I told him I was a hop fiend, that I had used it for ten years, and was still using it. I told him I was tired of stealing and tired of living. I told him there was but one thing I could say for myself. I had never broken my word either to a thief or a policeman. I told him if he did help me out I would give him my word to quit stealing. He went away, saying: “This looks pretty tough, but I will try.” He at once saw Judge Dunne, who sentenced me, and suggested probation on the ground of my long confinement and dangerous physical condition. Mr. Older was the powerful editor of a newspaper and a long-time friend of the judge. He was stared at as if he had gone mad, and his suggestion met with a cold, flat, final turndown. He sent word to me that the judge was adamant and nothing could be done. I saw my case was tough indeed when he couldn’t help me, and began planning a getaway. I will not say there is honor among thieves. But I maintain that the thieves I knew had something that served as a good substitute for honor. I thought over all my thief friends and at last chose one and sent for him. He got me saws, and I cut bars in my door. On a propitious night he cut the window bars. I was too weak to pull myself up to the window, and he had to reach in, lift me bodily, and drop me on the ground outside. Strange as it may sound, the fresh, cool night air had the same effect on me that the foul air of a sewer would have on a healthy, normal human. It overcame me. I was not able to walk at first, and my rescuer had to support me on our way to the car line. Before daylight and before the escape was discovered I was safely planted in a room in Oakland, where I stayed and was nursed back to life, fed and protected by my friend. After waiting for a couple of weeks for the hue and cry to subside, he stowed me away in a sleeper one night at Richmond on a northbound train with a ticket to Vancouver, B.C. County constables and town whittlers beat up the jungles, searched box cars and brakebeams; city dicks explored the hop joints and hangouts for me and the reward offered, but I traveled safely as a first-class passenger on a first-class train. No police officer who knows his business would think of looking in a Pullman sleeper or diner for a fugitive hop fiend yegg with a twenty-five-year sentence hanging on him. Arriving safely at Vancouver, I took stock and found myself sick, weighing one hundred and ten pounds, with a ferocious hop habit, about ten dollars, and a big pistol—the gatherings of forty years. Then came a foggy night. Necessity and Opportunity met, and I went away with a bundle of bank notes and some certified checks. The checks went into the first mail box as an apology from Necessity to Opportunity. Then began the toughest battle of my life. Opium, the Judas of drugs, that kisses and betrays, had a good grip on me, and I prepared to break it. The last words of my rescuer when he put me in the train rang in my ears: