The court attendant leaned toward me and said, "Are you feeling all right, Miss West?"

I replied, "Quite all right."

He then escorted me to the side of the courtroom, through a cage effect, then out a door, where there were a few steps leading down to another door. That door was opened and two gentlemen who stood there said, "Right this way, Miss West."

They were most courteous; they didn't want anything to happen to me before I got to Welfare Island, I guess. I was ushered into a waiting-room. There was a colored woman, with a gold badge, in charge.

She was intelligent, and during my half-hour wait I talked with her, asking her various questions regarding Welfare Island. I like to know something about a place I intend to visit.

Later, five women were brought into the room: the first a woman who appeared to be about sixty-five years of age. Later I learned she was only forty-one. She claimed she had lived alone for twenty years, without relatives or friends, and she was homeless and penniless. Her clothes were old and torn.

Number Two was a colored woman wearing a black knitted cap. She had a very deep voice and a comedy personality, with Bert Williams' speech and delivery. I learned later that she was a drug addict.

Number Three was a tall, thin woman with gray hair, a spinster type, with a long scar on the side of her face and her neck that looked like a burn. She spoke with an Irish accent. She had been sentenced to ten days for stealing a $3.89 pair of shoes at a sale.

Number Four was another colored woman — rather young and healthy-looking. I was surprised to learn that she also was a drug addict.

Number Five was the most pitiful of all: a woman about five feet five, weighing not more than seventy pounds. Her eyes were sunken; her face long and narrow — just skin and bones. A drug addict in the last stages of tuberculosis; a mental and physical wreck.

I had to turn my head away several times. The poor unfortunate! God — what a sight!

They all sat before me — one, two, three, four, five! All glaring at me; all filthy, dirty, tattered and torn; human derelicts.

I forgot about myself completely. I forgot I was there. Their eyes were upon me with a sort of bewildered expression, and I sat there waiting for something to happen: for one of them to speak to me; for one of them to move. But not a word, not a move.

Then the door opened and a husky fellow in a driver's cap and a dark blue flannel shirt appeared. He was quite good-looking, and seemed to be in his early twenties. He pulled a few wise cracks to the five women and then took them out.

I figured that he must be the man with the Little Black Wagon.

He talked to another chap a few moments, and then added, "I'm coming back; I'm going to make a special trip." He glanced at me.

I was alone now with Mrs. Campbell, the colored woman with the gold badge. By this time all the newspaper reporters and photographers and various other people flocked outside the door. I could hear their voices crying:

"I must see Miss West!" "I want to see Miss West." "I must see her!"

The Lady of the Gold Badge answered, "I'm sorry, you can't see her; you can't come in. You will have to get a pass."

In a very short time the fellow with the cap and the flannel shirt returned. He was all ready for that special trip; yes, a special trip — for Mae West, star of Sex fame.

Why not? She was entitled to it! That was the least they could do for a beautiful star like Mae West — an actress who could sing, dance, write, and act a great play like Sex, that passed the play jury in June of 1926 — then was closed down after they had let it run for more than eleven months.

Why did they close it down — after eleven months?

Why did they ask for a jail sentence — after they got a conviction?

A court attendant informed me that the fellow with the cap was there to take me to the city prison, and I asked him whether I could arrange to go there by taxi or in my own car.

The fellow with the cap spoke up very earnestly: "You, will be private; nobody else with you. This will be a special trip."

Of course, having a good sense of humor, I smiled. The attendant got the comedy angle of it; he also smiled, and started for the door, saying, "I'll see what I can do."

My friend with the cap was disappointed; his feelings were hurt.

The court attendant returned, only to inform me that the court official who could have arranged for me to take the trip in a taxi was at luncheon and would not return for an hour, but he had arranged for the Little Black Wagon to be brought into the yard, away from spectators and cameramen.

It seems strange how many times I've watched that wagon pass, and thought how thrilling it would be to sit in it — and how I had the opportunity and didn't appreciate it! Which only goes to show that when we get what we want, we don't want it.

I then thought, "Come on, let's get it over with." So my husky friend escorted me down to the yard.

There stood the Little Black Wagon.

I sat in a small compartment up front, near the driver. We were off — and we had the right of way all the way. Traffic stopped, east and west, at each and every crossing.

What a speed demon he was! He certainly did his stuff! It was very thrilling.

I stayed at the city prison all that night, in a very small room with bars in front and an iron cot with springs only. But the matrons were quite nice to me. They gave me new sheets, a pillow, and a few blankets.

I was rather tired, as I had gotten up quite early that morning, and thought I would sleep immediately. But the other inmates were so enthusiastic and elated over my being there — not that they felt I deserved being there — they meant to become friendly and make me comfortable.

They continued to shout my name, asked me how I liked the place, and repeated different lines from my show, Sex, in order to let me know they had seen it. They sang for me and told some jokes.

They really meant to make it as nice as they possibly could for me; but the matron thought I was being bored, so they were ordered to their cells and locked in for the night.

At 7 o'clock Wednesday morning I was awakened. The iron cot had not agreed with me at all. I had pains and aches all over, and the rough unbleached muslin sheets irritated my skin. They offered me a breakfast consisting of coffee and cereal with milk.

No, I didn't care for any breakfast; the iron cot and the rough sheets were quite enough for me. Besides, 7 A. M. was much too early, and the coffee and cereal did not look so good. I dressed for my next trip — over the Queensborough Bridge at Fifty-ninth Street.

In the center of that bridge there is a huge elevator that lowers automobiles — including the Little Black Wagon — down to the island.

Stepping out of the land-gondola on wheels, I saw this marvelous, gorgeous stone structure most attractively decorated with big sheet-iron doors and plenty of bar-work. The doors opened and I made my grand entrance.

Upon entering the reception-room, I saw several matrons. Number One took my purse, my valuables, and my pedigree.

I was met by the second matron, who said, "Strip!"

I said, "What? I thought this was a respectable place."

She smiled and said, "I am sorry, Miss West, but I will have to divest you of all your civilian attire."

And there and then she took everything but my enviable reputation, at the same time displaying a piece of blue-and-white-checked material that looked like two aprons sewed together, front and back, with two holes for the arms.

I didn't like it at all; no lines to it. I was then ushered into a long passageway. I was handed the underwear. It was very coarse material, almost like canvas.

This was getting to be a little too much for me! Then came the cotton stockings and the flat slippers that were too large. Oh, those terrible shoes! Something must be done about it! So I turned to one of the four matrons who were prowling around me — the one who had impressed me the most.

She was a tall, well built, fine-looking woman, with wavy dark-brown hair, drawn back over the ears to a loose knot. She had a round, full face, with keen but kindly gray-blue eyes, and I learned later that she was Mrs. McConnell, the head matron. She arranged for me to meet Warden Henry O. Schleth.

Well, the warden is a very distinguished-looking gentleman, of medium height and good build, with a military carriage. He wears a small mustache and goatee. His voice is resonant — a voice you can never forget — and his big smile shows a lot of strong teeth. In fact, his entire personality denotes strength — and yet, despite all this, I did not like that dress and underwear, and those shoes.

The warden agreed that they were not very attractive, and that they were far from being what I was accustomed to — but what could a poor warden do?

I dropped the subject and began to find fault with the place. I asked to be sent back to Jefferson Market Court.

The warden registered surprise at my request, and said that I would like his place better, because the air was healthier and his beds were so much softer.

Well, he finally sold me on the idea of staying there.

It was now around noon. The warden assigned me to dusting the library — I may add it wasn't much of a library — as he had more than enough help in the laundry and in the mopping brigade, and an over-supply of cooks. Furthermore, I would have been of little use to him in those duties, never having had any experience. I guess the warden realized that.

He told the head matron to take me to lunch. Much to my surprise, it was in the warden's home. There were six women prisoners working in his place. This, I understand, is quite a privilege — for them to cook and do housework for the warden. And so I guess it was also a great honor to dust the warden's library.

The six girls who were there with me were rather timid about talking to me, as though they thought I would resent it. At first I thought it was one of the rules that they weren't allowed to speak.

I was curious to know why they were there. So I said, "What's a rule!" and opened the conversation. All six started to talk at once.

Three of them were colored, and three were white. The cook, and a good cook, I must say, named Marie, was a very likable colored girl from Porto Rico. She spoke with a Spanish accent. She had wonderful flashing black eyes.

I learned she was quite a racehorse fan, and she appeared to be a girl who was in the habit of handling a lot of money. She claimed that was one reason she was there.

She said that when she left the place she would open a restaurant, as her experience of a year in the workhouse as a cook had made her competent to run one.

Another colored girl, Mary F., was a drug addict and had just taken the narcosan cure. Her daily task was ironing. She was a quiet girl.

Lulu, the third of the colored women, was a tall, slim person, between thirty-five and forty years old. She was conservative in her statements about herself, although it was whispered that Lulu was a "stick-up" woman. However, I liked Lulu very much, for it requires a lot of nerve to "stick up" a man.

Of course, there are a lot of nicer ways of taking everything a man's got — although I must admit Lulu's way was a quicker way of getting results.

Adèle was a dainty little white girl with auburn hair, who acted as a waitress.

She was in the fur business — she often picked up good furs at less than nothing. She carried on her business in all the exclusive Fifth Avenue shops.

I talked with Adèle and she confided to me her professional technique as a shoplifter. Adèle had been successful for the last six years. During the coat season in the fall, Adèle used to take a girl with her who had "collateral" on her; meaning she was well dressed and wore diamonds — one who would look like a real purchaser of expensive garments.

She would thus encourage the salespeople of the exclusive shops to bring out the most expensive pieces of fur, such as silver foxes, sable coats, mink, ermine — the finest quality.

They would look at several fine fur pieces. Then the girl with the "collateral" would try on the coats while Adèle would comment and suggest what would look well on her.

Adèle would wear a plaited skirt and a pair of loose and very full silk bloomers. The plaited skirt and bloomers were attached together at the waist on one elastic, which had to be of a very strong quality and fairly wide.

They would make a suggestion as to a certain style of garment, and while the saleslady was getting it out of stock, Adèle would take a coat or fur piece and thrust it down into the full bloomers, the bulk of the stolen piece being effectively hidden by a flaring coat.

My second day on the island I received a request from a matron to visit the sick-wards. She told me that the patients were anxious to see me, many of them having cut my picture out of the newspapers. They were becoming excited and noisy, the matron said.

At first I disliked the idea of being on exhibition; but then I felt that if I could bring a little cheer to those unfortunates in the sick-ward, it would be rendering at least a small service to a part of the public that I am unable to serve on the stage.

I was escorted to the sick-wards by two matrons and the warden. On the way, we passed the tiers of cells in the main prison.

Suddenly there was a great uproar. Some one had passed the word along that I was coming through. Faces appeared at the barred doors and they shouted wildly in greeting.

"Here comes Mae!" they yelled, and, "How do you like the dress, Mae? How do you like the shoes?"

The warden was forced to smile at the hubbub my appearance had caused. He said:

"Can you imagine what it would be like if I had put you over here? The place would be a madhouse instead of a workhouse!"

I saw, then, that the warden, aside from his kindness in assigning me to his home, had the discipline of his prison in mind. It was all very amusing.

I went through the various sick-wards, where the occupants all gave me a great welcome.

In one ward I noticed that the girls were quite gay and didn't look a bit ill, so I was prompted to ask why they were there, since they were all up, walking around.

One of them laughingly answered — well, never mind what; it was a line I had used in Sex.

While the line was humorous, still it was tragic. One of the nurses whispered: "This is the venereal ward." Then I understood, and the girl's remark ceased to be humorous; and I felt a deep pity for them.

I also paid a visit to the narcotic ward. The inmates were women of all ages and all types. I talked with some. Each told a pitiful tale.

There was a young girl of eighteen whose father was Chinese and whose mother was a white woman. At the age of nine the girl was made to bring the opium pipe to her father when he wanted it. Curiosity urged her to try it.

When I saw her she had used all kinds of drugs. She was a physical wreck, and her body was all spotted where the poison of the drugs was coming to the surface.

These are not happy thoughts or sights, but they were vividly impressed upon me, who had never been brought into close contact with such unfortunates before. It was a unique but very horrifying experience, I assure you.

There was also the case of a fifteen-year-old girl who had come up from Savannah as a stowaway on a boat. When she landed in New York she had no money, and so she was picked up for vagrancy. She was brought to Welfare Island and placed in the venereal ward.

A girl drug addict hung herself in her cell the night after she received her sentence. She took the sheet off her bed and hung herself on the cell door — a girl who, it was said, came from a wealthy family.

Not a very pleasant picture, that. But it's life — and I was where I was because I had dared to show the public a true slice of life.

I'm not crabbing, though. The experience was worth the ten days. If I had ever wanted to get local color, I sure got it there. I'm going on writing and acting plays, you know.

Yes, there was all of a certain side of life bundled into that prison. In the narcotic room there was every sort of woman, from débutantes down to street-women. Many give themselves up willingly to take the cure.

I was informed that some of the girls in for prostitution and drug addiction were there because, when they were out on probation, they had been seen with some one of a bad character and had been picked up and sent back.

Many times, when they are taken in this manner, they are unaware that the person they happen to be with has a bad reputation.

Many, when they are freed, have nothing more than carfare. They prowl the streets, with no place to sleep, perhaps snatching a few minutes' rest in some hallway or upon some flight of steps. Then, in the end, they go back to the old life to keep body and soul together.

One girl, of twenty, had been in jail five times for prostitution. Asked why she did not get a job when she was free, she said she had looked for jobs and no one would take her because of her shabby appearance. Thus she was forced to tramp the streets until hunger drove her to seek food by any means.

The last time, a man had accosted her while she stood in a street, and offered to buy her food. She went with him. After he had bought ther a dinner, he took her down to a police station. He was a detective.

These girls are willing to work, but how can they when the law is always ready to pounce upon them and send them back to the Workhouse? In the name of charity, there ought to be some organization formed to aid these poor unfortunates to find jobs. These especially.

Everything, however, wasn't black. Here's a song the girls sang with much enthusiasm. It was original with them. It's called Farewell, Welfare Isle:

As I was walking down the street, Detective Flynn I chanced to meet. He took me down to Jefferson Jail, And there they kept me without bail.

Next morning at eight o'clock

They took us down to Twenty-sixth Street dock,

Miss Mulry next us on the other side.

When I saw the Workhouse I nearly died.

They marched us in to Slattery,

Where she took our history;

They gave us a dress the color of blue

And a pair of shoes, size sixty-two.

We have a matron by the name of Vaughn;

All she says is, "Keep on goin',

Get your pail and scrub the floor,

Or I'll lock you up in eighty-four."

We got a matron by the name of Mack —

You'll see her in the bums' room when you get back.

She sits behind the desk in a little wooden chair,

And all she says is, "Quiet there!"

We got a matron, name of Smith;

She takes everything she catches you with;

She locks you up in a coal-black cell.

I wish the old bird was in h...

Bootleg in the morning, bootleg at night,

Beans on Sunday and them out of sight;

They serve 'em in a little tin dish.

Friday you get potatoes and fish.

Ten more days and I'll be free

From this place of misery —

No more lock-up, no more mail,

No more scrubbin' in the iron pail.

And them wuz my sentiments too, when the big sheetiron doors swung open and God's big blue sky smiled down and I was free! Well, just use your imagination!

The warden appeared to be sorry that I was leaving. He smiled wistfully. I thanked him for his kindness, and he said, "Come and see us again, sometime."

And I said, "Thanks, I will, but not via the Little Black Wagon."

He said, "Oh, I didn't mean that."

I said, "Oh, I know, but I just wanted to make sure."

The doors closed behind me. That's my story.

Publication Date: August 20, 1927