The new “Gallagher’s Hell” was a few months old. The old camp, “the scene of the most brutal lawlessness and disorder,” was a mile away. It was deserted in the summer of 1906. “Gallagher’s Hell” was christened in Federal Court by a peon who meant to say, “Gallagher’s Hill.” In any case, it was a more fitting name, for it was more characteristic of Robert ‘the bull of the woods” Gallagher. He was the foreman of the Jackson Lumber Company. His logging camp near Lockhart, Alabama was the “toughest labor-pen in the South.” In this corporate colony there was a spur track with a train of converted box cars where a hundred men were housed. There was a large stable and blacksmith’s shop, one or two shanties, and a detached car marked “Gallagher.” Surrounding this center camp were several smaller turpentine camps that belonged to the same company. With a hundred men, half of them Black men, Gallagher got 1000,000 feet of lumber a day. Gallagher’s understudy, Archie Bellinger, the “whipping boss,” set a fast pace, and it was maintained.
Home of the “Bull of the Woods.”
After courting a variety of dangerous jobs throughout the South, where conditions were the most savage, Irvine chanced upon some men who escaped from Jackson Lumber Company. It was the very place he read about in the New York papers. The company officials had been sentenced for their violation of the Anti-Peonage Laws. From his interviews with the escapees, Irvine learned that conditions at the camp, since the trial began, had only grown worse. Irvine was determined to get a job under the man who was considered “the most brutal woodsman in the South.” He wanted to expose the brutality of a peonage camp and of the systematic robbery of the laborers.
It was a Saturday night when a disheveled Irvine entered the forest to find Bellinger and express his desire for work. Two days later Irvine stood before Bellinger awaiting his assignment. It was before sunrise in the early morning mist.
“Can you drive a team?” asked Bellinger.
“Certainly,” Irvine replied. This was not true; Irvine just didn’t have the nerve to confess this to the man whose nickname was the “whipping boss.”
“Ollie, the driver, is on a drunk,” said Bellinger, “and you can take his place until he returns.”
The horses were harnessed and ready. Irvine took his team—a powerful, gray, four-year- old horse named appropriately named “Steel” and an older horse named “Larry.”
After several awkward attempts, Irvine successfully mounted Larry in time to catch the end of the cavalcade that was jogging down the valley to the edge of the pines. A mile away from the stable, Irvine and Bellinger watered their horses in a shallow ditch. The water was filthy with dissolving excrement from men and beasts. They pranced and splashed in defiance of the drivers, who jerked and cursed at them.
Irvine drove in for the first truckload of lumber. Each drift (a section of the woods) had its crew. Sawyers cut down the pines. Swampers trimmed the pines. Skidders snaked the pines into position. Chainers adjusted the chains. The cross-haulers, with his team, loaded the logs onto the truck. The ramp where they deposited the logs for shipment was located at the railroad depot a mile away.
Bellinger, Irvine, Steel, & Larry.
The other teamster on Irvine’s crew, a Black man named Bob Anderson, met Gallagher in Jersey City. He was drunk at the time and easily swayed into the scheme. When he sobered up, he was at Gallagher’s place working out the money for passage. Bob, it seemed, did not learn much from the ordeal, for he got drunk twice a month—and as regularly—got thrown in the pen. Gallagher would pay the fine and kept the scores, keeping poor Bob in the cycle of servitude.
Bob brought Irvine up to speed on the motley five-man crew.
“That there is Hansen,” said Bob. “He’s a Danish a lumberjack from Michigan.” Bob then gestured to the other three men. “That’s Moses, the son of a former-slave. That Irishman is Pat Murphy. The cracker from Virginia is named Harry.”
“What is a cracker?” Irvine asked.
Bob was at a loss of words. “Why he’s a cracker!”
It seemed that no one actually knew where these “po’ whites” acquired their appellation. The prevailing theory was that their long-legged gauntness suggested a type of heron known as a “corn crake,” for in other places in the South, the same settlers bore the name “Sand hiller,” which, again, the theory went, was suggestive of the sand- hill crane.
Irvine and his drift hit off immediately, but it was difficult finding much in common all of them.
They were called to meals by the banging of a dish-pan, but they didn’t need a warning, for they typically hung on the steps around the dining car door. The meal was like the military. No conversation for five minutes. When their bellies were full, they lifted their heads, and the conversation resumed. The food was good and plentiful. Hughie, the camp cook, kept his kitchen immaculately clean. Hughie had a corps of camp assistants, water boys, wood boys, and the like. Hughie had a lot of experiences in lumber camps, which contributed to his faith in dogs. (He had a pup which he loved.) Hughie was unmatched in his skill with cooking fish. It was always delicious, and everyone, Black and White, agreed.
“More fish, please,” called a man to the waiter.
“Clean up them scraps on yer plate,” said the waiter.
Gallagher appeared on the opposite side of the table, “Eat them scraps up, you goddamn [——]!”
Gallagher was an Irishman, a generation removed from the Isle. He had long legs, a round body, a tiny head, and a genius for profanity. His voice was boorish and loud. So were his gesticulations. Gallagher and his wife lived in a detached box car, but he often dined with the men. Sitting at the head of the table, he would shovel his food into his mouth using his knife as his fork.
“The man looked blankly at the “Bull.”
“Don’t you like what I say, you stupid, goddamn [——]?” shouted Gallagher. The blood rushed to his little round red face. Then he skipped around the table to strike the man on the side of the head. The blow was heard in both cars. One blow was all it took. The Black men looked meek in submission.
After the meal they went outside to smoke in the open air. Hungarian songs were the only music the Whites seemed to listen to. It was a new experience entirely when Irvine heard the songs from the car where the Black men lived. “The sweetest of the old plantation melodies,” Irvine imagined. Irvine found it amusing to hear the Whites in camp speak of the inferiority of the Blacks, especially when faced with the fact that the Blacks were doing the best work in camp.
At last, when it was finally time to turn in, the men crawled into their beds. They were bunks clumsily put together, tiered in a manner, to accommodate fifty men. The car had the tang and odor of a stable. There was a small space, twelve by nine, in the center with a stove and several small benches. As small as the space was, it had two doors, four windows and small wash basin—if they chose to wash. With no proper bathing facilities, their bodies had a sickening sweaty odor pickled in tobacco and the fumes of whiskey and beer. There was a little hand lamp that cast sufficient light (except when the clotheslines around the stove were full) for seeing their way about. If a man wanted to read or write, however, he provided his own light. The cart was filled with all manner of men if all men were poor. There were Germans, Hungarians, Americans, Swedes, a sprinkling of Irish, and several young men with East Side accents.
Inside the box-car.
Beside Irvine slept Pat Murphy, an Irish Fusilier, who fought and marched for the Queen to the Relief of Ladysmith. In the next car there was a Boer, a yeoman in the war who “paid his respects” to Pat as the Mausers swept Kopje. Pat was riddled with holes from the ordeal, but the Boer was unscathed. They were in the same regiment now and the closest of friends.
Next to Pat slept a man about fifty years of age. He had squandered several fortunes and expected another. He sawed logs in meantime and earned more than any other man in the camp. He spent his Sunday afternoons making wedges for his work. “It is equivalent to a church service,” he told Irvine.
Jerry Clifford, a Jerseyman, was a bunk neighbor of Irvine. He was more like an old sea dog than a lumberjack. The quid in his cheek and the nervous twitching of his waist band were some of the milder symptoms. He was a stylist in profanity, and second only to Gallagher.
That evening Irvine felt nauseous with a violent attack of “intestinal disease.”
The company physician testified under oath that $450 was a fair estimate of the monthly collection from the workers for medical care. Out of that Dr. Trammel received $150. In the summer of 1906 twenty-six men were ill at Lockhart with fever. Most of them came from the camp. Two of them died. It seemed to puzzle the physicians, but it was as plain as day to the men. They all guessed, and guessed correctly, that the trouble came from the stagnant ditch.
The men in the box-car observed the symptoms. All of them laughed. It was one of the camp jokes.
“Only intestines of tin can withstand the conditions,” said Pat. “Remember the ditch where the horses pranced? That’s the water supply for the camp—our water for cooking, for drinking, for everything. It’s neither filtered nor boiled, and just passes from one unclean vessel to another. Just look at poor Joe over there.”
Joe Hooly, a burly Irishman was sick with a fever. The filth and the odors and the noises troubled him, but he remained patient and uncomplaining.
“What is he giving you, Joe?” Irvine asked, referring to the physician.
“Pink water, yerck!” he said. “But Oi’ll ax him to change it the furst toime he turns up.”
“How often does he turn up, Joe?”
“Aw, wance or twoice a week or so!”
“And how often has Gallagher been to see you?”
“In three weeks?”
Everyone paid $1.10 a month for insurance and medical care. Sixty cents of that for insurance. It was the law of the camp.
“What benefit was the insurance to you?” Irvine asked.
“If a tree had fallen on me in the cutting, or if I had been hurt by accident doing the company’s work, then Oi would get half pay while ill.”
But Joe was dying from a disease contracted by the wretched and inhumane conditions in the camp. His pay was stopped. The company clerk promised to pay for a quart of milk a day, if Joe’s brother made the trip, several miles each way, to retrieve it. This never happened, though. Irvine complained of keeping Joe in such conditions. Joe, himself, was saintly in his resignation and made no complaint.
The vocabulary of the drift, indeed of the whole camp, was distinctly theological. Irvine seemed to them a novice in that direction. He did not use a whip—nor did he swear.
When it was his turn to load the truck, he found some logs had skidded across the pathway.
“Larry, old man,” Irvine said, “these fellows want you to make me swear, but forbear. Step over these logs slowly, and I beseech you, forbear.”
Though he was old for a lumber camp horse, Larry was still very powerful. For some years he has been “mentally unbalanced.” He came from Michigan as a foal and grew up to the work of skidding logs. He had many drivers, of many nations, and they treated him with varying degrees of consideration. One of drivers made a bet with another teamster that Larry and his mate could skid more logs than any other team in the camp. The bet was made, and a day appointed for the test. From the early dawn until the setting sun, the horses were put under the lash. When the day’s work was done, it was discovered that Larry and his mate had carried to the ramp 862 logs, nearly seventy thousand feet of yellow pine. That was the biggest day’s work ever done at the camp. The next day when Larry was led out of the stable, he did not understand a word that was said to him. Gallagher’s assistant, seeing Larry in the stable and not knowing his condition, took him out to ride him to the woods. Larry stood like a post. He hung his head and let the man tug at the bridle. The infuriated boss mounted Larry and gave his orders, but the poor brute remained still. Larry was dazed. The enraged boss coaxed Larry to a tree where he tied him up by a strong bridle. The boss then got a dogwood skid, and with a terrible blow to the head, bashed the poor horse on the head. Larry fell to the ground where he lay bleeding at the nose and ears. For a while it was thought he was dead. Larry, however, did regain consciousness. In the course of time, he recovered. His strength was not impaired, but his mind, so the horse doctors said, was a “blank.” Then came Ollie who was now, and had been since his arrival, the biggest man in camp. Larry was given to Ollie’s care, and as a mate for him the majestic young four-year-old Steel seemed to understand Larry. Ollie understood both of them and treated them kindly. Now they hauled more lumber than any other team in the camp.
There was quite a crowd taking the journey to Florala that Saturday night. It was a town whose name was fashioned from the first three letters of Florida and Alabama. It seemed as if the whole camp had borrowed of their own money for a night out.
“I worked four days, mister, and I’ve just got tickets for three!” said one of the laborers.
“That’s okay,” said Bellinger, snatching the tickets from him. He made a pretense of adding up the figures and handed them back hastily. “You go to hell!” He brushed the man aside. “Who’s the next son of a bitch?”
Pay day came once a month. That saved bookkeeping and makes money—for the company. Ten percent was charged on every dollar borrowed between pay days. All the Black men and most of the White men borrowed money on Saturday night. Inside the loan office box-car there were a dozen White men. Outside the car windows were twenty Black men. Bellinger was acting as clerk.
Irvine approached the clerk with his check.
Irvine’s work was rated at a dollar a day. Though he had been driving Ollie’s team, and Ollie received wages at the rate of $50 a month, there was a reason behind the difference in pay. Ollie was a “company man.” When there was a peon that needed flogging, Ollie could be depended on to hold the victim while others plied the lash. It was Ollie who smashed the blacksmith with an ax handle to the earth when he half-killed a smaller man in the camp.
“What do you want to do with this?” asked the clerk. “We don’t cash these on Mondays. We pay once a month an’ we accommodate you fellows on Saturdays and Wednesdays. But as you’re a new man we’ll do it this time for you.”
“I want all that the law and your conscience will allow me.”
“My conscience has nothing to do with it!” he said sharply.
The clerk gave Irvine a ticket for $5, keeping $1 in reserve. The cards issued at the camp had to be cashed at the company’s office in Lockhart. Irvine crossed over the bridge by the mill on his way to the train station. The trash pile on the log dams was on fire, but he was more fascinated by the eerie luminescence of the electric lights blazing in the thick white mist behind the mill. With his yellow-bundle in tow, Irvine climbed into a seat at the rear of the engine tender, grateful to get a ride to Lockhart. The company owned Lockhart, a town with a population of 1,500 according to the railroad guide books. It was one of those ready-made, bargain-counter towns that sprung up in a day near a mine or a mill. The community and company offices were the center of the town activities, and the stores, post-office, and lodging house were the only municipal buildings of a public character.
A small pine grove divided the Black community from the White community in Lockhart. In the White section there was a schoolhouse for the children, operated at the expense of municipal authorities. It was also the center of the joint missionary enterprise of the Florala churches. The ministers took turns. The Blacks fared better with regard to their religious life. They had a church and a pastor (a pastor who earned his living by driving a team.) They also had a hall where “frolickin’” went on—or so they told Irvine. White laborers in Lockhart did not feel the need to change these things. Whatever they needed they got at Florala—and what they needed, usually, was the opportunity to violate any canon in the moral law. There were no saloons, jails, or “red light” districts in Lockhart. It is a model town in that respect. But for Florala it was a matter of business. It was a license town where the lumberjacks exchanged their hard-earned money for liquor and lewdness. It was where a justice of the peace, a deputy sheriff, and others, helped the company to hold ignorant laborers in peonage. The Florala saloons were stuffed with boisterous men that night.
The night was raucous, and the hard-earned money of the peons was given freely to the peons of another life of work. Irvine looked around for a companion for the journey back through the forest—but the men were all too drunk. Around 10 p.m. Irvine found a farmer with a horse cart traveling in the direction of the camp. The cart was full of cattle feed, and the farmer had a friend sitting in the front seat with him, so Irvine did not ask him for a ride, simply for permission to trail close behind, as he only needed help in the matter of direction. Just before Irvine reached camp, he heard loud shouts and the firing of guns. It was a group of six men from his box car who hired a buggy to return to camp. The drunks raised hell in the car. Poor Joe Hooley groaned and pleaded with them to be quiet; but incapable of any thought, they gloried in the chaos of the bottle. Drunken stragglers stumbled in at all hours of the night.
Like icebergs of evergreens, the tops of the dark-green pines were all that could be seen atop the thick mist which blanketed the valley the next morning. The air was balmy, the fragrance of the pines invigorating. It was early January, but the weather was as beautiful and warm as a summer morning in New Haven.
Outside everything was serene, solemn; beautiful. In the box car it was chaotic. Pat Murphy and Hansen had a washing party and Irvine asked to join them. They went to a branch in the forest. A branch, Irvine learned, was what they called a winding rivulet in that region. At the deepest, and most open, part of the branch they stopped and prepared to wash. The water was only about a foot deep.
They lit a fire to heat a boiler of water. Pat and Hansen brought with him a quart whisky. The boiler was so small and only one man could wash at a time, by the time two men had washed their share, Pat was liquored up and back fighting the Boers again under General Buller, Gatacre, and Baden Powell, or “Bathin Towel,” as Pat called him. Not a man present possessed the strength to restrain him from stripping bare to expose the scars where the Boers had mutilated his flesh.
When Ollie returned to his team Irvine was made a member of the “wrecker crew,” of which Gallagher himself was the boss. Irvine was made a member of the “wrecker crew,” of which Gallagher was the boss. He had been made a close-study of Gallagher at close range for a week, and now had the opportunity to come into closer contact with him.
A train of loaded cars on the company’s railway had sidetracked. Gallagher flew into a rage. The engineer misunderstood Gallagher’s order and that began a series of calamities that derailed the “Bull.” Foam frothed through his mouth when he wailed, purple-faced, at the engineer. Shaking his fists and tearing his own hair, he was a creature possessed. He dropped on his hands and knees to vomit the remainder of his poisonous vulgarity. Thirty minutes later Irvine found him roaring with laughter—mirth so loud, so sincere, that he was crying from joy. He was laughing at the insult someone made of the crew. Like a drowning man, overcome with hidden memories, Irvine was flooded with thought dozens of helpless peons Gallagher had flayed and beaten, and Irvine had the passion to meet his fellow Irishman at his own game! He provoked him to take the initiative, invited him to a square fight. Gallagher was chagrined beyond words when nature revealed the weaker man.
The Camp and the Crew.
At night, around the thick pine stump, outside their box-car door, they made a campfire of it. Irvine and the men sat around the fire.
“Who knows Victor Hugo?” Irvine asked.
“Isn’t he the duffer what writ ‘Three Men in a Boat,’” asked a lumberjack.
“Aw, fur Christ’s sake, shut up. Don’t ye know the difference betwixt Mark Twain and Vict’ry Hugo?” said Bob.
Irvine launched into the story of Les Misérables. The men were intensely engaged—among them Gallagher himself. He eyed Irvine curiously, wondering about the voice—a voice that did not match either the camp or the clothes. It was close to midnight when Irvine finished the story. The dying embers of the pine logs cast a yellow glare against the box cars and the crowd of leathered men leaning against them. Irvine wanted to capture the moment and tried to photograph them and made an exposure of about five minutes. Gallagher approached Irvine under the auspices of inspecting the camera and asked a number of questions about it. Irvine could see, very plainly, that he himself was more a mystery to him than was the camera.
The most interesting place in camp was the “negro car.” It was a unheard of for a White man to enter their territory. Irvine found half a dozen men were playing a card game. The atmosphere was of intense excitement, for a few dozen men had just lost all they had and were now lying around the car. There was a group of singers around a banjo, and, from what Irvine understood of the situation, the financial losses of the singers informed the words of the song. Returning to his own car—the box car marked “superior race”—he found a fire in the wood stove, and six men—five of them desperately intoxicated. Jerry Clifford was barbering, while other men were lying in their bunks reading. There was shouting, boisterous and profane, in several languages. Joe Hooley was dying, and only his brother seemed to care. Irvine climbed into his bunk, out of the way, and turned his head in the direction of the stove.
One of the men fell down, striking the edge of the red-hot stove. The men helped him up and his skin peeled off his cheek. It was a grizzly sight, but he was too drunk to feel it. He laughed and said: “Poor shot, poor shot! By damn! I thought I could hit the stovepipe wi’ m’ head. But— hic, hic—I dropped short—lemme try again!”
The noise and fumes grew louder so Irvine took his camera, left the box-car. He found the four women of the camp. Three of them were the wives of foremen—Gallagher, Bellinger, and Fagar. The fourth, the mother of the only child at camp, was the wife of the blacksmith who lived in a log cabin near his shop. The three others lived in detached cars. Irvine met them by means of his camera. It was a novelty in the woods, and they wanted to use it. They all had a dream of a day when they could get away to “see things” and meet other people.
Three of the four women in camp.
As the November 24, 1906, issue of the American Lumberman stated: “The most important peonage case ever to come before a court in the United States district court is now being heard by Judge Charles Swayne.” The article detailed the alleged cruelty of W.C. Harlan, the general manager of the company. Mrs. Bellinger told a story of how Harlan trained the bloodhounds.
“He sends a [——] off on an errand and when he is several miles out, Harlan puts the hounds on the trail and let them go,” said Mrs. Bellinger. “They treed the [——] all right.”
“Why doesn’t Harlan keep the hounds at his house?” Irvine asked.
“Oh, there was a fuss at the trial about them,” she replied.
Irvine proceeded to the kennel of the bloodhounds. The door was open, and he walked in, laid upon the ground, and played with them.
The company’s bloodhounds.
Irvine then went out into the forest. It was at sunset when he crossed a ditch—their water supply—on his way home. He found Carl, the German student who was the camp chore boy, splashing in the water. He was in the ditch to his knees. Carl came with a horse and buggy for his afternoon water. In his buggy were two large barrels, which he was filling with a bucket. On the bank sat Pat Murphy. Both men were drunk. Irvine watched them for some time as they took turns in fetching water. Only one in five buckets made it into the barrels. They soon got tired, so Carl sat down in the water.
“Pat, give me a cigarette will ya?” said Carl, loudly.
Pat waded in, cigarette in his hand, and gave it to Carl. It was soaked with water.
When they realized how dark it was getting, Carl tumbled one of the barrels out of the buggy, and with Pat’s help, tried to dip it. They got it partly full, and about as far as the hub of the wheel a couple of time, but each time they dropped it. They tried the buckets again, and, failed.
Pat walked off in frustration.
Irvine returned to camp.
More than a few men at dinner that night commented on the “thickness” of the water, but Carl was nowhere to be found. He was sleeping off his drunkenness, still in his wet clothes, somewhere in the stable.
Gallagher brought into the dining car fifty Black men, and at the point a revolver, forced them to scrape up all the potato peelings, and other refuse and scraps. He then forced them to eat them. The terror of death he saw in the faces of these men was ecstatic; though often created conditions to feel this sensation, he seemed to enjoy it even more when he just a spectator. Two Black men entered into a deadly conflict one day. They were separated by the crowd of bystanders. “Let them alone!” he roared. “Go it! you goddamn [——]! Go it!” He pushed the peacemakers to the side and shouted at the fighters as if they were dogs. Gallagher laughed merrily and shouted roared while he danced about. Delirious at the macabre spectacle. Both combatants had an iron bar, and by the end of the fight, their heads were slashed, and their clothes were stained red with blood. Utterly exhausted, they heaved and tottered like drunks. They could barely stand. Then one of the fighters whipped out a pistol. That registered to Gallagher the threat of his own life, of which he was supremely careful to preserve. “That’ll do, [——]!” he shouted, as he made the man give up his gun.
The box-car was quieting down for the night. Four men stood by the embers of their wood stove. They were sober and discussed the more somber aspects of life. Joe Hooly’s cough was growing worse. The smoke was affecting it, and in turn, the men were affected by it. Their conversation developed into serious channels—the inevitableness of death. The card game in the “negro car” was over. The fortunes had changed, money changed hands, and in the two men possessed the entire pot—which was not much. Around a fire of blazing pinecones, they sang long into the night. Irvine rose from his bunk and stepped outside. He caught the last refrains of a lullaby of death: “If you get back to heaven before I do, you’ll tell all your friends I’ll be coming there too…”
Irvine sat on the edge of Joe Hooly’s bunk for half an hour. They were to remove him in the morning to the watchman’s hut behind the cage where the bloodhounds lived. Joe did not care very much what they did with him.
“If you don’t pull through this, Joe,” Irvine said, “Dr. Trammel should be tried for manslaughter.”
“Well,” said Joe, “if that’d bring me back when I’m a goner it’d be worthwhile; but when it wouldn’t, what’s the use?”
Irvine pressed gently his fevered hand. “Farewell, Joe,” Irvine said, “farewell—and peace to you on the long journey.”
“S’long,” he said, “an’ by God, it’s m’self as I’d like to be goin’ with ye!”
Joe Hooly’s long journey ended in the backwoods of a pine forest in Alabama. After paying the company thousands of dollars for insurance that never insured, and for medical assistance that was never administered, the men of the camp took it upon themselves to start a collection to bury Joe Hooly.
Irvine borrowed from the company to the limit of what he had earned, and when night fell he would creep out of the forest like a thief in the night.
Carl told Hughie that the “man with the yellow bundle” was leaving. Hughie paid Irvine a visit in the box car and invited him to the kitchen where he was given coffee and hot pie.
Before Irvine left, a very hungover Hansen stopped him. “Say, stranger, did ye notice where we left our shirts the other day?”
PEOPLE OF THE UNDERWORLD
II. THE CRY OF PEONAGE.
IV. GALLAGHER’S HELL.
 Irvine, Alexander. “My Life In Peonage Pt. II: A Week With The ‘Bull Of The Wood.’” Appleton’s Magazine. Vol. X, No. 1. (July 1907): 3-15.
 Irvine, “My Life In Peonage Pt. II.” Appleton’s Magazine. (July 1907): 3-15.
 Chamberlain, Allen. “Pendarvis, The Cracker.” The Black Cat. Vol. II, No. 17. (February 1897): 22-25.
 Irvine, “My Life In Peonage Pt. II.” Appleton’s Magazine. (July 1907): 3-15.
 “Trial of a Peonage Case with Little Substantiation of the Charges.” The American Lumberman. No. 1644. (November 24, 1906): 34.
 Irvine, “My Life In Peonage Pt. II.” Appleton’s Magazine. (July 1907): 3-15.
 Irvine, Alexander. “My Life In Peonage.” Appleton’s Magazine. Vol. IX, No. 6. (June 1907): 644-654; Irvine, Alexander. “My Life In Peonage Pt. II: A Week With The ‘Bull Of The Wood.’” Appleton’s Magazine. Vol. X, No. 1. (July 1907): 3-15; Irvine, Alexander. “My Life In Peonage Pt. III: The Kidnapping Of ‘Punk.’” Appleton’s Magazine. Vol. X, No. 2. (August 1907): 190-197; Irvine, Alexander. From the Bottom Up: The Life Story of Alexander Irvine. Gosset & Dunlop. New York, New York (1910): 256-273.