alf-breeds, blacks, browns and yellows, handle my property so
freely. I was especially in a rage with the impudent captain, who had
the nerve to put my watch in his pocket. Absorbed by the interest of the
scene, my captors had insensibly loosened their hold, and I determined
to have some satisfaction out of the captain. Suddenly seizing one of
the revolvers before I could be stopped I gave him a stinging blow with
it and sprang on him. We rolled on the floor, and there was a scene. I
was dragged off by fifty hands, every one trying to seize me, if only by
one hand. My captain got up with the blood running down his face, and,
rushing to a peg, he seized a sabre bayonet and flew at me like a mad
bull. I shouted at him in Spanish, calling him a cur and coward, bidding
him to come on. He was not unwilling, while my captors held me firmly
exposed to his assault. Another second would have ended my life, when a
woman spectator, who stood near nursing a child, threw her arms around
him; this, joined to my indifference, for I continued my jeers and
taunts, changed his purpose, to my disappointment, for I preferred death
to going back to Havana.

"From Wall Street to Newgate" is replete with stirring incidents,
marvelous adventures, hair-breadth escapes and remarkable
experiences, such as few men have met with. They are narrated in
any easy, picturesque style, evincing sincerity and candor, with no
attempt at sensation or exaggeration. The truth told is stranger
than fiction, and history may well be challenged to produce another
life into which has come so many varied and bewildering events, or
to disclose another character, trained in a religious home, having
culture and an unusual business talent, whose deflection from the
path of honor has stirred to its very depths the entire civilized
world.

CHAPTER XXXIV.

ONE LOVELY JUNE MORNING INTO PLYMOUTH HARBOR WE SAIL.

Ten days after the events recorded in the last chapter I sailed once
more into Havana. This time a prisoner. Two days after my capture, by
order of the Captain-General of Cuba, I was put on board the little
gunboat Santa Rita, a wretched little tub that steamed four miles an
hour and took eight days going from Puerto Novo on the south to Havana.

I was taken by a guard of soldiers, not to the police barracks, but to
the common prison, where an entire corridor was cleared of its inmates
to make room f