taken to the station, and the others were sent below while I was kept up
for examination. They put me through a light "third degree," measuring
me and noting the color of hair and eyes, size of feet, etc.

Finally they stopped measuring and asking questions, and I waited. I saw
my friend come up and go out of the door; he did not take time to bid me
good-by. I asked the captain if he was through with me, and he did not
know what to say. He apologized, and explained that I had been arrested
because I looked like a man that had escaped from Auburn.

I felt rather sorry for the captain, not because I was not the escaped
prisoner, but because he was so nervous. I could not leave him without a
jolly, so I said, "Captain, if you'll come up to the corner I'll treat,"
patting my pocket in which I had a few pennies. He thanked me and said,
"No." I met the captain every night taking his men as far as Salina
Street, and we always saluted one another.

My new pal couldn't be got up on Main Street to the postoffice again for
anything, and as soon as he earned money enough he took the train for
"little old New York." I've met him on the Bowery since I became a
missionary there, and we did smile about that ride in the "hurry-up
wagon" in Syracuse.

Finally I came back to New York, after being away quite a time, got work
in a carpet factory, and was quite steady for a while.

My poor dear mother was sick, sometimes up and oftentimes in bed. I can
still see her and hear her say, "David, my poor boy, I do wish you would
stop your drinking. I've prayed for you, and will pray until I die. Oh,
Dave! I'd die so happy if my only son would stop and be a man!" But that