Story Of A Vagrant
He was old and bent. His white hair and beard were matted. His clothing was in tatters. He carried a crooked eane which would be conspicuous in a gallery of antiques. The old man himself might not have been out of place in such an exhibition. He trudged through the streets of Hoboken, an object of curiosity and of pity. He topped in front of the city hall a moment and then walked through the de entrance, where the sign "Reorder's Court" was displayed. The attendant at the door stopped him. "This is no place for you," he said. "I want to see Recorder McDonough," said the old man. "He's a friend of mine." The attendant laughed. "He's a friend of mine," repeated the old man. "He was ten years ago when l was here." "He's out of town," said the attendant, "and you can't see him. be Justice McCoIloch will do?" He led the oíd man up to the rail. The man said he wanted to go to the penitentiary. He was friendless and homeless. He said he was Frank H Abry, and had lived in Hoboken forty years. His face was remembered by the justice. He had lost everything he had. His wife and family were dead Ho had been incapacitated for work and had been in recent years a wanderer. He had been absent nearly ten years and had come back to Hoboken accidentally in his wanderings. He wanted to be sent away to a place where he could rest. The justice made out a thirty-day commitment to the Snake Hill Penitentiary and handed it to him The old man cried as he took it. The justice told him the van would be along pretty soon and he might ride to prison "No," said the old man, "the walk will do me good;" and as he started out of the station and up First street toward Snake Hill he looked ten years younger. His step was quicker, his back was straighter and his head was neld higher.
Ann Arbor Register