controlled, insisting merely in a brief sentence that he was innocent. In a story, years later (Max Hensig, Bacteriologist and Murderer), the facts were taken direct from life. It needed more than fifteen years to dim their memory. I remained the Tombs reporter for the best part of a loathed, distressing, horror-laden year.
There were pleasanter intervals, of course. The French paper, Le Courier des Etats Unis, published a short story every Monday, and one day I translated an exceptionally clever one, and submitted it to McCloy. It was printed; subsequently, I was allowed an afternoon off weekly, provided I translated a story each time, and though no money was paid for these, I secured a good many free hours to myself. These hours I spent in the free library in Lafayette Place, devouring the Russians, as well as every kind of book I could find on psychology; or else in going out to Bronx Park, a long tram journey, where I found trees and lovely glades and water. Bronx Park, not yet the home of the New York "Zoo," was a paradise to me, the nearest approach to the woods that I could find. Every Sunday, wet or fine, I went there. In a cache I hid a teapot, and would make a tiny fire and drink milkless tea. I could hear the wind and see the stars and taste the smell of earth and leaves, the clean, sweet things....
One morning in the second week of my apprenticeship, I interviewed a lion.
"Afraid of wild animals, Mr. Britisher?" inquired Cooper, looking at me quizzically. I stared, wondering what he meant. It was my duty to have read the morning paper thoroughly, but there had been no mention of any wild animal. I replied that I thought I didn't mind wild animals.
"Take your gun," said Cooper, "and get up to East 20th Street, between Third and Fourth Avenues. Bostock's Circus came to town last night late. Their lion's escaped. They've chased it into a stable. Killed a valuable horse.
Neighbourhood's paralysed with terror. It's a man-
