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Jones is a drunkard; and day after tomorrow "they say" that Jones never drew a sober breath. And thus lies and scandal travel down the line. Soon a person's character and reputation are ruined by "they say"; but what do they care? I am no particular friend of Mr. Dinsmore, but I like to see him get the square deal. Now that so much bad has been said and written about him by this gang, I am here today to give him justice and set forth some of his many good deeds, one certain one of which will offset all his misdeeds and land him in heaven. Judge Frost has said and written much about this man. When I asked the judge the other day if he had ever called upon Warden Delahunty for information, he said that he had not, and that he did not even know the warden. I happened to think of what Warden Melick used to say, "There are always two sides to a story"; and before reprimanding an inmate he always heard both the story of the guard and the inmate.

 
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Had Judge Frost done likewise and not depended upon the stories of a few discharged inmates bent on revenge, but had gone to the warden and heard his side of the story, the above article would perhaps never have been written. If the judge likewise would have called upon the convict physician and heard his side of the story and thoroughly investigated his work, I am certain that he would have written quite a different article.

Soon after Mr. Davis was placed in the operating chair, along came the negro brute, Prince, also headed for the hospital. As he passed the operating room on his way to the hole, he saw the deputy warden lying bleeding in the chair. Shouting "I want to finish him" he sprang towards him, but here is where he reckoned with brave Frank Dinsmore, for while he was attending Mr. Davis with one hand, he succeeded in keeping the negro at bay with the other hand until a guard arrived and locked the assassin

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in a cell. Even after being locked up he kept on shouting "I wish that I had finished him" and "You finish him, Doc." Mr. Dinsmore worked hard and faithfully to save the deputy warden's life, but alas, he kept growing weaker and weaker. Soon Doctor Spradling and Doctor Wilmeth arrived, but despite the efforts of the doctors he grew worse and worse and an operation was found necessary. This was performed at noon, but he never came out from under the influence of the anaesthetics (sic) and passed away at midnight. He has climbed the golden stairs; he has joined the angels above; he is sitting close to the throne.

Mr. Davis was well liked by the convicts and many were shedding tears in their cells. From time to time they sent inquiries to the office about his condition. The officers and guards did not go to bed but remained in the hall awaiting the outcome. None of us ate anything: we were too grieved to eat. At midnight Warden Delahunty came down

 
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stairs. The guards waiting in the hail asked no questions, they could tell by the looks on the warden's face what had happened. The warden went into the office and sat down; neither of us spoke a word; both of us cried bitterly for we felt the loss keenly. There was grief and sorrow everywhere-except with one man, the man whose particular duty it was to console the grief-stricken - the chaplain of the prison. His room was on the third floor above those of Mr. Davis, and at midnight he was awakened by the cries of the heartbroken widow on the floor below. He arose, put on his trousers and his vest, but not his coat, and with an impatient look upon his face he wandered up and down the hail. What did it matter to him that a good woman had lost her husband? what did it matter to him that a woman's heart was breaking? - for was he not losing his sleep?

How lonesome were my evenings after this day without the company of Mr. Davis!