It was on the square with me. I went back to Oklahoma and took up the practice of law. After a year of temptation, hardship and starving in a land of plenty I began to make good. One case followed another. I had a few big successes.
Several years passed. I had all but forgotten Bill Porter. One morning a big, square envelope came through the mails. The moment I glanced at that clear, fine handwriting something seemed to reach into me and grab me by the heart.
I felt a bubbling happiness singing as it had not in years. I could hear the whispering music of Bill Porter's voice lisping across the continent.
That letter came early in 1905. Porter urged me to write. The old ambition flared up. I started again on the "Night Riders." It was the beginning of a long correspondence. And then came a letter :
"Algie Jennings, The West, Dear Al: Got your message all right. Hope you'll follow it soon. Well, as I had nothing to do, I thought I would write you a letter and as I have nothing to say I will now close (joke)."
The letter rambled through four delicious pages of whimsicality, each urging me in a different vein to visit New York. When I finished it I started to pack my trunk.
Bill Porter was already a celebrity in New York. He was O. Henry, the man endeared to a million hearts for his stories in "The Four Million," "The Voice of the City," and four other equally famous collections. The thought of visiting this glorified Bill thrilled me.
But I had another motive in making the trip. I was going to make a stop-over in Washington. I decided to call on Theodore Roosevelt at the White House. I wanted a full and free pardon. I wanted to be restored to citizenship.
No triumph in the courtroom had ever dulled my pride on this score. Every time I passed an election booth and saw other men casting their ballots I was stung with humiliation.
Since my release from Leavenworth I had worked incessantly toward regaining my rights. The biggest Republican in Oklahoma had spoken for me. I decided to make my plea personally to the greatest of them all. Sheer gall won me that audience—unbiased fairness on the part of the President made the mission a success.
John Abernathy was United States marshal in Oklahoma. He was a hunter. When Roosevelt had come to the State Abernathy was his wolf-catcher. Between the two men there was a deep, sincere affection. Abernathy was a friend of mine. He agreed to make the trip and present my case to President Roosevelt.
We had managed to get ourselves into the Cabinet room. Five or six men were standing around filling up the moments of waiting with lusty chatter. Only one of them I recognized—Joe Cannon. Abernathy and I stood in one corner, as futile and helpless as two little buttermilk calves trying to find shelter from the rain.
I kept my glance fastened on a door. "He'll come through that one," I thought. But when the door shot open with a vigorous push and the Great Man came swinging in, the shock of excited emotion bewildered me.
Roosevelt's presence seemed to tingle through the room as though a vivid current of electricity were suddenly conducted from one to another. It was the first time I had ever seen him. He looked as though he had come up from a stimulating swim, as though every drop of blood throbbed with eager health.
The quivering exuberance of youth met the rugged strength of maturity in the abounding personality standing in the middle of the Cabinet room. He saw every man at a glance. He ignored practically all but Abernathy.
"Hello, John!" The tense hand reached out. "How are the wolves down in Oklahoma?" He swept around. Roosevelt didn't walk or step; there was too much spontaneity, too much vitality in every gesture for such prosy motions. "This, gentlemen, is my United States marshal, John Abernathy of Oklahoma."
"Mr. President, this is my friend, Al Jennings, 5 ' the wolf-catcher replied.
Roosevelt's quick, boring eyes turned on me. "I'm glad to see you sir. I know what you want. I'm a very busy man. I'll have to see you later."
"Mr. President," the words catapulted out of my mouth, "I'll never get in here again. My business is more important to me than your Cabinet meeting. I want to be a citizen of the United States again."
The snapping light of humor came into the eyes, and at once Roosevelt seemed to me to have the shrewdest, kindest, most tolerant expression I had ever seen. He seemed to be taking a whimsically measured appraisement of me.
"I think you're right, sir. Citizenship is greater in this country of ours than a Cabinet meeting." He turned to the men. "Gentlemen, excuse me a moment. You'll have to wait."
In the private room near where the Cabinet met Roosevelt sat on the edge of a desk. "I want to know," he shot out abruptly, "if you were guilty of the crime you went to prison for."
"No, sir."
"You were not there then?"
"I was there, I held up the train and robbed the passengers." The relentlessly honest eyes never took their glance from mine. "But I did not rob the United States mail, and that's what I was convicted for."
"That's a distinction without a difference." The words were snapped out with incisive clearness.
"It's the truth, however, I'll tell you nothing, Mr. President, but the truth."
"Abernathy and Frank Frans have assured me you would tell only the truth. I have studied your case. I am going to give you a full and free pardon. I want you to be worthy of it."
It would have been ended then. But the devil of perversity that had so often loosened my tongue whisked me to the absurd folly of replying. I had no sense of the proprieties.
"Mr. President, the court that sentenced me was more guilty of violating the law than I was. Judge Hosea Townsend won the verdict from the jury by trickery."
If I had suddenly gone up and slapped his face, Roosevelt would not have sprung down with more flashing indignation. A red flurry of anger scooted across his face. He scowled down at me, the even teeth showing. I thought he was going to strike me. I had said too much. I'd have given an eye to own the words again.
"You have brought charges against one of my appointees." His voice was even and quiet. "You will have to substantiate this."
I thought the pardon was lost. I told him the facts.
Ten jurors had testified under oath that Marshal Hammer of the Southern District of Indian Territory had come into the jury room when they were deliberating the evidence in my case and he had told them Judge Townsend would give me the lightest sentence under the law if they would return a verdict of guilty. Under the impression that I would be given a year, they voted me guilty. The next morning Townsend sentenced me for life to the Ohio penitentiary.
My brother John had secured these affidavits. They were on file in the attorney general's office. I told the President this.
He never said a word, but went to the door and gave some hasty order. Then he came back, walking furiously up and down the room, holding himself stiff and clenched.
It seemed to me that I could feel the vibrating anger in his mind. Some word came back from the outer room.
"You are a truth-teller," Roosevelt turned to me. "The pardon is yours. Be worthy of it. I wish you good luck."
He seemed borne down by suppressed emotion. He offered me his hand. I was so touched I could scarcely mumble my thanks. A free man and a citizen, I landed in New York to meet Bill Porter.
I had counted too much on Bill Porter's fame. I knew that New York was a big place, but I had an idea that Porter would tower above the crowd like a blond Hercules in a city of dwarfs.
Abernathy and I had rollicked along from Washington to New York. When the boat swung down the Hudson we didn't know whether we were en route to Liverpool or Angel Island. But we did know that we were looking for one Bill Porter. I had lost the letter giving me his address.
We wandered up one street and down another, a queer-looking pair with our wide fedora hats. Every now and then I made bold and plucked the sleeve of some man, woman or child. "Hey, pard, can you tell me where Bill Porter lives?" They stared coldly and passed on. I heard one young fellow titter, "The poor babes from the woods."
We couldn't find Bill.
But we were in an irrepressibly happy mood. With not the slightest idea how we got there we landed at the Breslin Hotel. We began to treat everybody at the bar.
The whole crowd knew the Outlay and the Wolf-Catcher were in town.
"By golly, we haven't found Bill." Abernathy smashed his glass down on the counter.
"Bill who?" the bartender asked.
"Bill Porter. Know him, greatest man in New York?"
"Sure, know them all."
"Let's telephone to the President and ask him where this fellow lives. He's a good sport ; he'll send us a pilot." Abernathy's "hunch" gave me a better one. Dr. Alex Lambert, physician to Roosevelt, had shown us many courtesies. He lived in New York. We decided to use him as our guide if we could find him.
I remembered that Porter lived near Gramercy Park. I phoned to the doctor and with the utmost formality asked directions to this district. The absurdity of the question didn't seem to amaze him. He went into elaborate details.
Arm in arm, Abernathy and I sauntered to the park and with the most painful dignity went up the steps of every house and rang the bell, inquiring for Bill Porter. Not a soul had ever heard of him. Somehow or other we strayed into the Players' Club. The flunkies didn't like the cut of our clothes. We had to bribe them before they would admit us.
"Where is Mr. William Sydney Porter, the writer?" I asked one of them.
"Didn't know; never heard of him. Ask him over there. He knows even the small fry. He's Bob Davis."
The chunky little fellow with his ample, humorous face and his keen gray eyes, was standing at the door of a big meeting room. I went up to him.
"Are you acquainted with Bill Porter?"
"Never heard of the gentleman." He didn't even shift his glance toward me. "My circle embraces only writers, waiters and policemen."
And then I remembered who it was I was looking for.
"Oh, thank you." I tried to make my voice very casual. "Do you happen to know a man by the name of O. Henry?" The little fellow's face lit up like an arc lamp. His hand swooped down on mine. "Do I? I should say so. Do you?"
"Me!" I fairly screamed at him. "Hell, yes, he's an old pal of mine."
"So? What part of the West does he come from?" The editor's scrutiny took in even the freckles on my hand. Porter had them guessing already. They would not learn his secret from me. For a moment I did not answer.
"He's from the South," I said finally. "Do you know where I can find him?"
"Ring up the Caledonia Hotel, 28 West Twenty-sixth Street."
Porter was found at last.
"Is that you, colonel?" The same old rich, suspenseful flavor in the whispering voice. "I'll be with you anon. God bless you."
In a very short "anon" in came the immaculate, flawless Bill as though something adventurous and exciting had just happened to him or were just about to happen. He wore a handsome gray suit, with a rich blue tie, the everlasting glove and cane in his right hand.
"Hey, Bill, why don't you carry a forty-five instead of that trinket?"
"Colonel, the forty-five is not fashionable just now. And there are folks in Manhattan who object to the custom, notably the Legislature."
Just as though it had been five minutes since I had spoken to him instead of five years! With all his warm, fine-tempered affection, he stood silent and searched my face.
"It's you, colonel. Ain't spoiled, are you?"
We sat down to a table, ordered a drink, forgot to drink it and sat there shaking each other's hand and nodding to each other like a pair of mutes.
"How are Hans and Fritz?" Porter's voice was charged with feeling. Yet the twins were but a pair of prison kittens born and raised in the post-office.
Like a pair of farmer boys who had grown up together, ducked in the same creek and gone to the little school on Ball Knob, we sat back swapping reminiscences of the hated, horror-haunted O. P.
"It's good you've been there*, colonel. It's the proper vestibule to this City of Damned Souls. The crooks there are straight compared to the business thieves here. If you've got $2 on you, invest it now or they'll take it away from you before morning."
It was midnight when we started down to the old Hoffman House for a farewell toast. We were to meet early next morning for our first survey of the little village. Abernathy and I were up at six. Porter came over at eleven. The first feature on his entertainment program was a joyride on a "rubberneck wagon."
"You'll get a swift, fleeting glimpse of this Bagdad and its million mysteries. You'll see the princess in disguise glide past the street corners evading evil genii; meeting with grand viziers. Keep your eyes open."
Abernathy, Porter and I were the only passengers. In a raucous sing-song the guide shouted. "To your right, gentlemen, is the home of Sheridan Land," or some such cognomen. "And further down to your left is the tomb of Grant."
Porter fidgeted. He got up and handed the cicerone a $2 bill. "Keep your tongue in your cheek," he said impressively. "We are neither entomologists interested in gold bugs nor antiquarians hob-nobbing with the dead. We are children of Bacchus. Lead us to the curb."
It was a cold, raw day. Cicerone, wolf -catcher, outlaw, genius, we took many side trips to the haunts of our father. The driver became reckless and jammed into a street car. For a moment it looked as if we would all be "pinched." Abernathy and I wanted to "mix it with the cop."
"Restrain yourselves, gentlemen. I will straighten the legal tangle." With commanding elegance, Porter stepped down, threw open his coat and showed some sort of star. The policeman apologized. It seemed a miracle to us.
"He is the magician of Bagdad," I whispered to Abernathy. In the next three weeks he proved it. Bill Porter waved his hand and his "Bagdad on the Subway" yielded its million mysteries to the touch.