I don't believe it myself.

I merely know that it was done to me in San Quentin, and that I lived to laugh at them and to compel them to get rid of me by swinging me off because I bloodied a guard's nose.
I write these lines to-day in the Year of Our Lord 1913, and to-day, in the Year of Our Lord 1913, men are lying in the jacket in the dungeons of San Quentin.
I shall never forget, as long as further living and further lives be vouchsafed me, my parting from Philadelphia Red that morning.

He had then been seventy-four hours in the jacket.
"Well, brother, you're still alive an' kickin'," he called to me, as I was totteringly dragged from my cell into the corridor of dungeons.
"Shut up, you, Red," the sergeant snarled at him.
"Forget it," was the retort.
"I'll get you yet, Red," the sergeant threatened.
"Think so ?" Philadelphia Red queried sweetly, ere his tones turned to savageness.

"Why, you old stiff, you couldn't get nothin'.

You couldn't get a free lunch, much less the job you've got now, if it wasn't for your brother's pull.