Ten Days in a Mad-House; or, Nellie Bly's Experience on Blackwell's Island. Bly Nellie

Ten Days in a Mad-House; or, Nellie Bly's Experience on Blackwell's Island - Bly Nellie


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this is needed to help me find my trunks. These men are impudent, and I do not want to be stared at. I will go away. I don’t want to stay here.”

      So saying, I pulled down my veil and secretly hoped the reporters would be detained elsewhere until I was sent to the asylum.

      “I don’t know what to do with the poor child,” said the worried judge. “She must be taken care of.”

      “Send her to the Island,” suggested one of the officers.

      “Oh, don’t!” said Mrs. Stanard, in evident alarm. “Don’t! She is a lady and it would kill her to be put on the Island.”

      For once I felt like shaking that good woman. To think the Island was just the place I wanted to reach and here she was trying to keep me from going there! It was very kind of her, but rather provoking under the circumstances.

      “There has been some foul work here,” said the judge. “I believe this child has been drugged and brought to this city. Make out the papers and we will send her to Bellevue for examination. Probably in a few days the effect of the drug will pass off and she will be able to tell us a story that will be startling. If the reporters would only come!”

      I dreaded them, so I said something about not wishing to stay there any longer to be gazed at. Judge Duffy then told Policeman Bockert to take me to the back office. After we were seated there Judge Duffy came in and asked me if my home was in Cuba.

      “Yes,” I replied, with a smile. “How did you know?”

      “Oh, I knew it, my dear. Now, tell me where was it? In what part of Cuba?”

      “On the hacienda,” I replied.

      “Ah,” said the judge, “on a farm. Do you remember Havana?”

      “Si, senor,” I answered; “it is near home. How did you know?”

      “Oh, I knew all about it. Now, won’t you tell me the name of your home?” he asked, persuasively.

      “That’s what I forget,” I answered, sadly. “I have a headache all the time, and it makes me forget things. I don’t want them to trouble me. Everybody is asking me questions, and it makes my head worse,” and in truth it did.

      “Well, no one shall trouble you any more. Sit down here and rest awhile,” and the genial judge left me alone with Mrs. Stanard.

      Just then an officer came in with a reporter. I was so frightened, and thought I would be recognized as a journalist, so I turned my head away and said, “I don’t want to see any reporters; I will not see any; the judge said I was not to be troubled.”

      “Well, there is no insanity in that,” said the man who had brought the reporter, and together they left the room. Once again I had a fit of fear. Had I gone too far in not wanting to see a reporter, and was my sanity detected? If I had given the impression that I was sane, I was determined to undo it, so I jumped up and ran back and forward through the office, Mrs. Stanard clinging terrified to my arm.

      “I won’t stay here; I want my trunks! Why do they bother me with so many people?” and thus I kept on until the ambulance surgeon came in, accompanied by the judge.

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