The James boys’ story ran on for days and I followed it word for word, sympathizing with the hunted fugitive, Frank, wishing I were old enough and strong enough to find him and help him escape his pursuers and avenge his brother’s death. When that story was over I turned to other crime stories and read nothing else in the papers. Burglaries, robberies, murders—I devoured them all, always in sympathy with the adventurous and chance-taking criminals. I reconstructed their crimes in my boyish mind and often pictured myself taking part in them. I neglected my studies and prayers to rove about in fancy with such heroes as Jimmy Hope, Max Shinburn, and “Piano Charlie,” famous “gopher men,” who tunneled under banks like gophers and carried away their plunder after months of dangerous endeavor. Looking back now I can plainly see the influence the James boys and similar characters had in turning my thoughts to adventure and later to crime. CHAPTER III At last the day came for me to go home, for I had passed my fourteenth birthday and was too old to stay at the Sisters’ School. I wanted to kiss my favorite teacher good-by, but didn’t quite dare do it. So I rode down to the station with Tommy, who bought me a fifty-cent knife, out of his salary, only twelve dollars a month, and went away to join my father. Father took me back to the same hotel, to the same room. He had occupied it during the three years I had been away, and the only change was that he put a small bed in it for me. Everything was new and strange to me. Men coming and going all day, eating and drinking. Everything was noise and bustle, and it took me a few days to get used to this new life. I found lots of papers lying around—some cheap novels, Police Gazettes, etc.—and I read them all, everything I could get hold of. I saw my father only at night, and occasionally we would take a walk then for an hour. One evening as we were returning from our walk, we came upon a man whose team of horses was stalled in a mud hole. He was beating the horses, and cursing them with the most fearful oaths. I stopped still in my tracks and began praying for him. Father looked back, saw me standing still, and said: “What are you doing, John, listening to that mule skinner swear?” I finished my prayer and caught up with him. “You will learn to swear soon enough, John, without stopping to listen to these teamsters,” he said a little severely. In self-defense I told him I was not listening to the man, but praying for him. “The Sisters taught us to do that,” I said. “They taught us to pray for all sinners.” Father wore a long beard, the custom of his day. When he was very thoughtful or vexed with some problem, he had a habit of twisting up the end of his beard into a pigtail. He would then put the pigtail between his teeth and chew on it.