We talked about him now and then, Billy always brought up the conversation.
"I need some tobacco a special brand think I'll drop a line to Bill Porter and ask him to send it on." Or again, it was his hair that worried him. "Fool that
I was I forgot to get that remedy from Bill. I'm like to be bald before he sends his address. Say, Al, didn't he promise to give you a lift on the story what about it?"
But the weeks went by and no word came. A month and a half to the day Billy sent a runner to the warden's office with a letter postmarked "Pittsburgh." The runner brought a note from Raidler: "Al, send me back that letter. My locomotor ataxia is itchin' to see what Bill's got to say. Yours in great peril, Billy."
Here is the first letter Bill Porter—he had already taken the name of O. Henry—had sent to me at the Ohio penitentiary. He had not forgotten us and he had already made good :
"Dear Jennings: I have intended to write to you and Billy every week since I left, but kept postponing it because I expected to move on to Washington (sounds like Stonewall Jackson talk, doesn't it?) almost any time. I am very comfortably situated here, but expect to leave in a couple of weeks, anyhow.
"I have been doing quite a deal of business with the editors since I got down to work and have made more than I could at any other business. I want to say that Pittsburgh is the 'low-downedest' hole on the surface of the earth. The people here are the most ignorant, ill-bred, contemptible, boorish, degraded, insulting, sordid, vile, foul-mouthed, indecent, profane, drunken, dirty, mean, depraved curs that I ever imagined could exist. Columbus people are models of chivalry compared with them. I shall linger here no longer than necessary.
"Besides, on general principles, I have a special object in writing to you just now. I have struck up quite a correspondence with the editor of Everybody's Magazine. I have sold him two articles in August and have orders for others. In writing to him some time ago I suggested an article with a title something like 'The Art and Humor of Holding Up a Train,' telling him that I thought I could get it written by an expert in the business.
"Of course, I mentioned no names or localities. He seemed very much struck with the idea and has written twice asking about it. The only fear he had, he said, was that the expert would not put it in a shape suitable for publication in Everybody's as John Wanamaker was very observant of the proprieties.
"Now, if you would care to turn yourself loose on the subject there may be something in it and a start on future work besides. Of course, you needn't dis- close your identity in the slightest degree. What he wants (as I thought he would) is a view of the subject from the operator's standpoint.
"My idea would be a chatty sort of article just about the way you usually talk, treating it descriptively and trying out the little points and details, just as a man would talk of his chicken farm or his hog ranch.
"If you want to tackle it, let me know and I'll send you my idea of the article, with all the points that should be touched upon. I will either go over it and arrange it according to my conception of the magazine requirements, or will forward your original MS., whichever you prefer. Let me know soon, as I want to answer his letter.
"Well how is the P. O. and vice versa? It's an awful job for me to write a letter. I believe my pencil handwriting is nearly as bad as yours.
"One letter to Harris is the best I've accomplished in the way of correspondence since I left. I haven't written to Louisa in two months. I hope she don't feel grieved. I am going to write her pretty soon.
"If I could get 30 days in the O. P. I believe I'd crack one of the statues that much to get a change of society from the hounds here. I'd rather sit in the dumphouse there and listen to the bucket lids rattle than to hear these varmints talk, as far as entertainment is concerned.
"Pard, they don't get no lowdowneder than the air here. If I could just have that black coon that comes in the P. O. every night with a tin bucket to run with here instead of Pittsburglars, I'd be much better satisfied.
"Give Billy R. my profoundest respects. Tell him he's more pumpkins than the whole population of Pennsylvania rolled into one man, not excluding John
Wanamaker's Sunday school class. May the smoke of his cigarettes ascend forever.
"Write me as soon as you feel like it and I assure you I will be glad to hear from you. I am surrounded by wolves and fried onions, and a word from one of the salt of the earth will come like a clap of manna from a clear roof garden. Remember me to Messrs. Ira Maralatt and Star (D. J.).
"Sincerely yours, W. S. P."
In less than two months the road from prison forked into the road to fame for Bill Porter. The plans he had made matured. He set resolutely to his work.
"Behold me, the lazy man Louisa used to guy," he said in a second letter, "averaging $150 a month. I always knew they didn't know laziness from dignified repose."
That letter from Porter did more than restore trust in a friend. It gave me a foothold on the great bridge. Self-confidence and hope leaped into quivering vitality. Bill Porter believed I could make good. He was holding out a hand to me.
I set to work that night. Billy held the pens. We were the kind who "dash off stories" that editors dash back. It was nearly morning when the first draft of the "holdup" was ready for mail.
Our Fate drives onward like a snowball—gathering momentum with every act. Some deed that is but a flake drops across the current of our lives and before we are aware of it the flake has doubled, tripled its size. A thousand kindred flakes flutter down to meet it until the tremendous force gathers itself together and rushes us to our Destiny.
It seemed to be this way with me, Porter's letter was the first incident—another and another came precipitately. A new outlook was before me. We sent the outline of the story to Porter. In two days we had an answer.
"Dear Pard—Your prompt reply was received this morning and read with pleasure. I assure you it is always a joyful thing for a man in Pittsburgh to be reminded of the O. P. It is like Lazarus in H—looking up and seeing the rich men order a schooner.
"Am I then so much in love with the O. P.? No, my son, I am speaking comparatively. I am only trying to put the royal skibunk onto Pittsburgh. The only difference between P. and O. P. is that they are allowed to talk at dinner here. . . ."
With the most illuminating detail, Porter went on to give me the directions for writing the story. I used my first experience in train-robbery—the stickup of the M. K. T. That letter was a lesson in short-story writing. It showed the unlimited pains O. Henry took to make his work the living reality it is.
He neglected nothing—character, setting, atmosphere, traits, slang—all were considered; all must be in harmony with the theme. I spoke of this letter in connection with the chapter on my first expedition with the outlaws. It served as a model outline for me in my future attempts.
When the story was finished Billy and I went over it. Billy demanded that real blood be shed just to give it color, but I stuck to the facts. The genuine outlaw kills only when his own life is at stake.
"It's a wonder, anyway, Al—gee whiz—you and Bill will be no end famous."
Porter revised the narrative, slashed it, added to it, put the kick in—it made it a story. We waited a month for an answer. And in the mean time, Fate was busy.
For three years my father and my brother John had worked persistently for the commutation of my sentence. They had many influential friends. Frank was still in Leavenworth. His term was but five years. I had worked up a following with the wealthy contractors. Some of them took a liking to me. They promised to pull the wires to win my release. All at once, our combined efforts seemed to have produced a result.