"At first, I thought 'twas all done be way av just frightenin' me—that after a month er so some one 'd come foorth an' clear me, an' I 'd go back to Molly contint to have no more to do with Tweed, ner Tammany, ner any other.… Thin Molly died, an' the child after, an' she ust to come to me like, at nights—with the ruffles 'round her neck, an' all, an' her black hair pinned up the way she ust to pin it up fer bed—an' we 'd whisper an' talk low togither fer fear the guards 'd hear us.… Well, well, 'twas years since—years an' years since. I was half crazed, no doubt.
"She wint, like iv'rythin' ilse. Molly wint. I dunno how ner why. An' I kep' writin' fer pardons—writin'—an' talkin' to this one an' that one—year in an' year out.… I was 'trusty' av 'Millionaires' Row,' as they called it; an' they all promised to hilp me whin they 'd get out—Jawn Y. McCabe an' Biff Ellis an' all the rest. An' some one hilped me, no doubt; fer Guv'ner Roosevelt commuted me sintince to fifty-five years, an' I got twinty-two off fer good conduc', an' here I am.… Here I am."
There followed the silence of despair—the old man hunched up on his barrel, gazing at nothing and sucking on his cold pipe—and Feeny standing with his jaws set, blinking at the red lights in the road.
"What 'll I do, then?" he said at last.
"Aye," the watchman answered, "what can yeh do? What can one man do to right what we've all av us made wrong, an' our fathers befoore us? We must make oursilves right first, Feeny. 'Tis in the nature
