My attorney knew his business. He held me in the county jail till my last dollar was gone, and I refused to “write for more money” as he suggested. When I was leaving for Folsom he showed up at the jail and asked me for my watch, the only thing of value I had left. “You won’t have any use for it up there,” he said. “Give it to me and I’ll get you a job in the warden’s where you’ll get something to eat.” I told him to go plumb to hell. I went to prison without any plans for the future. With good conduct I would have to do five years and four months and there was no use trying to look that far ahead. Two other prisoners arrived the morning I did, and the three of us were taken out to the office to have our prison biographies written—name, age, birthplace, occupation, etc. We were then photographed, measured, and weighed, and turned over to the captain to be assigned to work. Richard Murphy (“Dirty Dick” the “cons” called him) was captain at that time. He had worked his way up from the guard line by cunning and brutality. He believed in “throwing the fear of God” into a prisoner the minute he arrived, by browbeating and bullying him, and every man went out of his office hating him. It’s more than twenty years since I left Folsom, but I can still see Dirty Dick’s short, squat figure on the flagstones in front of his filthy office. I can still see his pop-eyes and pasty face, his frog belly, his knock knees, and his flat feet. I was the first to be questioned. “Where are you from?” he asked. “San Francisco,” I replied. “How long did you do in San Quentin?” “Never was in San Quentin.” “What other penitentiary were you in?” “Never was in any penitentiary,” I lied, and I knew he knew I was lying, but wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of thinking he had bullied me into telling the truth. “Hah, you’re a liar, and you know it. You can’t get anything like that by me. I’ll dig you up, and find out all about you. Use hop?” “No.” I did use hop, had eaten it all the time in the county jail, and had a small portion secreted about me then. He again called me a liar and said to a convict runner: “Here, Shorty, take this fellow to the stoneyard. Search him, and if you find anything you want, keep it.” I had already been searched and had nothing but a handkerchief and a pipe. “No prisoner will keep anything belonging to me,” I said, looking at Shorty. He didn’t search me. The captain called up the second man. “Where are you from?” “Sacramento,” he answered. “How long do you bring?” “Ten years.” “What for?” “Grand larceny.” “What kind of grand larceny?” The little runner, Shorty, stepped up and said: “Pickpocket, captain.” “Where do you belong?” Murphy continued. “Chicago.” “What’s your name?” “James Brown.” “You’re from Chicago, eh? And your name is Brown? What do they call you? What’s your monoger?” The little runner stepped up again and said: “‘Chi Jimmy,’ captain.”