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110 of the prison. To the bare right leg, another electrode is applied and connected up.

A full minute has elapsed since I heard the "Good-by, all." The guards have completed their task. My notes now read: "Entered 5:44:10. Chair and strapped 5:45:00."

"Lamb of God who taketh away the sins of the world have mercy on me," chants the priest. And: "Have mercy on me," comes the broken, almost inaudible and inarticulate response.

I retain my position, note-book and watch in my left hand. I am standing on the right side of, and in the same direct line with, the Chair. The Chair and its occupant, the electrician and myself, form a right angle. I occupy the angle, for at the ends of the lines, which make up that angle, are the two things that demand my undivided attention—the electrician and the condemned. From my point of vantage I can see them both. My eyes are on the condemned man.

I feel the eyes of the electrician upon me. I have a new, bright yellow pencil—freshly sharpened. It is quite necessary for my notes. I hold it vertically on my note-book, and watch the occupant of the Chair. The overwhelming mental tension, coupled with the knowledge of the proximity of death, has a fearsome reaction upon the Chair's victim. With each rapid inspiration, there is a slight elevation of the shoulders, and as expiration takes place the shoulders sag. This is the very instant I have awaited—the lungs are practically free from air. I dip my pencil quickly from the vertical toward the horizontal.

There is a sudden click, the body in the Chair straightens, and from the mouth comes a low, sibilant hiss; the straps creak, and you feel that if the straps should break the body would be catapulted over the rope and amidst the witnesses.

For ten seconds the high current of eighteen hundred and fifty volts and eight to nine amperes is on; then, for forty seconds, the voltage is dropped to two hundred.

During this period the body sags perceptibly; at the end of forty seconds the current is again increased, and the body again straightens and strains against the straps. After the final ten seconds of the fatal minute, the current is switched off.

The body in the Chair actually shrinks before your very eyes! I step up to the Chair; a guard tears open the shirt and bares the chest. As I place my stethoscope over the heart I am conscious that the body is intensely hot. I know from experience that the heat generated by the rapidity of the passage of the current has raised the temperature from sub-normal to between 120 and 130 degrees,

I hear a racing, tumultuous rat-a-tat-tat—possibly I can count the heart beats. I lift the face strap, and with thumb and forefinger separate the lids. The eyes are glazed, but the pupils are small. I feel the great arteries in the neck. I continue to get a pulsation that tells me that the vital forces have not yet ceased.

My notes now read: "First contact—one minute—5:45:10—5:46:10."

I step off the rubber mat and nod to the electrician; the current is again thrown on, this time for five seconds. When I now listen over the heart, I am reminded, of a clock that is running down; the heart beats are fainter—they become slower—they commence to skip—I fail to feel the pulsation in the neck—there is a heavier glaze over the eyes—the pupils, small and contracted a moment before, are now widely dilated. The head rests on the shoulders, and the face is directed toward the chandelier with its many lights, but there is no reaction of the pupil as the bright light strikes the eye—it remains wide and big. The muscles of the face are set, and saliva drools from the angles of the mouth.

I again place my stethoscope upon the chest, but no sound reaches my ear. I listen for five—for ten—for twenty seconds. There is nothing; all the vital reactions have disappeared.

Physicians among the witnesses are invited to listen; they take their time, for there is no reason for hurry now. After the last one finishes I make a final examination. It is as before—nothing.

My notes now state: "Second contact:—5 seconds—5:47:00. Pronounced dead at 5:52:00."

I turn toward the Warden and say, "I pronounce this man dead."

The law has been obeyed.

The general attitude of tenseness is relieved. The guards quickly unbuckle the straps and carry the body to the autopsy room, and after placing it upon the stone-topped table begin to remove the clothes. The hum of conversation becomes general. The witnesses are departing.

I commence the autopsy, feeling that my report will be, "Autopsy upon the body of No., convicted of murder, first degree and today executed at this prison, showed all organs and tissues to be normal."

As I begin my long sweeping incision, the thought always strikes me: "This must also be done because it is the Law," and the invariable question comes, "Is it really the Law, or is it to insure the carrying out of the Law?"

In other words, if the Chair fails, the postmortem succeeds.

HERE is little left to tell, The evening papers will state that "So-and-so, convicted of first degree murder and sentenced to death, was electrocuted at Sing Sing Prison early this morning." They will rehearse the gruesome history of the crime and will tell how the murderer, with firm step, entered the execution chamber at 5:44:10 a. m., and was strapped in the chair at 5:45:00 a. m.

These details are quite correct. I can vouch for them, for I let the reporters take my notes, which are official, and they copy the data and embody it in their stories.

They invariably dress up the "first contact," however, so their stories read about like this, "At 5:45:10 Warden Blank threw the switch, pressed the button, or dropped his handkerchief, as a signal" (it is always one of these three).

Well, I'm rather glad that they credit it to the Warden, and I really feel better that I and my new, bright yellow pencil, freshly sharpened, have been overlooked.

'''ASLAV ALBRECHT, a Chicago violinist, recently made a trip to Europe and brought back about thirty-five rare pieces of violin manuscript, which cannot be duplicated. Many of the compositions were original copies and the whole is valued at $5,000. The music disappeared at a party given by Frank Steiner, another musician, which Albrecht attended. He says he had the music with him when he came, and left it in the cloak-room during the festivities, and that it was gone when he was ready to leave for home. Although Albrecht was sure the manuscripts were merely mislaid, no trace of them could be found.'''