated a story each time, and though no money was paid for these, I secured a good many free hours to myself. These hours I spent in the free library in Lafayette Place, devouring the Russians, as well as every kind of book I could find on psychology; or else in going out to Bronx Park, a long tram journey, where I found trees and lovely glades and water. Bronx Park, not yet the home of the New York “Zoo,” was a paradise to me, the nearest approach to the woods that I could find. Every Sunday, wet or fine, I went there. In a _cache_ I hid a teapot, and would make a tiny fire and drink milkless tea. I could hear the wind and see the stars and taste the smell of earth and leaves, the clean, sweet things.... One morning in the second week of my apprenticeship, I interviewed a lion. “Afraid of wild animals, Mr. Britisher?” inquired Cooper, looking at me quizzically. I stared, wondering what he meant. It was my duty to have read the morning paper thoroughly, but there had been no mention of any wild animal. I replied that I thought I didn’t mind wild animals. “Take your gun,” said Cooper, “and get up to East 20th Street, between Third and Fourth Avenues. Bostock’s Circus came to town last night late. Their lion’s escaped. They’ve chased it into a stable. Killed a valuable horse. Neighbourhood’s paralysed with terror. It’s a man-eater. Send down bulletins about it. Now, better get a move on!” On leaving the elevated train at East 18th Street, the streets were black with people, they even pressed up the front steps of the houses. The word “lion” was in everybody’s mouth. Something about Cooper’s voice and eyes had made me suspect a “fake.” As I forced my way through towards 20th Street, there came a roar that set the air trembling even above the din of voices. It was certainly no fake.