The iron entered into the soul of the man who wrote this little book, and sometimes the intensity of his feeling is felt in his writing. Do some of his terrible memories make him “see red,” and ought some of his vigorous statements to be taken with a grain of salt? I do not think that those familiar with prison conditions under the old regime will be inclined to that opinion. Donald Lowrie’s My Life in Prison may well be read by the man who thinks that this is an overdrawn picture. That striking volume Within Prison Walls, by Thomas Mott Osborne, blazes with an ethical indignation much stronger than any which finds expression in this book. That Wellington Scott is entirely sincere, that he is level-headed and not inclined to extreme views, and that he believes he has given a fair account of conditions, I know. I am ready to vouch for this narrative, not as the report of a judicial commission, but as a sincere and revealing document, in which, with the endeavor to be both candid and fair, the author gives us many significant chapters from his life. When the judicial appraisal of the old regime in prisons comes in, it will be a more terrible arraignment than this book by Wellington Scott. The crook is waiting for a friend. He has amazing capacity for loyalty. No man in the world is more appreciative of genuine friendship. The ways to prevent men from returning to prison are many. One of the most important is by providing every man who comes out of prison with a friend--human, red-blooded, hearty in all his relations, ready to enter into the life and see out of the eyes of the man who has come forth to try his fortune in a none too friendly world. At this point the doubter and the cynic may lift their voices. How do I know that the men will respond to friendship? The answer is ready. I know because I have seen the response. That, however, is another story. Some day I may try to tell it. Now it is time for Wellington Scott to speak for himself. LYNN HAROLD HOUGH. CHAPTER I EARLY LIFE I was born thirty-three years ago in one of the small cities of an Eastern State. The family from which I came was well thought of, and what it lacked in the possession of money it made up in respectability. My life up to the fifteenth year was that of the usual boy. I believe I was a little more studious than the average youngster, spending much time and finding not a little pleasure in fitting myself for a future career. I stood well in school, being at that time one year from high school. My mother died when I was about six years of age, leaving the care of nine children to my eldest sister. My father, a wage-earner, did not remarry. The home atmosphere was all that it could be, no bickering or quarrels ever marring the quiet of the house.