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.