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diff --git a/old/51909-h/51909-h.htm b/old/51909-h/51909-h.htm deleted file mode 100644 index f52673b..0000000 --- a/old/51909-h/51909-h.htm +++ /dev/null @@ -1,8638 +0,0 @@ -<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?> - -<!DOCTYPE html - PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" - "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" > - -<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en"> - <head> - <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=UTF-8" /> - <title> - The Apaches of New York, by Alfred Henry Lewis - </title> - <link rel="coverpage" href="images/cover.jpg" /> - <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> - - body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify} - P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; } - H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } - hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} - .foot { margin-left: 5%; margin-right: 5%; text-align: justify; font-size: 80%; font-style: italic;} - blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} - .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} - .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} - .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} - .xx-small {font-size: 60%;} - .x-small {font-size: 75%;} - .small {font-size: 85%;} - .large {font-size: 115%;} - .x-large {font-size: 130%;} - .indent5 { margin-left: 5%;} - .indent10 { margin-left: 10%;} - .indent15 { margin-left: 15%;} - .indent20 { margin-left: 20%;} - .indent30 { margin-left: 30%;} - .indent40 { margin-left: 40%;} - div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } - div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; } - .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} - .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} - .pagenum {position: absolute; right: 1%; font-size: 0.6em; - font-variant: normal; font-style: normal; - text-align: right; background-color: #FFFACD; - border: 1px solid; padding: 0.3em;text-indent: 0em;} - .side { float: left; font-size: 75%; width: 15%; padding-left: 0.8em; - border-left: dashed thin; text-align: left; - text-indent: 0; font-weight: bold; font-style: italic; - font-weight: bold; color: black; background: #eeeeee; border: solid 1px;} - .head { float: left; font-size: 90%; width: 98%; padding-left: 0.8em; - border-left: dashed thin; text-align: center; - text-indent: 0; font-weight: bold; font-style: italic; - font-weight: bold; color: black; background: #eeeeee; border: solid 1px;} - p.pfirst, p.noindent {text-indent: 0} - span.dropcap { float: left; margin: 0 0.1em 0 0; line-height: 0.8 } - pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} - -</style> - </head> - <body> - - -<pre> - -The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Apaches of New York, by Alfred Henry Lewis - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most -other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - - - -Title: The Apaches of New York - -Author: Alfred Henry Lewis - -Release Date: May 1, 2016 [EBook #51909] -Last Updated: March 12, 2018 - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE APACHES OF NEW YORK *** - - - - -Produced by David Widger from page images generously -provided by the Internet Archive - - - - - - -</pre> - - <div style="height: 8em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h1> - THE APACHES OF NEW YORK - </h1> - <h2> - By Alfred Henry Lewis - </h2> - <h4> - Author of “Wolfville,” “The Boss, Peggy O'Neal,” “The Sunset Trail,” “The - Throwback,” “The Story of Paul Jones,” etc. - </h4> - <h5> - M. A. Donohue & Company - </h5> - <h5> - Chicago New York - </h5> - <h4> - 1912 - </h4> - <p> - <br /><br /><a name="linkimage-0001" id="linkimage-0001"> </a> - </p> - <div class="fig" style="width:50%;"> - <img src="images/0001.jpg" alt="0001 " width="100%" /><br /> - </div> - <h5> - <a href="images/0001.jpg"><img src="images/enlarge.jpg" alt="" /> </a> - </h5> - <p> - <br /><br /><a name="linkimage-0002" id="linkimage-0002"> </a> - </p> - <div class="fig" style="width:50%;"> - <img src="images/0005.jpg" alt="0005 " width="100%" /><br /> - </div> - <h5> - <a href="images/0005.jpg"><img src="images/enlarge.jpg" alt="" /> </a> - </h5> - <h3> - TO - </h3> - <h3> - ARTHUR WEST LITTLE - </h3> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>hese stories are - true in name and time and place. None of them in its incident happened as - far away as three years ago. They were written to show you how the other - half live—in New York. I had them direct from the veracious lips of - the police. The gangsters themselves contributed sundry details. - </p> - <p> - You will express amazement as you read that they carry so slight an - element of Sing Sing and the Death Chair. Such should have been no doubt - the very proper and lawful climax of more than one of them, and would were - it not for what differences subsist between a moral and a legal certainty. - The police know many things they cannot prove in court, the more when the - question at bay concerns intimately, for life or death, a society where - the “snitch” is an abomination and to “squeal” the single great offense. - </p> - <p> - Besides, you are not to forget the politician, who in defense of a - valuable repeater palsies police effort with the cold finger of his - interference. With apologies to that order, the three links of the Odd - Fellows are an example of the policeman, the criminal and the politician. - The latter is the middle link, and holds the other two together while - keeping them apart. - </p> - <p> - Alfred Henry Lewis. New York City, Dec. 22, 1911. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <p> - <b>CONTENTS</b> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> <b>THE APACHES OF NEW YORK</b> </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> I.—EAT-'EM-UP JACK </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_4_0003"> II.—THE BABY'S FINGERS </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_4_0004"> III.—HOW PIOGGI WENT TO ELMIRA </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_4_0005"> IV.—IKE THE BLOOD </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_4_0006"> V.—INDIAN LOUIE </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_4_0007"> VI.—HOW JACKEEN SLEW THE DOC </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_4_0008"> VII.—LEONI THE TROUBLE MAKER </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_4_0009"> VIII. THE WAGES OF THE SNITCH </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_4_0010"> IX.—LITTLE BOW KUM </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_4_0011"> X.—THE COOKING OF CRAZY BUTCH </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_4_0012"> XI.—BIG MIKE ABRAMS </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_4_0013"> XII.—THE GOING OF BIFF ELLISON </a> - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h1> - THE APACHES OF NEW YORK - </h1> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - I.—EAT-'EM-UP JACK - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">C</span>hick Tricker kept - a house of call at One Hundred and Twenty-eight Park Row. There he sold - strong drink, wine and beer, mostly beer, and the thirsty sat about at - sloppy tables and enjoyed themselves. When night came there was music, and - those who would—and could—arose and danced. One Hundred and - Twenty-eight Park Row was in recent weeks abolished. The Committee of - Fourteen, one of those restless moral influences so common in New York, - complained to the Powers of Excise and had the license revoked. - </p> - <p> - It was a mild February evening. The day shift had gone off watch at One - Hundred and Twenty-eight, leaving the night shift in charge, and—all - things running smoothly—Tricker decided upon an evening out. It - might have been ten o'clock when, in deference to that decision, he - stepped into the street. It was commencing to snow—flakes as big and - soft and clinging as a baby's hand. Not that Tricker—hardy soul—much - minded snow. - </p> - <p> - Tricker, having notions about meeting Indian Louie, swung across to - Roosevelt Street. Dodging down five steps, he opened the door of a dingy - wine-cellar. It was the nesting-place of a bevy of street musicians, a - dozen of whom were scattered about, quaffing chianti. Their harps, fiddles - and hand-organs had been chucked into corners, and a general air of - relaxation pervaded the scene. The room was blue with smoke, rich in the - odor of garlic, and, since the inmates all talked at once, there arose a - prodigious racket. - </p> - <p> - Near where Tricker seated himself reposed a hand-organ. Crouched against - it was a little, mouse-hued monkey, fast asleep. The day's work had told - on him. 'Fatigued of much bowing and scraping for coppers, the diminutive - monkey slept soundly. Not all the hubbub served to shake the serene - profundity of his dreams. - </p> - <p> - Tricker idly gave the handle of the organ a twist. Perhaps three notes - were elicited. It was enough. The little monkey was weary, but he knew the - voice and heard in it a trumpet-call to duty. With the earliest squeak he - sprang up—winking, blinking—and, doffing his small red hat, - began begging for pennies. Tricker gave him a dime, not thinking it right - to disturb his slumbers for nothing. The mouse-hued one tucked it away in - some recondite pocket of his scanty jacket, and then, the organ having - lapsed into silence, curled up for another snooze. - </p> - <p> - Tricker paid for his glass of wine, and—since he saw nothing of - Indian Louie, and as a source of interest had exhausted the monkey—lounged - off into the dark. - </p> - <p> - In Chatham Square Tricker met a big-chested policeman. Tricker knew the - policeman, having encountered him officially. As the latter strutted - along, a small, mustard-colored dog came crouching at his heels. - </p> - <p> - “What's the dog for?” Tricker asked. - </p> - <p> - Being in an easy mood, the trivial possessed a charm. - </p> - <p> - The policeman bent upon the little dog a benign eye. The little dog - glanced up shyly, wagging a wistful tail. - </p> - <p> - “He's lost,” vouchsafed the policeman, “and he's put it up to me to find - out where he lives.” He explained that all lost dogs make hot-foot for the - nearest policeman. “They know what a cop is for,” said the big-chested - one. Then, to the little dog: “Come on, my son; we'll land you all right - yet.” - </p> - <p> - Tricker continued his stroll. At Doyers Street and the Bowery he entered - Barney Flynn's. There were forty customers hanging about. These loiterers - were panhandlers of low degree; they were beneath the notice of Tricker, - who was a purple patrician of the gangs. One of them could have lived all - day on a quarter. It meant bed—ten cents—and three glasses of - beer, each with a free lunch which would serve as a meal. Bowery beer is - sold by the glass; but the glass holds a quart. The Bowery has refused to - be pinched by the beer trust. - </p> - <p> - In Flynn's was the eminent Chuck Connors, his head on his arm and his arm - on a table. Intoxicated? Perish the thought! Merely taking his usual forty - winks after dinner, which repast had consisted of four beef-stews. Tricker - gave him a facetious thump on the back, but he woke in a bilious mood, - full of haughtiness and cold reserve. - </p> - <p> - There is a notable feature in Flynn's. The East Side is in its way - artistic. Most of the places are embellished with pictures done on the - walls, presumably by the old monsters of the <i>Police News</i>. On the - rear wall of Flynn's is a portrait of Washington on a violent white horse. - The Father of his Country is in conventional blue and buff, waving a - vehement blade. - </p> - <p> - “Who is it?” demanded Proprietor Flynn of the artist, when first brought - to bay by the violent one on the horse. - </p> - <p> - “Who is it?” retorted the artist indignantly. “Who should it be but - Washin'ton, the Father of his Country?” - </p> - <p> - “Washin'ton?” repeated Flynn. “Who's Washin'ton?” - </p> - <p> - “Don't you know who Washin'ton is? Say, you ought to go to night school! - Washin'ton's th' duck who frees this country from th' English.” - </p> - <p> - “An' he bate th' English, did he? I can well be-lave it! Yez can see be - th' face of him he's a brave man.” Then, following a rapt silence: “Say, - I'll tell ye what! Paint me a dead Englishman right down there be his - horse's fut, an' I'll give ye foor dollars more.” - </p> - <p> - The generous offer was accepted, and the foreground enriched with a dead - grenadier. - </p> - <p> - Coming out of Flynn's, Tricker went briefly into the Chinese Theater. The - pig-tailed audience, sitting on the backs of the chairs with their feet in - the wooden seats, were enjoying the performance hugely. Tricker listened - to the dialogue but a moment; it was unsatisfactory and sounded like a - cat-fight. - </p> - <p> - In finding his way out of Doyers Street, Tricker stopped for a moment in a - little doggery from which came the tump-tump of a piano and the scuffle of - a dance. The room, not thirty feet long, was cut in two by a ramshackle - partition. On the grimy wall hung a placard which carried this moderate - warning: - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /><a name="linkimage-0003" id="linkimage-0003"> </a> - </p> - <div class="fig" style="width:50%;"> - <img src="images/0018.jpg" alt="0018 " width="100%" /><br /> - </div> - <h5> - <a href="images/0018.jpg"><img src="images/enlarge.jpg" alt="" /> </a> - </h5> - <p> - The management seemed to be in the hands of a morose personage, as red as - a boiled lobster, who acted behind the bar. The piano was of that flat, - tin-pan tone which bespeaks the veteran. It was drummed upon by a bleary - virtuoso, who at sight of Tricker—for whose favor he yearned—began - banging forth a hurly-burly that must have set on edge the teeth of every - piano in the vicinity. The darky who was dancing redoubled his exertions. - Altogether, Tricker's entrance was not without <i>éclat</i>. Not that he - seemed impressed as, flinging himself into a chair, he listlessly called - for apollinaris. - </p> - <p> - “What do youse pay him?” asked Tricker of the boiled barkeeper, indicating - as he did so the hardworking colored person. - </p> - <p> - “Pad-money!”—with a slighting glance. “Pad-money; an' it's twict too - much.” - </p> - <p> - Pad-money means pay for a bed. - </p> - <p> - “Well, I should say so!” coincided Tricker, with the weary yet lofty - manner of one who is a judge. - </p> - <p> - In one corner were two women and a trio of men. The men were thieves of - the cheap grade known as lush-workers. These beasts of prey lie about the - East Side grog shops, and when some sailor ashore leaves a place, showing - considerable slant, they tail him and take all he has. They will plunder - their victim in sight of a whole street. No one will tell. The first - lesson of Gangland is never to inform nor give evidence. One who does is - called snitch; and the wages of the snitch is death. The lush-workers pay - a percentage of their pillage, to what saloons they infest, for the - privilege of lying in wait. - </p> - <p> - Tricker pointed to the younger of the two women—about eighteen, she - was. - </p> - <p> - “Two years ago,” said Tricker, addressing the boiled barman, “I had her - pinched an' turned over to the Aid Society. She's so young I thought mebby - they could save her.” - </p> - <p> - “Save her!” repeated the boiled one in weary disgust. “Youse can't save - 'em. I used to try that meself. That was long ago. Now”—tossing his - hand with a resigned air—“now, whenever I see a skirt who's goin' to - hell, I pay her fare.” - </p> - <p> - One of the three men was old and gray of hair. He used to be a gonoph, and - had worked the rattlers and ferries in his youth. But he got settled a - couple of times, and it broke his nerve. There is an age limit in - pocket-picking. No pickpocket is good after he passes forty years; so far, - Dr. Osier was right. Children from twelve to fourteen do the best work. - Their hands are small and steady; their confidence has not been shaken by - years in prison. There are twenty New York Fagins—the police use the - Dickens name—training children to pick pockets. These Fagins have - dummy subjects faked up, their garments covered with tiny bells. The - pockets are filled—watch, purse, card-case, handkerchief, gloves. - Not until a pupil can empty every pocket, without ringing a bell, is he - fit to go out into the world and look for boobs. - </p> - <p> - “If Indian Louie shows up,” remarked Tricker to the boiled-lobster barman, - as he made ready to go, “tell him to blow 'round tomorry evenin' to One - Hundred and Twenty-eight.” - </p> - <p> - Working his careless way back to the Bowery, Tricker strolled north to - where that historic thoroughfare merges into Third Avenue. In Great Jones - Street, round the corner from Third Avenue, Paul Kelly kept the New - Brighton. Tricker decided to look in casually upon this hall of mirth, and—as - one interested—study trade conditions. True, there was a coolness - between himself and Kelly, albeit, both being of the Five Points, they - were of the same tribe. What then? As members of the gang nobility, had - they not won the right to nurse a private feud? De Bracy and Bois Guilbert - were both Crusaders, and yet there is no record of any lost love between - them. - </p> - <p> - In the roll of gang honor Kelly's name was written high. Having been - longer and more explosively before the public, his fame was even greater - than Tricker's. There was, too, a profound background of politics to the - New Brighton. It was strong with Tammany Hall, and, per incident, in right - with the police. For these double reasons of Kelly's fame, and that - atmosphere of final politics which invested it, the New Brighton was - deeply popular. Every foot of dancing floor was in constant demand, while - would-be merry-makers, crowded off for want of room, sat in a triple - fringe about the walls. - </p> - <p> - Along one side of the dancing room was ranged a row of tables. A young - person, just struggling into gang notice, relinquished his chair at one of - these to Tricker. This was in respectful recognition of the exalted - position in Gangland held by Tricker. Tricker unbent toward the young - person in a tolerant nod, and accepted his submissive politeness as though - doing him a favor. Tricker was right. His notice, even such as it was, - graced and illustrated the polite young person in the eyes of all who - beheld it, and identified him as one of whom the future would hear. - </p> - <p> - Every East Side dance hall has a sheriff, who acts as floor manager and - settles difficult questions of propriety. It often happens that, in an - excess of ardor and a paucity of room, two couples in their dancing seek - to occupy the same space on the floor. He who makes two blades of grass - grow where but one grew before, may help his race and doubtless does. The - rule, however, stops with grass and does not reach to dancing. He who - tries to make two couples dance, where only one had danced before, but - lays the bed-plates of a riot. Where all the gentlemen are spirited, and - the ladies even more so, the result is certain in its character, and in no - wise hard to guess. Wherefore the dance hall sheriff is not without a - mission. Likewise his honorable post is full of peril, and he must be of - the stern ore from which heroes are forged. - </p> - <p> - The sheriff of the New Brighton was Eat-'Em-Up-Jack McManus. He had been a - prize-fighter of more or less inconsequence, but a liking for mixed ale - and a difficulty in getting to weight had long before cured him of that. - He had won his <i>nom de guerre</i> on the battle-field, where good - knights were wont to win their spurs. Meeting one of whose conduct he - disapproved, he had criticized the offender with his teeth, and thereafter - was everywhere hailed as Eat-'Em-Up-Jack. - </p> - <p> - Eat-'Em-Up-Jack wore his honors modestly, as great souls ever do, and - there occurred nothing at the New Brighton to justify that re-baptism. - There he preserved the proprieties with a black-jack, and never once - brought his teeth into play. Did some boor transgress, Eat-'Em-Up-Jack - collared him, and cast him into the outer darkness of Great Jones Street. - If the delinquent foolishly resisted, Eat-'Em-Up-Jack emphasized that - dismissal with his boot. In extreme instances he smote upon him with a - black-jack—ever worn ready on his wrist, although delicately hidden, - when not upon active service, in his coat sleeve. - </p> - <p> - Tricker, drinking seltzer and lemon, sat watching the dancers as they - swept by. He himself was of too grave a cast to dance; it would have - mismatched with his position. - </p> - <p> - Eat-'Em-Up-Jack, who could claim social elevation by virtue of his being - sheriff, came and stood by Tricker's table. The pair greeted one another. - Their manner, while marked of a careful courtesy, was distant and owned - nothing of warmth. The feuds of Kelly were the feuds of Eat-'Em-Up-Jack, - and the latter knew that Tricker and Kelly stood not as brothers. - </p> - <p> - As Eat-'Em-Up-Jack paused by Tricker's table, passing an occasional remark - with that visitor from Park Row, Bill Harrington with Goldie Cora whirled - by on the currents of the <i>Beautiful Blue Danube</i>. Tricker's expert - tastes rejected with disfavor the dancing of Goldie Cora. - </p> - <p> - “I don't like the way she t'rows her feet,” he said. - </p> - <p> - Now Goldie Cora was the belle of the New Brighton. Moreover, - Eat-'Em-Up-Jack liked the way she threw her feet, and was honest in his - admiration. As much might be said of Harrington, who had overheard - Tricker's remark. Eat-'Em-Up-Jack, defending his own judgment, declared - that Goldie Cora was the sublimation of grace, and danced like a leaf in a - puff of wind. He closed by discrediting not only the opinion but the - parentage of Tricker, and advised him to be upon his way lest worse happen - him. - </p> - <p> - “Beat it, before I bump me black-jack off your bean!” was the way it was - sternly put by Eat-'Em-Up-Jack. - </p> - <p> - Tricker, cool and undismayed, waved his hand as though brushing aside a - wearisome insect. - </p> - <p> - “Can that black-jack guff,” he retorted. “Un'er-stan'; your bein' a - fighter don't get youse nothin' wit' me!” - </p> - <p> - Harrington came up. Having waltzed the entire length of the <i>Beautiful - Blue Danube</i>, he had abandoned Goldie Cora, and was now prepared to - personally resent the imputation inherent in Tricker's remark anent that - fair one's feet. - </p> - <p> - “He don't like the way you t'row your feet, eh? I'll make him like it.” - </p> - <p> - Thus spake Harrington to Goldie Cora, as he turned from her to seek out - Tricker. - </p> - <p> - No, Gangland is not so ceremonious as to demand that you lead the lady to - a seat. Dance ended, it is good form to leave her sticking in the furrow, - even as a farmer might his plow, and walk away. - </p> - <p> - Harrington bitterly added his views to Eat-'Em-Up-Jack's, and something - was said about croaking Tricker then and there. The threats of Harrington, - as had those of Eat-'Em-Up-Jack, glanced off the cool surface of Tricker - like the moon's rays off a field of ice. He was sublimely indifferent, and - didn't so much as get off his chair. Only his right hand stole under his - coat-skirt in an unmistakable way. - </p> - <p> - “Why, you big stiff! w'at be youse tryin' to give me?” was his only - separate notice of Harrington. Then, to both: “Unless you guys is lookin' - to give th' coroner a job, youse won't start nothin' here. Take it from me - that, w'en I'm bounced out of a dump like this, the bouncin' 'll come off - in th' smoke.” - </p> - <p> - Eat-'Em-Up-Jack, being neither so quick nor so eloquent as Tricker, could - only retort, “That's all right! I'll hand you yours before I'm done!” - </p> - <p> - Harrington, after his first outbreak, said nothing, being privily afraid - of Tricker, and more or less held by the spell of his fell repute. - Eat-'Em-Up-Jack, who feared no man, was kept in check by his obligations - as sheriff—that, and a sense of duty. True, the situation irked him - sorely; he felt as though he were in handcuffs. But the present was no - common case. Tricker would shoot; and a hail of lead down the length of - the dancing floor meant loss in dollars and cents. This last was something - which Kelly, always a business man and liking money, would be the first to - condemn and the last to condone. It would black-eye the place; since few - care to dance where the ballroom may become a battle-field and bullets zip - and sing. - </p> - <p> - “If it was only later!” said Eat-'Em-Up Jack, wistfully. - </p> - <p> - “Later?” retorted Tricker. “That's easy. You close at one, an' that's ten - minutes from now. Let the mob make its getaway; an' after that youse ducks - 'll find me waitin' 'round the corner in Thoid Avenue.” - </p> - <p> - Tricker, manner nonchalant to the point of insult, loitered to the door, - pausing on his way to take a leisurely drink at the bar. - </p> - <p> - “You dubs,” he called back, as he stepped out into Great Jones Street, - “better bring your gatts!” - </p> - <p> - Gatts is East Sidese for pistols. - </p> - <p> - Harrington didn't like the looks of things. He was sorry, he said, - addressing Eat-'Em-Up-Jack, but he wouldn't be able to accompany him to - that Third Avenue tryst. He must see Goldie Cora home. The Police had just - issued an order, calculated invidiously to inconvenience and annoy every - lady found in the streets after midnight unaccompanied by an escort. - </p> - <p> - Eat-'Em-Up-Jack hardly heard him. Personally he wouldn't have turned hand - or head to have had the company of a dozen Harringtons. Eat-'Em-Up-Jack, - while lacking many things, lacked not at all in heart. - </p> - <p> - The New Brighton closed in due time. Eat-'Em-Up-Jack waited until sure the - junction of Great Jones Street and Third Avenue was quite deserted. As he - came 'round the corner, gun in hand, Tricker—watchful as a cat—stepped - out of a stairway. There was a blazing, rattling fusillade—twelve - shots in all. When the shooting was at an end, Eat-'Em-Up-Jack had - vanished. Tricker, save for a reason, would have followed his vanishing - example; there was a bullet embedded in the calf of his leg. - </p> - <p> - Tricker hopped painfully into a stairway, where he might have advantage of - the double gloom. He had lighted a cigarette, and was coolly leaning - against the entrance, when two policemen came running up. - </p> - <p> - “What was that shooting?” demanded one. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, a couple of geeks started to hand it to each other,” was Tricker's - careless reply. - </p> - <p> - “Did either get hurt?” - </p> - <p> - “One of 'em cops it in th' leg. Th' other blew.” - </p> - <p> - “What became of the one who's copped?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, him? He hops into one of th' stairways along here.” - </p> - <p> - The officers didn't see the spreading pool of blood near Tricker's foot. - They hurried off to make a ransack of the stairways, while Tricker hobbled - out to a cab he had signaled, and drove away. - </p> - <p> - Twenty-four hours later! - </p> - <p> - Not a block from where he'd fought his battle with Tricker, - Eat-'Em-Up-Jack was walking in Third Avenue. He was as lone as Lot's wife; - for he nourished misanthropic sentiments and discouraged company. It was a - moonless night and very dark, the snow still coming down. What with the - storm and the hour, the streets were as empty as a church. - </p> - <p> - As Eat-'Em-Up-Jack passed the building farthest from the corner lamp, a - crouching figure stepped out of the doorway. Had it been two o'clock in - the afternoon, instead of two o'clock in the morning, you would have seen - that he of the crouching figure was smooth and dark-skinned as to face, - and that his blue-black hair had been cut after a tonsorial fashion - popular along the Bowery as the Guinea Lop. The crouching one carried in - his hand what seemed to be a rolled-up newspaper. In that rolled-up paper - lay hidden a two-foot piece of lead pipe. - </p> - <p> - The crouching blue-black one crept after Eat-'Em-Up-Jack, making no more - noise than a cat. He uplifted the lead pipe, grasping it the while with - both hands. - </p> - <p> - Eat-'Em-Up-Jack, as unaware of his peril as of what was passing in the - streets of Timbuctoo, slouched heavily forward, deep in thought, Perhaps - he was considering a misspent youth, and chances thrown away. - </p> - <p> - The lead pipe came down. - </p> - <p> - There was a dull crash, and Eat-'Em-Up-Jack—without word or cry—fell - forward on his face. Blood ran from mouth and ears, and melted redly into - the snow. - </p> - <p> - The crouching blue-black one shrank back into the stairway, and was seen - no more. The street returned to utter emptiness. There remained only the - lifeless body of Eat-'Em-Up-jack. Nothing beyond, save the softly falling - veil of snow, with the street lamps shining through. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2H_4_0003" id="link2H_4_0003"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - II.—THE BABY'S FINGERS - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>t was a Central - Office man who told me how the baby lost its fingers. I like Central - Office men; they live romances and have adventures. The man I most shrink - from is your dull, proper individual to whom nothing happens. You have - seen a hundred such. Rigidly correct, they go uneventfully to and fro upon - their little respectable tracks. Evenings, from the safe yet severe - vantage of their little respectable porches, they pass judgment upon - humanity from across the front fence. After which, they go inside and - weary their wives with their tasteless, pale society, while those - melancholy matrons question themselves, in a spirit of tacit despair, - concerning the blessings of matrimony. In the end, first thanking heaven - that they are not as other men, they retire to bed, to rise in the dawning - and repeat the history of every pulseless yesterday of their existence. - Nothing ever overtakes them that doesn't overtake a clam. They are - interesting, can be interesting, to no one save themselves. To talk with - one an hour is like being lost in the desert an hour. I prefer people into - whose lives intrudes some element of adventure, and who, as they roll out - of their blankets in the morning, cannot give you, word and minute, just - what they will be saying and doing every hour in the coming twelve. - </p> - <p> - My Central Office friend, in telling of the baby's absent fingers, began - by speaking of Johnny Spanish. Spanish has been sent to prison for no less - than seven years. Dribben and Blum arrested him, and when the next morning - he was paraded at the Central Office looking-over, the speech made upon - him by Commissioner Flynn set a resentful pulse to beating in his swarthy - cheek. - </p> - <p> - Not that Spanish had been arrested for the baby's lost fingers. That story - in the telling came later, although the wrong it registered had happened - months before. Dribben and Blum picked him up—as a piece of work it - did them credit—for what occurred in Mersher Miller's place. - </p> - <p> - As all the world knows, Mersher Miller, or as he is called among his - intimates, Mersher the Strong-Arm, conducts a beer house at 171 Norfolk - Street. It was a placid April evening, and Mersher's brother, as - bottle-tosser, was busy behind the bar. Mersher himself was not in, which—for - Mersher—may or may not have been greatly to the good. - </p> - <p> - Spanish came into the place. His hat was low-drawn over his black eyes. - Mersher's brother, wiping glasses, didn't know him. - </p> - <p> - “Where's Mersher?” asked Spanish. - </p> - <p> - “Not here,” quoth Mersher's brother. - </p> - <p> - “You'll do,” returned Spanish. “Give me ten dollars out of the damper.” - </p> - <p> - Mersher's brother held this proposal in finance to be foolishly - impossible, and was explicit on that head. He insisted, not without scorn, - that he was the last man in the world to give a casual caller ten dollars - out of the damper or anything else. - </p> - <p> - “I'll be back,” replied Spanish, “an' I bet then you'll give me that - ten-spot.” - </p> - <p> - “That's Johnny Spanish,” declared a bystander, when Spanish, muttering his - discontent, had gone his threatening way. - </p> - <p> - Mersher's brother doubted it. He had heard of Spanish, but had never seen - him. It was his understanding that Spanish was not in town at all, having - lammistered some time before. - </p> - <p> - “He's wanted be th' cops,” Mersher's brother argued. “You don't suppose - he's sucker enough to walk into their mitts? He wouldn't dare show up in - town.” - </p> - <p> - “Don't con yourself,” replied the bystander, who had a working knowledge - of Gangland and its notables. “That's Spanish, all right. He was out of - town, but not because of the bulls. It's the Dropper he's leary of; an' - now th' Dropper's in hock he's chased back. You heard what he said about - comin' 'round ag'in? Take my tip an' rib yourself up wit' a rod. That - Spanish is a tough kid!” - </p> - <p> - The evening wore on at Mersher's; one hour, two hours, three went - peaceably by. The clock pointed to eleven. - </p> - <p> - Without warning a lowering figure appeared at the door. - </p> - <p> - “There he is!” exclaimed the learned bystander. Then he added with a note - of pride, albeit shaky as to voice: “What did I tell youse?” - </p> - <p> - The figure in the doorway strode forward. It was Spanish. A second figure—hat - over eyes—. followed hard on his heels. With a flourish, possible - only to the close student of Mr. Beadle's dime literature, Spanish drew - two Colt's pistols. - </p> - <p> - “Come through wit' that ten!” said he to Mersher's brother. - </p> - <p> - Mersher's brother came through, and came through swiftly. - </p> - <p> - “I thought so!” sneered Spanish, showing his side teeth like a dog whose - feelings have been hurt. “Now come through wit' th' rest!” - </p> - <p> - Mersher's brother eagerly gave him the contents of the cash drawer—about - eighty dollars. - </p> - <p> - Spanish, having pocketed the money, wheeled upon the little knot of - customers, who, after the New York manner when crime is afoot, had stood - motionless with no thought of interfering. - </p> - <p> - “Hands up! Faces to the wall!” cried Spanish. “Everybody's dough looks - good to me to-night!” - </p> - <p> - The customers, acting in such concert that it seemed as though they'd been - rehearsed, hands held high, turned their faces to the wall. - </p> - <p> - “You keep them covered,” said Spanish to his dark companion in arms, - “while I go through 'em.” - </p> - <p> - The dark companion leveled his own pistol in a way calculated to do the - most harm, and Spanish reaped an assortment of cheap watches and a handful - of bills. - </p> - <p> - Spanish came round on Mersher's brother. The latter had stooped down until - his eyes were on a par with the bar. - </p> - <p> - “Now,” said Spanish to Mersher's brother, “I might as well cook you. I've - no use for barkeeps, anyway, an' besides you're built like a pig an' I - don't like your looks!” - </p> - <p> - Spanish began to shoot, and Mersher's brother began to dodge. Ducking and - dodging, the latter ran the length of the bar, Spanish faithfully - following with his bullets. There were two in the ice box, two through the - mirror, five in the top of the bar. Each and all, they had been too late - for Mersher's brother, who, pale as a candle, emerged from the bombardment - breathing heavily but untouched. - </p> - <p> - “An' this,” cried Ikey the pawnbroker, ten minutes after Spanish had - disappeared—Ikey was out a red watch and sixty dollars—“an' - this iss vat Mayor Gaynor calls 'outvard order an' decency'!” - </p> - <p> - It was upon the identification of the learned bystander that Dribben and - Blum went to work, and it was for that stick-up in Mersher's the two made - the collar. - </p> - <p> - “It's lucky for you guys,” said Spanish, his eye sparkling venomously like - the eye of a snake—“it's lucky for you guys that you got me wit'out - me guns. I'd have croaked one of you bulls sure, an' maybe both, an' then - took th' Dutch way out me-self.” - </p> - <p> - The Dutch way out, with Spanish and his immediate circle, means suicide, - it being a belief among them that the Dutch are a melancholy brood, and - favor suicide as a means of relief when the burdens of life become more - than they can bear. - </p> - <p> - Spanish, however, did not have his gun when he was pinched, and therefore - did not croak Dribben and Blum, and do the Dutch act for himself. Dribben - and Blum are about their daily duties as thief takers, as this is read, - while Spanish is considering nature from between the Sing Sing bars. - Dribben and Blum say that, even if Spanish had had his guns, he would - neither have croaked them nor come near it, and in what bluffs he put up - to that lethal effect he was talking through his hat. For myself, I say - nothing, neither one way nor the other, except that Dribben and Blum are - bold and enterprising officers, and Spanish is the very heart of - quenchless desperation. - </p> - <p> - By word of my Central Office informant, Spanish has seen twenty-two years - and wasted most of them. His people dwell somewhere in the wilds of Long - Island, and are as respectable as folk can be on two dollars a day. - Spanish did not live with his people, preferring the city, where he cut a - figure in Suffolk, Norfolk, Forsyth, Hester, Grand, and other East Side - avenues. - </p> - <p> - At one time Spanish had a gallery number, and his picture held an - important place in Central Office regard. It was taken out during what - years the inadequate Bingham prevailed as Commissioner of Police. A row - arose over a youth named Duffy, who was esteemed by an eminent Judge. - Duffy's picture was in the gallery, and the judge demanded its removal. It - being inconvenient to refuse the judge, young Duffy's picture was taken - out; and since to make fish of one while making flesh of others might have - invited invidious comment, some hundreds of pictures—among them that - of Spanish—were removed at the same time. - </p> - <p> - It pleased Spanish vastly when his mug came out of the gallery. Not that - its presence there was calculated to hurt his standing; not but what it - was bound to go back as a certain incident of his method of life. Its - removal was a wound to police vanity; and, hating the police, he found joy - in whatsoever served to wring their azure withers. - </p> - <p> - When, according to the rules of Bertillon, Spanish was thumb-printed, - mugged and measured, the police described him on their books as Pickpocket - and Fagin. The police affirmed that he not only worked the Broadway - rattlers in his own improper person, but—paying a compliment to his - genius for organization—that he had drawn about himself a group of - children and taught them to steal for his sinful use. It is no more than - truth to say, however, that never in New York City was Spanish convicted - as either a Fagin or a pickpocket, and the police—as he charges—may - have given him these titles as a cover for their ignorance, which some - insist is of as deep an indigo as the hue of their own coats. - </p> - <p> - Spanish was about seventeen when he began making an East Side stir. He did - not yearn to be respectable. He had borne witness to the hard working - respectability of his father and mother, and remembered nothing as having - come from it more than aching muscles and empty pockets. Their clothes - were poor, their house was poor, their table poor. Why should he fret - himself with ideals of the respectable? - </p> - <p> - Work? - </p> - <p> - It didn't pay. - </p> - <p> - In his blood, too, flowed malignant cross-currents, which swept him - towards idleness and all manner of violences. - </p> - <p> - Nor did the lesson of the hour train him in selfrestraint. All over New - York City, in Fifth Avenue, at the Five Points, the single cry was, Get - the Money! The rich were never called upon to explain their prosperity. - The poor were forever being asked to give some legal reason for their - poverty. Two men in a magistrate's court are fined ten dollars each. One - pays, and walks free; the other doesn't, and goes to the Island. Spanish - sees, and hears, and understands. - </p> - <p> - “Ah!” cries he, “that boob went to the Island not for what he did but for - not having ten bones!” - </p> - <p> - And the lesson of that thunderous murmur—reaching from the Battery - to Kingsbridge—of Get the Money! rushes upon him; and he makes up - his mind to heed it. Also, there are uncounted scores like Spanish, and - other uncounted scores with better coats than his, who are hearing and - seeing and reasoning the same way. - </p> - <p> - Spanish stood but five feet three, and his place was among the - lightweights. Such as the Dropper, who tilted the scales at 180, and whose - name of Dropper had been conferred upon him because every time he hit a - man he dropped him—such as Ike the Blood, as hard and heavy as the - Dropper and whose title of the Blood had not been granted in any spirit of - factitiousness—laughed at him. What matter that his heart was high, - his courage proof? Physically, he could do nothing with these dangerous - ones—as big as dangerous! And so, ferociously ready to even things - up, he began packing a rod. - </p> - <p> - While Spanish, proceeding as best he might by his dim standards, was - struggling for gang eminence and dollars, Alma, round, dark, vivacious, - eyes as deep and soft and black as velvet, was the unchallenged belle of - her Williamsburg set. Days she worked as a dressmaker, without getting - rich. Nights she went to rackets, which are dances wide open and unfenced. - Sundays she took in picnics, or rode up and down on the trolleys—those - touring cars of the poor. - </p> - <p> - Spanish met Alma and worshipped her, for so was the world made. Being thus - in love, while before he, Spanish, had only needed money, now he had to - have it. For love's price to a man is money, just as its price to a woman - is tears. - </p> - <p> - Casting about for ways and means, Spanish's money-hunting eye fell upon - Jigger. Jigger owned a stuss-house in Forsyth Street, between Hester and - Grand. Jigger was prosperous beyond the dreams of avarice. Multitudes, - stabbing stuss, thronged his temple of chance. As a quick, sure way to - amass riches, Spanish decided to become Jigger's partner. Between them - they would divide the harvest of Forsyth Street stuss. - </p> - <p> - The golden beauty of the thought lit up the dark face of Spanish with a - smile that was like a splash of vicious sunshine. Alma, in the effulgence - of her toilets, should overpower all rivalry! At rout and racket, he, - Spanish, would lead the hard walk with her, and she should shine out upon - Gangland fashion like a fire in a forest. - </p> - <p> - His soul having wallowed itself weary in these visions, Spanish sought - Jigger as a step towards making the visions real. Spanish and his - proposition met with obstruction. Jigger couldn't see it, wouldn't have - it. - </p> - <p> - Spanish was neither astonished nor dismayed. He had foreseen the Jiggerian - reluctance, and was organized to break it down. When Jigger declined his - proffered partnership—in which he, Jigger, must furnish the capital - while Spanish contributed only his avarice—and asked, “Why should - I?” he, Spanish, was ready with an answer. - </p> - <p> - “Why should you?” and Spanish repeated Jigger's question so that his reply - might have double force. “Because, if you don't, I'll bump youse off.” - Gangland is so much like Missouri that you must always be prepared to show - it. Gangland takes nothing on trust. And, if you try to run a bluff, it - calls you. Spanish wore a low-browed, sullen, sour look. But he had killed - no one, owned no dread repute, and Jigger was used to sullen, sour, - lowbrowed looks. Thus, when Spanish spoke of bumping Jigger off, that - courtier of fortune, full of a case-hardened scepticism, laughed low and - long and mockingly. He told the death-threatening Spanish to come - a-running. - </p> - <p> - Spanish didn't come a-running, but he came much nearer it than Jigger - liked. Crossing up with the perverse Jigger the next evening, at the - corner of Forsyth and Grand, he opened upon that obstinate stuss dealer - with a Colt's-38. Jigger managed to escape, but little Sadie Rotin, <i>otat</i> - eight, was killed. Jigger, who was unarmed, could not return the fire. - Spanish, confused and flurried, doubtless, by the poor result of his - gun-play, betook himself to flight. - </p> - <p> - The police did not get Spanish; but in Gangland the incident did him - little good. At the Ajax Club, and in other places where the best blood of - the gangs was wont to unbuckle and give opinions, such sentiment-makers as - the Dropper, Ike the Blood, Kid Kleiney, Little Beno, Fritzie Rice, Kid - Strauss, the Humble Dutchman, Zamo, and the Irish Wop, held but one view. - Such slovenly work was without precedent as without apology. To miss - Jigger aroused ridicule. But to go farther, and kill a child playing in - the street, spelled bald disgrace. Thereafter no self-respecting lady - would drink with Spanish, no gentleman of gang position would return his - nod. He would be given the frozen face at the rackets, the icy eye in the - streets. - </p> - <p> - To be sure, his few friends, contending feebly, insisted that it wasn't - Spanish who had killed the little Rotin girl. When Spanish cracked off his - rod at Jigger, others had caught the spirit. A half dozen guns—they - said—had been set blazing; and it was some unknown practitioner who - had shot down the little Rotin girl. What were the heart-feelings of - father and mother Rotin, to see their baby killed, did not appeal as a - question to either the friends or foes of Spanish. Gangland is interested - only in dollars or war. - </p> - <p> - That contention of his friends did not restore Spanish in the general - estimation. All must confess that at least he had missed Jigger. And - Jigger without a rod! It crowded hard upon the unbelievable, and could be - accounted for only upon the assumption that Spanish was rattled, which is - worse than being scared. Mere fear might mean no more than an excess of - prudence. To get rattled, everywhere and under all conditions, is the mean - sure mark of weakness. - </p> - <p> - While discussion, like a pendulum, went swinging to and fro, Spanish—possibly - a-smart from what biting things were being said in his disfavor—came - to town, and grievously albeit casually shot an unknown. Following which - feat he again disappeared. None knew where he had gone. His whereabouts - was as much a mystery as the identity of the unknown whom he had shot, or - the reason he had shot him. These two latter questions are still borne as - puzzles upon the ridge of gang conjecture. - </p> - <p> - That this time he had hit his man, however, lifted Spanish somewhat from - out those lower reputational depths into which missing Jigger had cast - him. The unknown, to be sure, did not die; the hospital books showed that. - But he had stopped a bullet. Which last proved that Spanish wasn't always - rattled when he pulled a gun. The incident, all things considered, became - a trellis upon which the reputation of Spanish, before so prone and - hopeless, began a little to climb. - </p> - <p> - The strenuous life doesn't always blossom and bear good fruit. Balked in - his intended partnership with Jigger, and subsequently missing Jigger—to - say nothing of the business of the little Rotin girl, dead and down under - the grass roots—Spanish not only failed to Get the Money! but - succeeded in driving himself out of town. Many and vain were the gang - guesses concerning him. Some said he was in Detroit, giving professional - aid to a gifted booster. The latter was of the feminine gender, and, aside - from her admitted genius for shoplifting, was acclaimed the quickest hand - with a hanger—by which you are to understand that outside pendant - purse wherewith women equip themselves as they go forth to shop—of - all the gon-molls between the two oceans. Others insisted that Spanish was - in Baltimore, and had joined out with a mob of poke-getters. The great, - the disastrous thing, however—and to this all Gangland agreed—was - that he had so bungled his destinies as to put himself out of New York. - </p> - <p> - “Detroit! Baltimore!” exclaimed the Dropper. “W'y, it's woise'n bein' in - stir! A guy might as well be doin' time as live in them burgs!” - </p> - <p> - The Dropper, in his iron-fisted way, was sincere in what he said. Later, - he himself was given eighteen spaces in Sing Sing, which exile he might - have missed had he fled New York in time. But he couldn't, and didn't. And - so the Central Office got him, the District Attorney prosecuted him, the - jury convicted him, and the judge sentenced him to that long captivity. - Living in New York is not a preference, but an appetite—like - drinking whiskey—and the Dropper had acquired the habit. - </p> - <p> - What was the Dropper settled for? - </p> - <p> - Robbery. - </p> - <p> - It's too long to tell here, however, besides being another story. Some - other day I may give it to you. - </p> - <p> - Spanish, having abandoned New York, could no longer bear Alma loving - company at picnic, rout and racket. What was Alma to do? She lived for - routs, reveled in rackets, joyed in picnics. Must these delights be swept - away? She couldn't go alone—it was too expensive. Besides, it would - evince a lack of class. - </p> - <p> - Alma, as proud and as wedded to her social position as any silken member - of the Purple and Fine Linen Gang that ever rolled down Fifth Avenue in - her brougham, revolved these matters upon her wheel of thought. Also, she - came to conclusions. She, an admitted belle, could not consent to social - obliteration. Spanish had fled; she worshipped his black eyes, his high - courage; she would keep a heart-corner vacant for him in case he came - back. Pending his return, however, she would go into society; and, for - those reasons of expense and class and form, she would not go alone. - </p> - <p> - Alma submitted her position to a beribboned jury of her peers. Their - judgment ran abreast of her own. - </p> - <p> - “A goil would be a mutt,” they said, “to stay cocked up at home. An' yet a - goil couldn't go chasin' around be her lonesome. Alma”—this was - their final word—“you must cop off another steady.” - </p> - <p> - “But what would Johnny say?” asked Alma; for she couldn't keep her - thoughts off Spanish, of whom she stood a little bit in fear. - </p> - <p> - “Johnny's beat it, ain't he?” returned the advisory jury of friends. - “There ain't no kick comin' to a guy what's beat it. He ain't no longer in - th' picture.” - </p> - <p> - Alma, thus free to pick and choose by virtue of the absence of Spanish, - picked the Dropper. The latter chieftain was flattered. Taking Alma - proudly yet tenderly under his mighty arm, he led her to suppers such as - she had never eaten, bought her drinks such as she had never tasted, - revolved with her at rackets where tickets were a dollar a throw, the - orchestra seven pieces, and the floor shone like glass. It was a cut or - two above anything that Spanish had given her, and Alma, who thought it - going some, failed not to say so. - </p> - <p> - Alma was proud of the Dropper; the Dropper was proud of her. She told her - friends of the money he spent; and the friends warmed the cockles of her - little heart by shrilly exclaiming at pleasant intervals: - </p> - <p> - “Ain't he th' swell guy!” - </p> - <p> - “Betcher boots he's th' swell guy,” Alma would rejoin; “an' he's got money - to boin a wet dog! Th' only t'ing that worries me,” Alma would conclude, - “is Johnny. S'ppose he blows in some day, an' lays for th' Dropper?' - </p> - <p> - “Th' Dropper could do him wit' a wallop,” the friends would consolingly - return. “He'd swing onct; an' after that there wouldn't be no Johnny - Spanish.” - </p> - <p> - The Round Back Rangers—it was, I think, the Round Backs—gave - an outdoor racket somewhere near Maspeth. The Dropper took Alma. Both were - in high, exultant feather. They danced, they drank, they rode the wooden - horses. No more gallant couple graced the grounds. - </p> - <p> - Cheese sandwiches, pig's knuckles and beer brought them delicately to the - banquet board. They were among their friends. The talk was always - interesting, sometimes educational. - </p> - <p> - Ike the Blood complained that certain annoying purists were preaching a - crusade against the Raines Law Hotels. Slimmy, celebrated not only for his - slimness, but his erudition, declared that crusades had been the common - curse of every age. - </p> - <p> - “W'at do youse know about it?” sourly propounded the Humble Dutchman, who - envied Slimmy his book-fed wisdom. - </p> - <p> - “W'at do I know about it?” came heatedly from Slimmy. “Do youse think I - ain't got no education? Th' last time I'm in stir, that time I goes up for - four years, I reads all th' books in th' prison library. Ask th' warden if - I don't. As to them crusades, it's as I tells you. There's always been - crusades; it's th' way humanity's gaited. Every sport, even if he don't go - 'round blowin' about it, has got it tucked somewhere away in his make-up - that he, himself, is th' real thing. Every dub who's different from him he - figgers is worse'n him. In two moves he's out crusadin'. In th' old days - it's religion; th' Paynims was th' fall guys. Now it's rum, or racin', or - Raines Hotels, or some such stall. Once let a community get the crusade - bug, an' something's got to go. There's a village over in Joisey, an,' - there bein' no grog shops an' no vice mills to get busy wit', they ups an' - bounces an old geezer out of th' only church in town for pitchin' - horse-shoes.” - </p> - <p> - Slimmy called for more beer, with a virtuously superior air. - </p> - <p> - “But about them Paynims, Slimmy?” urged Alma. - </p> - <p> - “It's hundreds of years ago,” Slimmy resumed. “Th' Paynims hung out in - Palestine. Bein' they're Paynims, the Christians is naturally sore on 'em; - an' so, when they feels like huntin' trouble, th' crusade spirit'd flare - up. Richard over in England would pass th' woid to Philip in France, an' - th' other lads wit' crowns. - </p> - <p> - “'How about it?' he'd say. 'Cast your regal peepers toward Palestine. - D'you make them Paynims? Ain't they th' tough lot? They won't eat pork; - they toe in when they walk; they don't drink nothin' worse'n coffee; - they've got brown skins. Also,' says he, 'we can lick 'em for money, - marbles or chalk. W'at d'youse say, me royal brothers? Let's get our - gangs, an' hand them Paynims a swift soak in behalf of the troo faith.' - </p> - <p> - “Philip an' the other crowned lads at this would agree wit' Richard. 'Them - Paynims is certainly th' worst ever!' they'd say; an' one woid'd borry - another, until the crusade is on. Some afternoon you'd hear the newsies in - th' streets yellin', 'Wux-try!' an' there it'd be in big black type, - 'Richard, Philip an' their gallant bands of Strong-Arms have landed in - Palestine.'” - </p> - <p> - “An' then w'at, Slimmy?” cooed Alma, who hung on every word. - </p> - <p> - “As far as I can see, th' Christians always had it on th' Paynims, always - had 'em shaded, when it comes to a scrap. Th' Christian lads had th' - punch; an' th' Paynims must have been wise to it; for no sooner would - Richard, Philip an' their roly-boly boys hit th' dock, than th' Paynims - would take it on th' run for th' hills. Their mullahs would try to rally - 'em, be tellin' 'em that whoever got downed fightin' Christians, the - prophet would punch his ticket through for paradise direct, an' no - stop-overs. - </p> - <p> - “'That's all right about the prophet!' they'd say, givin' th' mullahs th' - laugh. An' then they'd beat it for th' next ridge.” - </p> - <p> - “Them Paynims must have been a bunch of dead ones,” commented the Dropper. - </p> - <p> - “Not bein' able to get on a match,” continued Slimmy, without heeding the - Dropper, “th' Paynims declinin' their game, th' Christian hosts would - rough house th' country generally, an' in a way of speakin' stand th' Holy - Land on its head. Do what they would, however, they couldn't coax th' - Paynims into th' ring wit' 'em; an' so after a while they decides that - Palestine's th' bummest place they'd ever struck. Mebby, too, they'd begin - havin' woid from home that their wives was gettin' a little gay, or their - kids was goin' round marryin' th' kids of their enemies, an' that one way - an' another their domestic affairs was on th' fritz. At this, Richard'd go - loafin' over to Philip's tent, an' say: - </p> - <p> - “'Philly, me boy, I don't know how this crusade strikes youse, but if I'm - any judge of these great moral movements, it's on th' blink. An' so,' he'd - go on, 'Philly, it's me for Merrie England be th' night boat.' - </p> - <p> - “Wit' that, they'd break for home; an', when they got there, they'd mebby - hand out a taste of th' strap to mamma an' th' babies, just to teach 'em - not to go runnin' out of form th' next time father's far away.” - </p> - <p> - “Youse don't bank much on crusades, Slimmy?” Ike the Blood said. - </p> - <p> - The Blood had more than a passing interest in the movement, mention of - which had started the discussion, being himself a part proprietor in one - of those threatened Raines Law Hotels. - </p> - <p> - “Blood,” observed Slimmy, oracularly, “them moral movements is like a - hornet; they stings onct an' then they dies.” - </p> - <p> - Alma's attention was drawn to Mollie Squint—so called because of an - optical slant which gave her a vague though piquant look. Mollie Squint - was motioning from the outskirts of the little group. Alma pointed to the - Dropper. Should she bring him? Mollie Squint shook her head. - </p> - <p> - Leaving the Dropper, Alma joined Mollie Squint. - </p> - <p> - “It's Johnny,” gasped Mollie Squint. “He wants you; he's over be that - bunch of trees.” - </p> - <p> - Alma hung back; some impression of peril seized her. - </p> - <p> - “Better go,” whispered Mollie Squint. “He's onto you an' the Dropper, an' - if you don't go he'll come lookin' for you. Then him an' the Dropper'll go - to th' mat wit' each other, an' have it awful. Give Johnny one of your - soft talks, an' mebby youse can smooth him down. Stall him off be tellin' - him you'll see him to-night at Ding Dong's.” - </p> - <p> - Mollie Squint's advice seemed good, and as the lesser of two evils Alma - decided to go. Mollie Squint did not accompany her. - </p> - <p> - “Tell th' Dropper I'll be back in a moment,” said Alma to Mollie Squint, - “an' don't wise him up about Johnny.” - </p> - <p> - Alma met Spanish at the far corner of the clump of trees. There was no - talk, no time for talk. They were all alone. As she drew near, he pulled a - pistol and shot her through and through the body. - </p> - <p> - Alma's moaning cry was heard by the Dropper—that, and the sound of - the shot. When the Dropper reached her, she was lying senseless in the - shadow of the trees—a patch of white and red against the green of - the grass. Spanish was nowhere in sight.. - </p> - <p> - Alma was carried to the hospital, and revived. But she would say nothing, - give no names—staunch to the spirit of the Gangs. Only she whispered - feebly to Mollie Squint, when the Dropper had been sent away by the - doctors: - </p> - <p> - “Johnny must have loved me a lot to shoot me up like he did. A guy has got - to love a goil good and plenty before he'll try to cook her.” - </p> - <p> - “Did youse tell th' hospital croakers his name?” asked Mollie Squint. - </p> - <p> - “Of course not! I never squealed to nobody. Do youse think I'd put poor - Johnny in wrong?” - </p> - <p> - “Then I won't,” said Mollie Squint. - </p> - <p> - An attendant told Mollie Squint that she must go; certain surgeons had - begun to assemble. Mollie Squint, tears falling, kissed Alma good-by. - </p> - <p> - “Give Johnny all me love,” whispered Alma. “Tell him I'm no snitch; I'll - stick.” - </p> - <p> - The Dropper did not have to be told whose bullet had struck down his star, - his Alma. That night, Kid Kleiney with him, he went looking for Spanish. - The latter, as jealous as Satan, was looking for the Dropper. Of the two, - Spanish must have conducted his hunting with the greater circumspection or - the greater luck; for about eleven of the clock he crept up behind the - Dropper, as the latter and Kid Kleiney were walking in East Broadway, and - planted a bullet in his neck. Kid Kleiney 'bout faced at the crack of the - pistol, and was in fortunate time to stop Spanish's second bullet with one - of the big buttons on his coat. Kid Kleiney fell by the side of the - wounded Dropper, jarred off his feet by the shock.' He was able, however, - when the police came up, to help place the Dropper in an ambulance. - </p> - <p> - Spanish? - </p> - <p> - Vanished—as usual. - </p> - <p> - The police could get no line on him, did get no line on him, until months - later, when, as related—the Dropper having been lagged for robbery, - and safely caged—he came back to stick up the joint of Mersher the - Strong-Arm, and be arrested by Dribben and Blum. - </p> - <p> - The baby and I met casually in a Williamsburg street, where Alma had - brought it to take the air, which was bad. Alma was thin-faced, - hollow-eyed, but I could see that she had been pretty. She said she was - twenty and the baby less than a year, and I think she told the truth. - </p> - <p> - No one among Alma's friends finds fault with either the baby or herself, - although both are without defence by the canons of high morality. There is - warmth in the world; and, after all, the case of Alma and the baby is not - so much beyond the common, except as to the baby's advent, which was - dramatic and after the manner of Cæsar. - </p> - <p> - Folk say the affair reflects illustriously upon the hospital. Also, what - surgeons officiated are inclined to plume themselves; for have not Alma - and the baby lived? I confess that those boastful scientists are not - wanting in excuse for strutting, although they ought, perhaps, in honor, - to divide credit with Alma and the baby as being hard to kill. - </p> - <p> - It is not an ugly baby as babies go. Not that I pretend to be a judge. As - I paused by its battered perambulator, it held up a rose-leaf hand, as - though inviting me to look; and I looked. The little claw possessed but - three talons; the first two fingers had been shot away. When I asked how, - Alma lowered her head sadly, saying nothing. It would have been foolish to - ask the baby. It couldn't talk. Moreover, since the fingers were shot away - before it was born, it could possess no clear memory as to details. - </p> - <p> - It is a healthy baby. Alma loves it dearly, and can be depended upon to - give it every care. That is, she can be if she lives; and on that head her - worn thinness alarms her friends, who wish she were fatter. Some say her - thinness is the work of the bullet. Others believe that a sorrow is - sapping her heart. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2H_4_0004" id="link2H_4_0004"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - III.—HOW PIOGGI WENT TO ELMIRA - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>he Bottler was - round, inoffensive, well-dressed, affable. He was also generous, as the - East Side employs the term. Any one could touch him for a quarter upon a - plea of beef stew, and if plaintively a bed were mentioned, for as much as - fifty cents. For the Bottler was a money-maker, and had Suffolk Street - position as among its richest capitalists. - </p> - <p> - What bridge whist is to Fifth Avenue so is stuss to the East Side. No one - save the dealer wins at stuss, and yet the device possesses an alluring - feature. When the victim gets up from the table, the bank under the - descriptive of viggresh returns him one-tenth of his losings. No one ever - leaves a stuss game broke, and that final ray of sure sunshine forms - indubitably the strong attraction. Stuss licks up as with a tongue of fire - a round full fifth of all the East Side earns, and to viggresh should be - given the black glory thereof. - </p> - <p> - The Bottler owned talents to make money. Morally careless, liking the easy - way, with, over all, that bent for speculation which sets some folk to - dealing in stocks and others to dealing cards, those moneymaking talents - found expression in stuss. Not that the Bottler was so weak-minded as to - buck the game. Wise, prudent, solvent, he went the other way about it, his - theater of operations being 135 Suffolk. Also, expanding liberally, the - Bottler endowed his victims, as—stripped of their last dollar—they - shoved back their hopeless chairs, with not ten, but fifteen per cent, of - what sums they had changed in. This rendered 135 Suffolk a most popular - resort, and the foolish stood four deep about the Bottler's tables every - night in the week. - </p> - <p> - The Bottler lacked utterly the war-heart, and was in no wise a fighter. He - had the brawn, but not the soul, and this heart-sallowness would have - threatened his standing save for those easy generosities. Gangland is not - dull, and will overlook even a want of courage in one who, for bed and - beef stews, freely places his purse at its disposal. - </p> - <p> - There are two great gangs on the East Side. These are the Five Points and - the Monk Eastmans. There are smaller gangs, but each owes allegiance to - either the one or the other of the two great gangs, and fights round its - standard in event of general gang war. - </p> - <p> - There is danger in belonging to either of these gangs. But there is - greater danger in not. I speak of folk of the Bottler's ways and walks. - The Five Points and Eastmans are at feud with one another, and the fires - of their warfare are never permitted to die out. Membership in one means - that it will buckler you against the other while you live, and avenge you - should you fall. Membership in neither means that you will be raided and - rough-housed and robbed by both. - </p> - <p> - The Bottler's stuss house was—like every other of its kind—a - Castle Dangerous. To the end that the peril of his days and nights be - reduced to minimum, he united himself with the Five Points. True, he could - not be counted upon as a <i>shtocker</i> or strong-arm; but he had money - and would part with it, and gang war like all war demands treasure. Bonds - must be given; fines paid; the Bottler would have his uses. Wherefore the - Five Points opened their arms and their hearts to receive him. - </p> - <p> - The Eastmans had suffered a disorganizing setback when the chief, who gave - the sept its name, went up the river for ten years. On the heels of that - sorrowful retirement, it became a case of York and Lancaster; two - claimants for the throne stood forth. These were Ritchie Fitzpatrick and - Kid Twist, both valorous, both with reputations of having killed, both - with clouds of followers at their backs. - </p> - <p> - Twist, in whom abode the rudiments of a savage diplomacy, proposed a - conference. Fitzpatrick at that conference was shot to death, and Kid - Dahl, a near friend of Twist, stood for the collar. Dahl was thus - complacent because Fitzpatrick had not died by his hand. - </p> - <p> - The police, the gangs and the politicians are not without a sinister - wisdom. When life has been taken, and to punish the slayer would be an - inconvenience, some one who didn't do the killing submits to arrest. This - covers the retreat of the guilty. Also, the public is appeased. Later, - when the public's memory sleeps, the arrested one—for lack of - evidence—is set at liberty. - </p> - <p> - When Fitzpatrick was killed, to clear the path to gang leadership before - the aspiring feet of Twist, the police took Dahl, who all but volunteered - for the sacrifice. Dahl went smilingly to jail, while the real murderer of - Fitzpatrick attended that dead personage's wake, and later appeared at the - funeral. This last, however, by the nicer tastes of Gangland, was - complained of as bordering upon vulgarity. - </p> - <p> - Fitzpatrick was buried with a lily in his hand, and Twist was hailed chief - of the Eastmans. Dahl remained in the Tombs a reasonable number of weeks, - and then resumed his position in society. It was but natural, and to the - glory of stumbling human nature, that Dahl should dwell warmly in the - grateful regard of Twist. - </p> - <p> - Twist, now chief of the Eastmans, cast about to establish Dahl. There was - the Bottler, with his stuss Golconda in Suffolk Street. Were not his - affiliations with the Five Points? Was he not therefore the enemy? The - Bottler was an Egyptian, and Twist resolved to spoil him in the interest - of Dahl. - </p> - <p> - Twist, with Dahl, waited upon the Bottler. Argument was short and to the - point. Said Twist: “Bottler, the Kid”—indicating the expectant Dahl—“is - in wit' your stuss graft from now on. It's to be an even break.” - </p> - <p> - The news almost checked the beating of the Bottler's heart. Not that he - was astonished. What the puissant Twist proposed was a commonest step in - Gangland commerce—Gangland, where the Scotch proverb of “Take what - you may; keep what you can!” retains a pristine force. For all that, the - Bottler felt dismay. The more since he had hoped that his hooking up with - the Five Points would have kept him against such rapine. - </p> - <p> - Following the Twist fulmination, the Bottler stood wrapped in thought. The - dangerous chief of the Eastmans lit a cigar and waited. The poor Bottler's - cogitations ran off in this manner. Twist had killed six men. Also, he had - spared no pains in carrying out those homicides, and could laugh at the - law, which his prudence left bankrupt of evidence. Dahl, too, possessed a - past as red as Twist's. Both could be relied upon to kill. To refuse Dahl - as a partner spelled death. To acquiesce called for half his profits. His - friends of the Five Points, to be sure, could come at his call. That, - however, would not save his game and might not save his life. Twist's - demand showed that he had resolved, so far as he, the Bottler, was - concerned, to rule or ruin. The latter was easy. Any dozen of the - Eastmans, picking some unguarded night, could fall upon his establishment, - confiscate his bankroll, and pitch both him and his belongings into the - street. The Five Points couldn't be forever at his threatened elbow. They - would avenge him, certainly; but vengeance, however sweet, comes always - over-late, and possesses besides no value in dollars and cents. Thus - reasoned the Bottler, while Twist frowningly paused. The finish came when, - with a sickly smile, the Bottler bowed to the inevitable and accepted - Dahl. - </p> - <p> - All Suffolk Street, to say nothing of the thoroughfares roundabout, knew - what had taken place. The event and the method thereof did not provoke the - shrugging of a shoulder, the arching of a brow. What should there be in - the usual to invite amazement? - </p> - <p> - For six weeks the Bottler and Dahl settled up, fifty-and-fifty, with the - close of each stuss day. Then came a fresh surprise. Dahl presented his - friend, the Nailer, to the Bottler with this terse remark: - </p> - <p> - “Bottler, youse can beat it. The Nailer is goin' to be me partner now. - Which lets you out, see?” - </p> - <p> - The Bottler was at bay. He owned no stomach for battle, but the sentiment - of desperation, which the announcement of Dahl provoked, drove him to make - a stand. To lose one-half had been bad. To lose all—to be wholly - wiped out in the annals of Suffolk Street stuss—was more than even - his meekness might bear. No, the Bottler did not dream of going to the - police. That would have been to squeal; and even his friends of the Five - Points had only faces of flint for such tactics of disgrace. - </p> - <p> - The harassed Bottler barred his doors against Dahl. He would defend his - castle, and get word to the Five Points. The Bottler's doors having been - barred, Dahl for his side at once instituted a siege, despatching the - Nailer, meanwhile, to the nearest knot of Eastmans to bring - reinforcements. - </p> - <p> - At this crisis O'Farrell of the Central Office strolled into the equation. - He himself was hunting a loft-worker; of more than common industry, and - had no thought of either the Bottler or Dahl. Happening, however, upon a - situation, whereof the elemental features were Dahl outside with a gun and - the Bottler inside with a gun, he so far recalled his oath of office as to - interfere. - </p> - <p> - “Better an egg to-day than a hen to-morrow,” philosophized O'Farrell, and - putting aside for the moment his search for the loft-worker, he devoted - himself to the Bottler and Dahl. - </p> - <p> - With the sure instinct of his Mulberry Street caste, O'Farrell opened - negotiations with Dahl. He knew the latter to be the dangerous angle, and - began by placing the muzzle of his own pistol against that marauder's - back. - </p> - <p> - “Make a move,” said he, “and I'll shoot you in two.” - </p> - <p> - The sophisticated Dahl, realizing fate, moved not, and with that the - painstaking O'Farrell collected his armament. - </p> - <p> - Next the Bottler was ordered to come forth. The Bottler obeyed in a sweat - and a tremble. He surrendered his pistol at word of the law, and O'Farrell - led both off to jail. The two were charged with Disturbance. - </p> - <p> - In the station house, and on the way, Dahl ceased not to threaten the - Bottler's life. - </p> - <p> - “This pinch'll cost a fine of five dollars,” said Dahl, glaring round - O'Farrell at the shaking Bottler. “I'll pay it, an' then I'll get square - wit' youse. Once we're footloose, you won't last as long as a drink of - whiskey!” - </p> - <p> - The judge yawningly listened, while O'Farrell told his tale of that - disturbance. - </p> - <p> - “Five an' costs!” quoth the judge, and called the next case. - </p> - <p> - The Bottler returned to Suffolk Street, Dahl sought Twist, while O'Farrell - again took the trail of the loft-worker. - </p> - <p> - Dahl talked things over with Twist. There was but one way: the Bottler - must die. Anything short 'of blood would unsettle popular respect for - Twist, and without that his leadership of the Eastmans was a farce. - </p> - <p> - The Bottler's killing, however, must be managed with a decent care for the - conventionalities. For either Twist or Dahl to walk in upon that offender - and shoot him to death, while feasible, would be foolish. The coarse - extravagance of such a piece of work would serve only to pile needless - difficulties in the pathway of what politicians must come to the rescue. - It was impertinences of that character which had sent Monk Eastman to Sing - Sing. Eastman had so far failed as to the proprieties, when as a - supplement to highway robbery he emptied his six-shooter up and down - Forty-second Street, that the politicians could not save him without - burning their fingers. And so they let him go. Twist had justified the - course of the politicians upon that occasion. He would not now, by lack of - caution and a reasonable finesse, force them into similar peril. They must - and would defend him; but it was not for him to render their labors too - up-hill and too hard. - </p> - <p> - Twist sent to Williamsburg for his friend and ally, Cyclone Louie. The - latter was a bull-necked, highly muscled individual, who was a - professional strong man—so far as he was professionally anything—and - earned occasional side-show money at Coney Island by bending iron bars - about his neck and twisting pokers into corkscrews about his brawny arms. - </p> - <p> - Louie, Twist and Dahl went into council over mutual beer, and Twist - explained the imperative call for the Bottler's extermination. Also, he - laid bare the delicate position of both himself and Dahl. - </p> - <p> - In country regions neighbors aid one another in bearing the burdens of an - agricultural day by changing work. The custom is not without what one - might call gang imitation and respect. Only in the gang instance the work - is not innocent, but bloody. Louie, having an appreciation of what was due - a friend, could not do less than come to the relief of Twist and Dahl. - Were positions reversed, would they not journey to Williamsburg and do as - much for him? Louie did not hesitate, but placed himself at the disposal - of Twist and Dahl. The Bottler should die; he, Louie, would see to that. - </p> - <p> - “But when?” - </p> - <p> - Twist, replying, felt that the thing should be done at once, and mentioned - the following evening, nine o'clock. The place should be the Bottler's - establishment in Suffolk Street. Louie, of whom the Bottler was unafraid - and ignorant, should experience no difficulty in approaching his man. - There would be others present; but, practiced in gang moralities, slaves - to gang etiquette, no one would open his mouth. Or, if he did, it would be - only to pour forth perjuries, and say that he had seen nothing, heard - nothing. - </p> - <p> - Having adjusted details, Louie, Twist and Dahl compared watches. Watches? - Certainly. Louie, Twist and Dahl were all most fashionably attired and—as - became members of a gang nobility—singularly full and accurate in - the important element of a front, <i>videlicet</i>, that list of personal - adornments which included scarf pin, ring and watch. Louie, Dahl and Twist - saw to it that their timepieces agreed. This was so that Dahl and Twist - might arrange their alibis. - </p> - <p> - It was the next evening. At 8.55 o'clock Twist was obtrusively in the - Delancey Street police station, wrangling with the desk sergeant over the - release of a follower who had carefully brought about his own arrest. - </p> - <p> - “Come,” urged Twist to the sergeant, “it's next to nine o'clock now. Fix - up the bond; I've got a date over in East Broadway at nine-thirty.” - </p> - <p> - While Twist stood thus enforcing his whereabouts and the hour upon the - attention of the desk sergeant, Dahl was eating a beefsteak in a Houston - street restaurant. - </p> - <p> - “What time have youse got?” demanded Dahl of the German who kept the - place. - </p> - <p> - “Five minutes to nine,” returned the German, glancing up at the clock. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, t'aint no such time as that,” retorted Dahl peevishly. “That clock's - drunk! Call up the telephone people, and find out for sure.” - </p> - <p> - “The 'phone people say it's nine o'clock,” reported the German, hanging up - the receiver. - </p> - <p> - “Hully gee! I didn't think it was more'n halfpast eight!” and Dahl looked - virtuously corrected. - </p> - <p> - While these fragments of talk were taking place, the Bottler was attending - to his stuss interests. He looked pale and frightened, and his hunted eyes - roved here and there. Five minutes went by. The clock pointed to nine. A - slouch-hat stranger entered. As the clock struck the hour, he placed the - muzzle of a pistol against the Bottler's breast, and fired twice. Both - bullets pierced the heart, and the Bottler fell—dead without a word. - There were twenty people in the room. When the police arrived they found - only the dead Bottler. - </p> - <p> - O'Farrell recalled those trade differences which had culminated in the - charge of disturbance, and arrested Dahl. - </p> - <p> - “You ain't got me right,” scoffed Dahl. - </p> - <p> - And O'Farrell hadn't. - </p> - <p> - There came the inquest, and Dahl was set free. The Bottler was buried, and - Twist and Dahl sent flowers and rode to the grave. - </p> - <p> - The law slept, a bat-eyed constabulary went its way, but the gangs knew. - In the whispered gossip of Gangland every step of the Bottler's murder was - talked over and remembered. He must have been minus ears and eyes and - understanding who did not know the story. The glance of Gangland turned - towards the Five Points. What would be their action? They were bound to - avenge. If not for the Bottler's sake, then for their own. For the Bottler - had been under the shadow of their protection, and gang honor was - involved. On the Five Points' part there was no stumbling of the spirit. - For the death of the Bottler the Five Points would exact the penalty of - blood. - </p> - <p> - Distinguished among the chivalry of the Five Points was Kid Pioggi. Only a - paucity of years—he was under eighteen—withheld Pioggi from - topmost honors. Pioggi was not specifically assigned to avenge the - departed Bottler. Ambitious and gallantly anxious of advancement, however, - he of his own motion carried the enterprise in the stomach of his - thoughts. - </p> - <p> - The winter's snow melted into spring, spring lapsed into early summer. It - was a brilliant evening, and Pioggi was disporting himself at Coney - Island. Also Twist and Cyclone Louie, following some plan of relaxation, - were themselves at Coney Island. - </p> - <p> - Pioggi had seated himself at a beer table in Ding Dong's. Twist and Louie - came in. Pioggi, being of the Five Points, was recognized as a foe by - Twisty who lost no time in mentioning it. - </p> - <p> - Being in a facetious mood, and by way of expressing his contempt for that - gentleman, Twist made Pioggi jump out of the window. It was no distance to - the ground, and no physical harm could come. But to be compelled to leave - Ding Dong's by way of the window, rubbed wrongwise the fur of Pioggi's - feelings. To jump from a window stamps one with disgrace. - </p> - <p> - Twist and Louie—burly, muscular, strong as horses—were adepts - of rough-and-tumble. Pioggi, little, light and weak, knew that any thought - of physical conflict would have been preposterous. And yet he was no one - to sit quietly down with his humiliation. That flight from Ding Dong's - window would be on every tongue in Gangland. The name of Pioggi would - become a scorning; the tale would stain the Pioggi fame. - </p> - <p> - Louie and Twist sat down at the table in Ding Dong's, from which Pioggi - had been driven, and demanded refreshment in the guise of wine. Pioggi, - rage-swollen as to heart, busied himself at a nearby telephone. Pioggi got - the ear of a Higher Influence of his clan. He told of his abrupt dismissal - from Ding Dong's, and the then presence of Louie and Twist. The Higher - Influence instructed Pioggi to keep the two in sight. The very flower of - the Five Points should be at Coney Island as fast as trolley cars could - carry them. - </p> - <p> - “Tail 'em,” said the Higher Influence, referring to Twist and Louie; “an' - when the fleet gets there go in wit' your cannisters an' bump 'em off.” - </p> - <p> - While waiting the advent of his promised forces, Pioggi, maintaining the - while an eye on Twist and Louie to the end that they escape not and - disappear, made arrangements for a getaway. He established a coupé, a fast - horse between the shafts and a personal friend on the box, where he, - Pioggi, could find it when his work was done. - </p> - <p> - By the time this was accomplished, Pioggi's recruits had put in an - appearance. They did not descend upon Coney Island in a body, with savage - uproar and loud cries. Much too military were they for that. Rather they - seemed to ooze into position around Pioggi, and they could not have made - less noise had they been so many ghosts. - </p> - <p> - The campaign was soon laid out. Louie and Twist still sat over their wine - at Ding Dong's. Now and then they laughed, as though recalling the - ignominious exit of Pioggi. Means must be employed to draw them into the - street. That accomplished, the Five Points' Danites were to drift up - behind them, and at a signal from Pioggi, empty their pistols into their - backs. Pioggi would fire a bullet into Twist; that was to be the signal. - As Pioggi whispered his instructions, there shone a licking eagerness in - the faces of those who listened. Nothing so exalts the gangster like blood - in anticipation; nothing so pleases him as to shoot from behind. - </p> - <p> - Pioggi pitched upon one whose name and face were unknown to Twist and - Louie. The unknown would be the bearer of a blind message—it - purported to come from a dancer in one of the cheap theaters of the place—calculated - to bring forth Twist and Louie. - </p> - <p> - “Stall 'em up this way,” said Pioggi, indicating a spot within touching - distance of that coupé. “It's here we'll put 'em over the jump.” - </p> - <p> - The place pitched upon for the killing was crowded with people. It was - this very thronged condition which had led to its selection. The crowd - would serve as a cover to Five Points operations. It would prevent a - premature recognition of their assailants by Twist and Louie; it would - screen the slayers from identification by casual citizens looking on. - </p> - <p> - Pioggi's messenger did well his work, and Twist and Louie moved - magnificently albeit unsteadily into the open. They were sweeping the walk - clear of lesser mortals, when the voice of Pioggi arrested their - attention. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, there, Twist; look here!” - </p> - <p> - The voice came from the rear and to the right; Pioggi's position was one - calculated to place the enemy at a double disadvantage. - </p> - <p> - Twist turned his head. A bullet struck him above the eye! He staggered! - The lead came in a storm! Twist went down; Louie fell across him! There - were twelve bullets in Twist and eight in Louie. The coroner said that - they were the deadest people of whom he owned official recollection. - </p> - <p> - As the forethoughtful Pioggi was dashing away in his coupé, a policeman - gave chase. Pioggi drove a bullet through the helmet of the law. It - stopped pursuit; but Gangland has ever held that the shot was an error. A - little lower, and the policeman would have been killed. Also, the death of - a policeman is apt to entail consequences. - </p> - <p> - Pioggi went into hiding in Greenwich, where the Five Points had a - hold-out. There were pullings and haulings and whisperings in dark - political corners. When conditions had been whispered and hauled and - pulled into shape satisfactory, Pioggi sent word to a favorite officer to - come and arrest him. - </p> - <p> - Pioggi explained to the court that his life had been threatened; he had - shot only that he himself might live. His age was seventeen. Likewise - there had been no public loss; the going of Twist and Louie had but raised - the average of all respectability. The court pondered the business, and - decided that justice would be fulfilled by sentencing Pioggi to the Elmira - Reformatory. - </p> - <p> - The best fashion of the Five Points visited Pioggi in the Tombs on the - morning of his departure. - </p> - <p> - “It's only thirteen months, Kid,” came encouragingly from one. “You won't - mind it.” - </p> - <p> - “Mind it!” responded Pioggi, in disdain of the worst that Elmira might - hold for him; “mind it! I could do it standin' on me head.” - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2H_4_0005" id="link2H_4_0005"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - IV.—IKE THE BLOOD - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">W</span>henever the police - were driven to deal with him officially, he called himself Charles Livin, - albeit the opinion prevailed at headquarters that in thus spelling it, he - left off a final ski. The police, in the wantonness of their ignorance, - described him on their books as a burglar. This was foolishly wide. He - should have been listed as a simple Strong-Arm, whose methods of divorcing - other people from their money, while effective, were coarse. Also, it is - perhaps proper to mention that his gallery number at the Central Office - was 10,394. - </p> - <p> - It was during the supremacy of Monk Eastman that he broke out, and he had - just passed his seventeenth birthday. Being out, he at once attached - himself to the gang-fortunes of that chief; and it became no more than a - question of weeks before his vast physical strength, the energy of his - courage and a native ferocity of soul, won him his proud war-name of Ike - the Blood. Compared with the herd about him, in what stark elements made - the gangster important in his world, he shone out upon the eyes of folk - like stars of a clear cold night. - </p> - <p> - Ike the Blood looked up to his chief, Monk Eastman, as sailors look up to - the North Star, and it wrung his soul sorely when that gang captain went - to Sing Sing. In the war over the succession and the baton of gang - command, waged between Ritchie Fitzpatrick and Kid Twist, Ike the Blood - was compelled to stand neutral. Powerless to take either side, liking both - ambitious ones, the trusted friend of both, his hands were tied; and later—first - Fitzpatrick and then Twist—he followed both to the grave, sorrow not - only on his lips but in his heart. - </p> - <p> - It was one recent August day that I was granted an introduction to Ike the - Blood. I was in the company of an intimate friend of mine—he holds - high Central Office position in the police economy of New York. We were - walking in Henry Street, in the near vicinity of that vigorous - organization, the Ajax Club—so called, I take it, because its - members are forever defying the lightnings of the law. My Central Office - friend had mentioned Ike the Blood, speaking of him as a guiding light to - such difficult ones as Little Karl, Whitey Louie, Benny Weiss, Kid - Neumann, Tomahawk, Fritzie Rice, Dagley and the Lobster. - </p> - <p> - Even as the names were in his mouth, his keen Central Office glance went - roving through the open doorway of a grogshop. - </p> - <p> - “There's Ike the Blood now,” said he, and tossed a thumb, which had - assisted in necking many a malefactor with tastes to be violent, towards - the grogshop. - </p> - <p> - Since to consider such pillars of East Side Society was the great reason - of my ramble, we entered the place. Ike the Blood was sitting in state at - a table to the rear of the unclean bar, a dozen of his immediate followers—in - the politics of gang life these formed a minor order of nobility—with - him. - </p> - <p> - Being addressed by my friend, he arose and joined us; none the less he - seemed reticent and a bit disturbed. This was due to the official - character of my friend, plus the fact that the jealous eyes of those - others were upon him. It is no advantage to a leader, like Ike the Blood, - to be seen in converse with a detective. Should one of his adherents be - arrested within a day or a week, the arrested one reverts to that - conversation, and imagines vain things. - </p> - <p> - “Take a walk with us, Ike,” said my friend. - </p> - <p> - Ike the Blood was obviously reluctant. Sinking his voice, and giving a - glance over his shoulder at his myrmidons—not ten feet away, and - every eye upon him—he remonstrated. - </p> - <p> - “Say, I don't want to leave th' push settin' here, to go chasin' off wit' - a bull. Fix it so I can come uptown sometime.” - </p> - <p> - “Very well,” returned my friend, relenting; “I don't want to put you in - Dutch with your fleet.” - </p> - <p> - There was a whispered brief word or two, and an arrangement for a meet was - made; after which Ike the Blood lapsed into the uneasy circle he had - quitted. As we left the grogshop, we could hear him loudly calling for - beer. Possibly the Central Office nearness of my friend had rendered him - thirsty. Or it may have been that the beer was meant to wet down and allay - whatever of sprouting suspicion had been engendered in the trustless - breasts of his followers. - </p> - <p> - It was a week later. - </p> - <p> - The day, dark and showery, was—to be exact—the eighth of - August. Faithful to that whispered Henry Street arrangement, Ike the Blood - sat awaiting the coming of my friend and myself in the Bal Tabarin. He had - spoken of the stuss house of Phil Casey and Paper Box Johnny, in - Twenty-ninth Street, but my friend entered a protest. There was his - Central Office character to be remembered. A natural embarrassment must - ensue were he brought face to face with stuss in a state of activity. - Stuss was a crime, by surest word of law, and he had taken an oath of - office. He did not care to pinch either Paper Box or Casey, and therefore - preferred not to be drawn into a situation where the only alternative - would be to either pull their joint or lay the bedplates of complaint - against himself. - </p> - <p> - “It's no good time to be up on charges,” remonstrated my friend, “for the - commish that's over us now would sooner grab a copper than a crook.” - </p> - <p> - Thus instructed, and feeling the delicacy of my friend's position, Ike the - Blood had shifted suggestion to the Bal Tabarin. The latter house of - entertainment, in Twenty-eighth Street, was innocent of stuss and indeed - cards in any form. Kept by Sam Paul, it possessed a deserved popularity - with Ike and the more select of his acquaintances. - </p> - <p> - Ike the Blood appeared to better advantage in the Bal Tabarin than on that - other, Henry Street, grogshop occasion. Those suspicious ones, of lowering - eye and doubtful brow, had been left behind, and their absence contributed - to his relief, and therefore to his looks. Not that he had been sitting in - the midst of loneliness at the Bal Tabarin; Whitey Dutch and Slimmy were - with him, and who should have been better company than they? Also, their - presence was of itself an honor, since they were of his own high caste, - and many layers above a mere gang peasantry. They would take part in the - conversation, too, and, if to talk and touch glasses with a Central Office - bull were an offense, it would leave them as deep in the police mud as was - he in the police mire. - </p> - <p> - Ike the Blood received us gracefully, if not enthusiastically, and was so - polite as to put me on a friendly footing with his companions. Greetings - over, and settled to something like our ease, I engaged myself mentally in - taking Ike's picture. His forehead narrow, back-sloping at that lively - angle identified by carpenters as a quarter-pitch, was not the forehead of - a philosopher. I got the impression, too, that his small brown eyes, sad - rather than malignant, would in any heat of anger blaze like twin balls of - brown fire. Cheek-bones high; nose beaky, predatory—such a nose as - Napoleon loved in his marshals; mouth coarsely sensitive, suggesting - temperament; the broad, bony jaw giving promise of what staying qualities - constitute the stock in trade of a bulldog; no mustache, no beard; a - careless liberality of ear—that should complete the portrait. Fairly - given, it was the picture of one who acted more than he thought, and whose - atmosphere above all else conveyed the feeling of relentless force—the - picture of one who under different circumstances might have been a Murat - or a Massena. - </p> - <p> - My friend managed the conversation, and did it with Central Office tact. - Knowing what I was after, he brought up Gangland and the gangs, upon which - topics Whitey Dutch, seeing no reasons for silence, spoke instructively. - Aside from the great gangs, the Eastmans and the Five Points, I learned - that other smaller yet independent gangs existed. Also, from Whitey's - discourse, it was made clear that just as countries had frontiers, so also - were there frontiers to the countries of the gangs. The Five Points, with - fifteen hundred on its puissant muster rolls, was supreme—he said—between - Broadway and the Bowery, Fourteenth Street and City Hall Park. The - Eastmans, with one thousand warriors, flourished between Monroe and - Fourteenth Streets, the Bowery and the East River. The Gas House Gang, - with only two hundred in its nose count, was at home along Third Avenue - between Eleventh and Eighteenth Streets. The vivacious Gophers were - altogether heroes of the West Side. They numbered full five hundred, each - a holy terror, and ranged the region bounded by Seventh Avenue, Fourteenth - Street, Tenth Avenue and Forty-second Street. The Gophers owned a - rock-bottom fame for their fighting qualities, and, speaking in the sense - militant, neither the Eastmans nor the Five Points would care to mingle - with them on slighter terms than two to one. The fulness of Whitey Dutch, - himself of the Five Points, in what justice he did the Gophers, marked his - splendid breadth of soul. - </p> - <p> - Ike the Blood, overhung by some cloud of moodiness, devoted himself - moderately to beer, taking little or less part in the talk. Evidently - there was something bearing him down. - </p> - <p> - “I ain't feelin' gay,” he remarked; “an' at that, if youse was to ast me, - I couldn't tell youse why.” - </p> - <p> - As though a thought had been suggested, he arose and started for the door. - </p> - <p> - “I won't be away ten minutes,” he said. - </p> - <p> - Slimmy looked curiously at Whitey Dutch. - </p> - <p> - “He's chased off to one of them fortune-tellers,” said Whitey. - </p> - <p> - “Do youse take any stock in them ginks who claims they can skin a deck of - cards, or cock their eye into a teacup, an' then put you next to - everyt'ing that'll happen to you in a year?” - </p> - <p> - Slimmy aimed this at me. - </p> - <p> - Upon my assurance, given with emphasis, that I attached no weight to - so-called seers and fortunetellers, he was so magnanimous as to indorse my - position. - </p> - <p> - “They're a bunch of cheap bunks,” he declared. “I've gone ag'inst 'em time - an' time, an' there's nothin' in it. One of 'em gives me his woid—after - me comin' across wit' fifty cents—th' time Belfast Danny's in - trouble, that Danny'll be toined out all right. Two days later Danny gets - settled for five years.” - </p> - <p> - “Ike's stuck on 'em,” remarked Whitey. - </p> - <p> - Slimmy and Whitey Dutch, speaking freely and I think veraciously, told me - many things. Whitey explained that, while he and Slimmy were shining - lights of the Five Points, yet to be found fraternizing with Ike the Blood—an - Eastman—was in perfect keeping with gang proprieties. For, as he - pointed out, there was momentary truce between the Eastmans and the Five - Points. Among the gangs, in seasons of gang peace, the nobles—by - word of Whitey—were expected to make stately calls of ceremony and - good fellowship upon one another, as had been the wont among Highland - chieftains in the days of Bruce and Wallace. - </p> - <p> - “Speaking of the Gas House Gang: how do they live?” I asked. - </p> - <p> - “Stickin' up lushes mostly.” - </p> - <p> - “How much of this stick-up work goes on?” - </p> - <p> - “Well”—thoughtfully—“they'll pull off as many as twenty-five - stick-ups to-night.” - </p> - <p> - “There's no such number of squeals coming in at headquarters.” - </p> - <p> - The contradiction emanated from my Central Office friend, who felt - criticized by inference. - </p> - <p> - “Squeals!” exclaimed Whitey Dutch with warmth, “w'y should they squeal? - The Gas House push'd cook 'em if they squealed. Suppose right now I was to - go out an' get put in th' air; do you think I'd squeal? Well, I should say - not; I'm no mutt! They'd about come gallopin' 'round tomorry wit' - bale-sticks, an' break me arms an' legs, or mebby knock me block off. W'y, - not a week ago, three Gas House <i>shtockers</i> stands me up in - Riving-ton Street, an' takes me clock—a red one wit' two doors. Then - they pinches a fiver out of me keck. They even takes me bank-book. - </p> - <p> - “W'at license has a stiff like youse got to have $375 in th' bank?' they - says—like that. - </p> - <p> - “Next night they comes bluffin' round for me three hundred and - seventy-five dollar plant—w'at do you t'ink of that? But I'm there - wit' a gatt me-self that time, an' ready to give 'em an argument. W'en - they sees I'm framed up, they gets cold feet. But you can bet I don't do - no squealin'!” - </p> - <p> - “Did you get back your watch?” - </p> - <p> - “How could I get it back?” peevishly. “No, I don't get back me watch. All - the same, I'll lay for them babies. Some day I'll get 'em right, an' trim - 'em to the queen's taste.” - </p> - <p> - My friend, leading conversation in his specious Central Office way, spoke - of Ike the Blood's iron fame, and slanted talk in that direction. - </p> - <p> - “Ike can certainly go some!” observed Slimmy meditatively. “Take it from - me, there ain't any of 'em, even th' toughest ever, wants his game.” - Turning to Whitey: “Don't youse remember, Whitey, when he tears into - Humpty Jackson an' two of his mob, over in Thirteenth Street, that time? - There's nothin' to it! Ike simply makes 'em jump t'rough a hoop! Every - lobster of 'em has his rod wit' him, too.” - </p> - <p> - “They wouldn't have had the nerve to fire 'em if they'd pulled 'em,” - sneered Whitey. “Ike'd have made 'em eat th' guttaperchy all off th' - handles, too. Say, I don't t'ink much of that Gas House fleet. They talk - strong; but they don't bring home th' goods, see!” - </p> - <p> - It appeared that, in spite of his sanguinary title, Ike the Blood had - never killed his man. - </p> - <p> - “He's tried,” explained Slimmy, who felt as though the absent one, in his - blood-guiltlessness, required defense; “but he all th' time misses. Ike's - th' woist shot wit' a rod in th' woild.” - </p> - <p> - “Sure, Mike!”—from Whitey Dutch, his nose in his drink; “he couldn't - hit th' Singer Buildin'.” '“How does he make his money?” I asked. - </p> - <p> - “Loft worker,” broke in my friend. - </p> - <p> - The remark was calculated to explode the others into fresh confidences. - </p> - <p> - “Don't youse believe it!” came in vigorous denial from Whitey Dutch. “Ike - never cracked a bin in his life. You bulls”—this was pointed - especially at my friend—“say he's a dip, too. W'y, it's a laugh! Ike - couldn't pick th' pocket of a dead man—couldn't put his hand into a - swimmin' tank! That's how fly he is.” - </p> - <p> - “Now don't try to string me,” retorted my friend, severely. “Didn't Ike - fill in with Little Maxie and his mob, when they worked the Jersey fairs?” - </p> - <p> - “But that was only to do the strong-arm work, in case there's a scrap,” - protested Whitey. “On th' level, Ike is woise than Big Abrams. He can't - even stall. An' as for gettin' a leather or a watch, gettin' a perfecto - out of a cigar box would be about his limit.” - </p> - <p> - “That Joisey's a bum place; youse can go there for t'ree cents.” - </p> - <p> - The last was interjected by Slimmy—who had a fine wit of his own—with - the hopeful notion of diverting discussion to less exciting questions than - pocket-picking at the New Jersey fairs. - </p> - <p> - It developed that while Ike the Blood had now and then held up a stuss - game for its bank-roll, during some desperate ebb-tide of his fortunes, he - drew his big income from a yearly ball. - </p> - <p> - “He gives a racket,” declared Whitey Dutch; “that's how Ike gets his - dough. Th' last one he pulls off nets him about twenty-five hundred - plunks.” - </p> - <p> - “What price were the tickets?” I inquired. Twenty-five hundred dollars - sounded large. - </p> - <p> - “Th' tickets is fifty cents,” returned Whitey, “but that's got nothin' to - do wit' it. A guy t'rows down say a ten-spot at th' box-office, like that”—and - Whitey made a motion with his hand, which was royal in its generous - openness. “'Gimme a pasteboard!' he says; an' that ends it; he ain't - lookin' for no change back. Every sport does th' same. Some t'rows in - five, some ten, some guy even changes in a twenty if he's pulled off a - trick an' is feelin' flush. It's all right; there's nothin' in bein' a - piker. Ike himself sells th' tickets; an' th' more you planks down th' - more he knows you like him.” It was becoming plain. A gentleman of gang - prominence gives a ball—a racket—and coins, so to speak, his - disrepute. He of sternest and most bloody past takes in the most money. To - discover one's status in Gangland, one has but to give a racket.. The - measure of the box-receipts will be the dread measure of one's reputation. - </p> - <p> - “One t'ing youse can say of Ike,” observed Slimmy, wearing the while a - look of virtue, “he never made no money off a woman.” - </p> - <p> - “Never in all his life took a dollar off a doll!” added Whitey, - corroboratively. - </p> - <p> - Ike the Blood reappearing at this juncture, it was deemed best to cease—audibly, - at least—all consideration of his merits. He might have regarded - discussion, so personal to himself, with disfavor. Laughing lightly, he - took his old place at the table, and beckoned the waiter. Compared with - what had been its former cloudy expression, his face wore a look of - relief. - </p> - <p> - “Say, I don't mind tellin' youse guys,” he said at last, breaking into an - uneasy laugh, “but th' fact is, I skinned round into Sixt' Avenoo to a - fortune teller—a dandy, she is—one that t'rows a fit, or goes - into a trance, or some such t'ing.” - </p> - <p> - “A fortune teller!” said Slimmy, as though he'd never heard the word - before. - </p> - <p> - “It's on account of a dream. In all th' years”—Ike spoke as might - one who had put a century behind him—“in all th' years I've been - knockin' about, an' I've had me troubles, I never gets a notch on me gun, - see? Not that I went lookin' for any; not that I'm lookin' for any now. - But last night I had a dream:—I dreams I croaks a guy. Mebby it's - somet'in' I'd been eatin'; mebby it's because of me havin' a pretty hot - argument th' mornin' before; but anyhow it bothers me—that dream - does. You see”—this to my friend—“I'm figgerin' on openin' a - house over in Twenty-fift' Street, an' these West Side ducks is all for - givin' me th' frozen face. They say I oughter stick down on th' East Side, - where I belongs, an' not come chasin' up here, cuttin' in on their graft. - Anyhow, I dreams I puts th' foist notch on me gun———-” - </p> - <p> - “And so you consult a fortune teller,” laughed my friend, who was not - superstitious, but practical. - </p> - <p> - “Wait till I tells you. As I says, I blows in on that trance party. I - don't wise her up about any dream, but comes t'rough wit' th' little old - one buck she charges, an' says: 'There you be! Now roll your game for th' - limit!'” - </p> - <p> - “Which she proceeded to do,” broke in my friend. - </p> - <p> - “Listen! Th' old dame—after coppin' me dollar—stiffens back - an' shuts her eyes; an' next, th' foist flash out of th' box she says—speakin' - like th' wind in a keyhole: 'You're in th' midst of trouble; a man is - killed!' Then she wakes up. 'W'y didn't youse go t'rough?' I says; T want - th' rest. Who is it gets croaked, th' other dub or me?' Th' old dame - insists that to go back, an' get th' address of th' party who's been - bumped off, she must have another dollar. Oh, they're th' birds, them - fortune tellers, to grab th' dough! But of course I can't stop there, so I - bucks up wit' another bone. 'There you be,' I says; 'now, is it me that - gets it, or does he?” - </p> - <p> - “W'at he?” demanded Whitey. - </p> - <p> - “How do I know?” The tone and manner were impatient. “It's th' geek I'm - havin' trouble wit'.” Ike looked at me, as one who would understand and - perhaps sympathize, and continued: “This time th' old dame says th' party - who's been cooked is some other guy; it ain't me. T can see now that it - ain't you,' she says. 'You're ridin' away in a patrol wagon, wit' a lot of - harness bulls.' That's good so far. 'So I gets th' collar?' I says. 'How - about th' trial?' She answers, 'There ain't no trial;' an' then she comes - out of her trance, same as a diver comes up out o' the water.” - </p> - <p> - “Is that all?” asked Slimmy. - </p> - <p> - “That's where she lets me off.” - </p> - <p> - “W'y don't youse dig for another dollar,” said Whitey, “an' tell th' old - hag to put on her suit an' go down ag'in for th' rest?” Whitey had been - impressed by that simile of the diver. - </p> - <p> - “W'at more is there to get? I ain't killed; an' I ain't tried—that - oughter do me. Th' coroner t'rows me loose, most likely. Anyhow, I ain't - goin' to sit there all day, skinnin' me roll for that old sponge—a - plunk a crack, too.” - </p> - <p> - “Talk of th' cost of livin'!” remarked Slimmy, with a grin. “Ain't it - fierce, th' way them fortune tellers'll slim a guy's bank-roll for him, - once they has him hooked? They'll get youse to goin'; an' after that it's - like one of them stories w'at ends wit' 'Continued in our next.' W'y, it's - like playin' th' horses, only woise. Th' foist day you goes out to win; - an' after that, you keep goin' back to get even.” Ike the Blood paid no - heed to the pessimistic philosophy of Slimmy; he was too wholly wrapped up - in what he had been told. - </p> - <p> - “Well,” he broke forth, following a ruminative pause, “anyhow, I'd sooner - he gets it than me.” - </p> - <p> - “There you go ag'in about that 'he,'” protested Whitey, and the manner of - Whitey was querulous. - </p> - <p> - “Th' guy she sees me hooked up wit'!” This came off a bit warmly. “You - know w'at I mean.” - </p> - <p> - “Take it easy!—take it easy!” urged my friend. “What is there to get - hot about? You don't mean to say, Ike, you're banking on that guff the old - dame handed you?” - </p> - <p> - “Next week”—the shadow of a smile playing across his face—“I - won't believe it. But it sounds like th' real t'ing now.” - </p> - <p> - The door of the Bal Tabarin opened to the advent of a weasel-eyed - individual. - </p> - <p> - “Hello, Whitey!” exclaimed Weasel-eye cheerily, shaking hands with Whitey - Dutch. “I just leaves a namesake of yours; an' say, he's in bad!” - </p> - <p> - “W'at namesake?” - </p> - <p> - “Whitey Louie. A bunch of them West Side guerrillas has him cornered, over - in a dump at Twenty-seventh Street and Seventh Avenoo. It looks like - there'd be somethin' doin'; an', as I don't Avant no part of it, I screws - out.” - </p> - <p> - At the name of Whitey Louie, Ike the Blood arose to his feet. - </p> - <p> - “Whitey Louie?” he questioned; “Seventh Avenoo an' Twenty-seventh Street?” - </p> - <p> - “That's th' ticket,” replied Weasel-eye; “an' youse can cash on it.” - </p> - <p> - Ike the Blood hurried out the door. - </p> - <p> - “Whitey Louie is Ike's closest pal,” observed Whitey Dutch, explaining the - hurried departure. “Will there be trouble?” I asked. - </p> - <p> - “I don't t'ink so,” said Slimmy. “It's four for one they'll lay down to - Ike.” - </p> - <p> - “Don't put your swell bet on it!” came warningly from Whitey Dutch; “them - Gophers are as tough a bunch as ever comes down the pike.” - </p> - <p> - “Tough nothin'!” returned Slimmy: “they'll be duck soup to Ike.” - </p> - <p> - “Why don't you look into it?” I asked, turning to my friend. As a - taxpayer, I yearned for some return on that $16,000,000 a year which New - York City pays for its police. - </p> - <p> - That ornament of the Central Office yawned, and motioned to the waiter to - bring his bill. - </p> - <p> - “That sort of thing is up to the cop on the beat,” said he. - </p> - <p> - “Whitey an' me 'ud get in on it,” explained Slimmy—his expression - was one of half apology—“only you see we belong at th' other end of - th' alley. We're Five Points; Ike an' Whitey Louie are Eastmans; an' in a - clash between Eastmans an' Gophers, it's up to us to stand paws-off, see!” - </p> - <p> - “That's straight talk,” coincided Whitey. - </p> - <p> - “Suppose, seeing it's stopped raining, we drift over there,” said my - friend, adjusting his Panama at the exact Central Office angle. - </p> - <p> - As we journeyed along, I noticed Slimmy and Whitey Dutch across the - street. It was already written that Whitey Dutch, himself, would be shot - to death in the Stag before the year was out; but the shadow of that - impending taking-off was not apparent in his face. Indeed, from that face - there shone forth only pleasure in anticipation, and a lively interest. - </p> - <p> - “They'd no more miss it than they'd miss a play at the theater,” remarked - my friend, who saw where my glance was directed. - </p> - <p> - About a ginmill, on the corner of Seventh Avenue and Twenty-seventh - Street, a crowd had collected. A patrol wagon was backing up. - </p> - <p> - An officer in uniform tossed a prisoner into the wagon, with no more - ceremony than should attend the handling of a bag of bran. - </p> - <p> - “It's Dubillier!” exclaimed Whitey Dutch, naming the prisoner. - </p> - <p> - The two Five Pointers had taken position on the edge of the crowd, - directly in front of my friend and me. - </p> - <p> - “There's Ike!” said Slimmy, as two policemen were seen pushing their way - towards the patrol wagon, Ike the Blood between them. “Them bulls is - holdin' him up, too, an' his face is as pale as paper! By thunder, they've - nailed him!” - </p> - <p> - “I told you them Gophers were tough students,” was the comment of Whitey - Dutch. - </p> - <p> - My friend began forcing his way forward. As he plowed through the crowd, - Whitey Dutch and Slimmy, having advantage of his wake, kept close at his - heels. - </p> - <p> - Slimmy threw me a whispered word: “Be th' way th' mob is actin', I t'ink - Ike copped one.” Slimmy, before the lapse of many minutes, was again at my - side, attended by Whitey Dutch. The pair wore that manner of quick yet - neutral appreciation which belongs—we'll say—with such as - English army officers visiting the battlefield of Santiago while the - action between the Spaniards and the Americans is being waged. It wasn't - their fight, it was an Eastman-Gopher fight, but as fullblown Five - Pointers it became them vastly to be present. Also, they might learn - something. - </p> - <p> - “Ike dropped one,” nodded Whitey Dutch, answering the question in my eye. - “It's Ledwich.” - </p> - <p> - “What was the row about?” I asked. - </p> - <p> - “Whitey Louie. The Gophers was goin' to hand it to him; but just then Ike - comes through th' door on th' run, an' wit' that they outs wit' their rods - an' goes to peggin' at him. Then Ike gets to goin' an' cops Ledwich.” - </p> - <p> - “Th' best th' Gophers can get,” observed Slimmy—and his manner was - as the manner of one balancing an account—“th' best th' Gophers can - get is an even break; an' to do that they'll have to cash on Ike. Whitey - Louie? He makes his get-away all right. Say, Whitey, let's beat it round - to the Tenderloin Station, an' get th' finish.” - </p> - <p> - The finish was soon told. Ike the Blood lay dead on the station house - floor; a bullet had drilled its dull way through his lungs. An officer was - just telephoning his people in Chrystie Street. - </p> - <p> - “Now do youse see?” said Whitey Dutch, correcting what he conceived to be - Slimmy's skepticism; “that fortune tellin' skirt handed out th' right - dope. 'One croaked!—Ike in th' hurry-up wagon!—no trial!' - That's th' spiel she makes; an' it falls true, see!” - </p> - <p> - “Ike oughter have dug down for another bone,” returned Slimmy, more than - half convinced; “she'd have put him hep to that bullet in his breather, - mebby.” - </p> - <p> - “W'at good 'ud that have done?” - </p> - <p> - “Good? If he'd got th' tip, he might have ducked—you can't tell.” - </p> - <p> - “It's a bad business,” I commented to my friend, who had rejoined me. - </p> - <p> - “It would be a good thing”—shrugging his cynical Central Office - shoulders—“if, with a change of names, it could happen every day in - the year. By the way, I forgot my umbrella; let's go back to the Bal - Tabarin.” - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2H_4_0006" id="link2H_4_0006"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - V.—INDIAN LOUIE - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">N</span>o one knew his - real name, not even the police, and the police, let me tell you, know much - more than they can prove. The Central Office never once had the pleasure - of mugging and measuring and parading him at the morning bawling out, and - the Mulberry Street records to the last were barren concerning him. For - one brief space and only one did Mulberry Street nourish hopes. That was - when he himself let it be thought that somewhere, sometime, somehow, he - had taken some one's life. At this, Mulberry Street fairly shook the wide - earth like a tablecloth in search of proof, but got not so much as one - poor crumb of confirmation. - </p> - <p> - It was at Big Jack's in Chatham Square that local history first laid eyes - on him. Big Jack is gone now; the Committee of Fourteen decided upon him - virtuously as an immoralist, handed him the fatal blue paper, and he - perished. Jack Sirocco—who was himself blue-papered in a Park Row - hour—keeps the place now. - </p> - <p> - Starting from Big Jack's, he soon began to be known in Flynn's, and Nigger - Mike's, and about the Chatham Club. When his pals spoke to him they called - him Louie. When they spoke of him they called him Indian Louie, or Spanish - Louie, to the end that he be identified among the hosts of East Side - Louies, who were and are as many as the leaves on a large tree. - </p> - <p> - Rumor made Indian Louie a native of South America, and his dark skin, - black eyes, thin lips, high cheek-bones and high curved nose helped rumor - out in this. Also, he was supposed to be of Spanish or Portuguese - extraction. - </p> - <p> - When Louie was buried, this latter assumption received a jolt. His - funeral, conducted by a rabbi, was according to strictest Hebrew - ceremonial. - </p> - <p> - Two pieces of porcelain were laid upon his eyes, as intimating that he had - seen enough. A feather, which a breath would have disturbed, was placed - upon his upper lip. This was to evidence him as fully and conclusively - dead, although on that point, in all conscience, the coroner's finding - should have been enough. The flowers, which Gangland sent to prove its - grief, were put aside because too gay and pleasant. The body was laid upon - straw. A would-be pallbearer, since his name was Cohen, had to be excluded - from the rites, as any orthodox Jew could have told him must be the case. - For death and the dead are unclean; and a Cohen, who by virtue of his name - is of the high-priest caste—Aaron was a Cohen—and tends the - altars, must touch nothing, approach nothing, that is unclean. The funeral - was scrupulously held before the second sun went down, and had to be - hurried a little, because the morgue authorities, hobbled of red tape, - move as slowly as the sea itself in giving up the dead. The coffin—of - poorest pine—was knocked to pieces in the grave, before the clods of - earth were shoveled in and the doomsday sods laid on. The garments of him - who acted as principal mourner were faithfully torn; that is to say, the - rabbi cut a careful slit in the lapel of that mourner's waistcoat where it - wouldn't show. - </p> - <p> - You will see from this, that every detail was holy by most ancient Jewish - prescription. And the business led to talk. Those about Flynn's, Nigger - Mike's and the Chatham Club, to say naught of members of the Humpty - Jackson gang, and others who in his latter days had been near if not dear - to him, confessed that it went far in contradiction of any Spanish or - Portuguese ancestry for Louie. - </p> - <p> - Louie was a mystery, and studied to be so. And to be a mystery is as - difficult as being a hypocrite. One wrong word, one moment off your guard, - and lo, a flood of light! The mystery vanishes, the hypocrisy is laid - bare. You are no longer a riddle. Or, if so, then a riddle that has been - solved. And he who was a riddle, but has been solved, is everywhere - scoffed at and despised. - </p> - <p> - Louie must have possessed a genius for mystery, since not once did he fall - down in that difficult rôle. He denied nothing, confirmed nothing, of the - many tales told about him. A waif-word wagged that he had been in the - army, without pointing to any regiment; and that he had been in the navy, - without indicating what boat. Louie, it is to be thought, somewhat - fostered this confusion. It deepened him as a mystery, and made him more - impressive. - </p> - <p> - Louie was careful, also, that his costume should assist. He made up all in - black—black shoes, black trousers, black coat, black hat of - semi-sombrero type. Even in what may be spoken of as the matter of linen—although - there was no linen about it—he adhered to that funereal hue, and in - lieu of a shirt wore a sweater, collar close up to the chin, and all as - black as his coat. As he walked the streets, black eyes challenging, - threatening, from underneath the black, wide-rimmed hat, he showed not - from top to toe a fleck of white. - </p> - <p> - Among what tales went here and there concerning Louie, there was one which - described him as the deadest of dead shots. This he accentuated by a brace - of big Colt's pistols, which bore him constant company, daylight and dark. - There was no evidence of his having used this artillery, no word of any - killing to his perilous glory. Indeed, he couldn't have pointed to so much - as one wounded man. - </p> - <p> - Only once did those pistols come into play. Valenski's stuss house, in - Third Avenue near Fourteenth Street, was put in the air. The hold-ups - descended upon Valenski's, grabbed $80 which was on the table, and sent - Valenski into his safe for $300 more. While this went on, Louie stood in - the door, a gun in each fist, defying the gaping, staring, pop-eyed public - to interfere. He ran no risk, as everyone well knew. The East Side, while - valorous, never volunteers. There was no more chance of outside - interference to save Valenski from being plundered, than of outside - contributions to make him up another roll. - </p> - <p> - The incident might have helped in building up for Louie a reputation, had - it not been that all that was starkly heroic therein melted when, two days - later, the ravished $380 was privily restored to Valenski, with the - assurance that the entire business was a jest. Valenski knew nothing - humorous had been intended, and that his bundle was returned in deference - only to the orders of one high in politics and power. Also, it was the - common feeling, a feeling no less cogent for not being put into words, - that had Louie been of the wood from which champions are carved, the $380 - would never have come back. To refrain from some intended stick-up upon - grave orders given, might mean no more than prudence and a right - discipline. But to send back money, once in actual hand and when the risk - and work of which it stood the harvest had been encountered and performed, - was to fly in the face of gang ethics. An order to that effect, however - eminent its source, should have been met with stony refusal. - </p> - <p> - There was one tale which should go, perhaps, to the right side of the - reputational ledger, as indicating that Louie had nerve. Crazy Charlie was - found dead in the mouth of a passageway, which opened off Mulberry Street - near the Bowery. His throat had been cut from ear to ear. No one of sense - supposed Louie did that throat slashing. - </p> - <p> - Crazy Charlie was a hop-head, without a dollar in his jeans, and Louie - never did anything except for money. He would no more have gone about a - profitless killing, than he would have wasted time and effort by fishing - in a bathtub. - </p> - <p> - For all that, on the whispered hint of the Ghost—who himself was - killed finally as a snitch—two plain-clothes men from the Eldridge - Street station grabbed Louie. They did not tell him the reason of the - pinch. Neither did they spread it on the books. The police have a habit of - protecting themselves from the consequences of a foolish collar by a - specious system of concealment, and put nothing on the blotter until sure. - </p> - <p> - When searched at the desk, Louie's guns were discovered. Also, from inside - his waistcoat was taken a seven-inch knife, which, as said the police - sergeant, might have slit the windpipe of Crazy Charlie or any other bug. - But, as anyone with eyes might see, the knife was as purely virginal as - when it came from a final emery wheel in its far-off Sheffield home. It - had slit nothing. - </p> - <p> - Still, those plain-clothes dicks did not despair. They hoped to startle - Louie into a confession. With a view to his moral and physical stampede, - they conveyed Louie in a closed patrol wagon, at mirk midnight, to the - morgue. He hadn't been told what he was charged with; he didn't know where - he was going. - </p> - <p> - The wagon backed up to the morgue door. Louie had never visited the morgue - before, though fated in the end to appear there officially. The - plainclothes men, one at each shoulder, steered him inside. All was thick - blackness; you couldn't have seen your own nose. Feeling their wordless - way, the painstaking plain-clothes folk manhandled Louie into position. - </p> - <p> - Then they flashed on a flood of electric light. - </p> - <p> - There, within two feet of Louie, and squarely beneath his eyes, lay the - dead Crazy Charlie, posed so as to show effectively that gruesome slash - across the throat. Louie neither started nor exclaimed. Gazing down on the - dead Charlie, he searched forth a cigarette and turned to one of his - plain-clothes escorts for a match. - </p> - <p> - “Do you see this?” demanded the plain-clothes man, slewing round the dead - head until that throat-gash yawned like some horrid mouth. - </p> - <p> - The plain-clothes man was wroth to think he should have worked so hard to - achieve so little. - </p> - <p> - “Yes,” retorted Louie, as cold as a wedge. “Also, I'll tell you bulls - another thing. You think to rattle me. Say, for ten cents I'd sit on this - stiff all night an' smoke a pipe.” - </p> - <p> - Those plain-clothes artists gave Louie up. They turned him loose at the - morgue door. - </p> - <p> - The affair worked round, and helped Louie to a better position in the - minds of all fair men. It fell in lucky, too, since it more than stood off - a setback which overtook him about the same time. Louie had called upon - the Irish Wop, at the latter's poolroom in Fourth Avenue. This emigrant - from Mayo was thin and slight and sickly, and Louie argued that he might - bully him out of a handful of money. Putting on a darkest frown, he - demanded fifty dollars, and intimated that dire indeed would be the - consequences of refusal. - </p> - <p> - “Because,” said Louie, “when I go out for anything I get it, see?” - </p> - <p> - The Wop coughed timidly and made a suggestion. “Come round in half an - hour,” said he, “when the last race from New Orleans is in; I'll have the - cush ready for yez.” - </p> - <p> - Louie withdrew, and the Wop shoved the poker into the blazing big-bellied - stove. - </p> - <p> - An hour later, that New Orleans race having been run, Louie returned. The - poker being by this time white-hot, the Wop drew it forth from the stove. - There were no stage waits. Applying the poker to the shrinking rear of - Louie, the Wop compelled that yearner after fifty dollars to leap - screechingly from a second-storey window. - </p> - <p> - “That's phwy I puts th' windy up,” explained the Wop; “I didn't want that - chape skate to bre-a-ak th' glassh. Indian Louie! Spanish Louie!” he - repeated with measureless contempt. “Let me tell youse ginks wan thing.” - This to a circle who had beheld the flight of Louie. “If ever that bum - shows up here ag'in, I'll put him out av business altogether. Does he - think a two-cint Guinea from Sout' Ameriky can bluff a full-blown Mick?” - </p> - <p> - Louie's flight through the Wop's window, as had his steadiness at the - morgue, went the gossipy rounds. It didn't injure him as much as you might - think. - </p> - <p> - “For who,” said the general voice, “would face and fight a white-hot - poker?” - </p> - <p> - On the whole, public sentiment was inclined to sustain Louie in that - second-storey jump. - </p> - <p> - From what has been written, it will not astonish you to hear that, upon - the important matter of courage, Louie's place in society had not been - absolutely fixed. Some said one thing, some another. There are game men in - Gangland; and there exist others who aren't the real thing. Sardinia Frame - believes, with the Irish Wop, that Louie belonged in the latter class. - Also, Sardinia Frank is entitled to an opinion. For he was born in - Mulberry Bend, and has himself been tried twice on charges of murder. - </p> - <p> - It was Sardinia Frank, by the way, who smote upon Eat-'em-up Jack with - that effective lead pipe, albeit, there being no proof, he was never - arrested for it. No, he doesn't admit it, even among intimates and where - such admission would be respected as sacred. But when joked concerning it, - he has ever worn a cheerful, satisfied look—like the pictures of the - cat that ate the canary—and while careful not to accept, was equally - careful not to reject, the compliment implied. Moreover, when the dead - Eat-'em-up-Jack was picked up, the lead pipe used to break his skull had - been tucked jocosely under his arm. It was clear to knowing ones that none - except Sardinia Frank would have thought of such a jest. To him it would - have come readily enough, since death always appealed to his sense of - humor. - </p> - <p> - Clad in a Tuxedo and an open-face suit, Sardinia Frank, at the time I - questioned him, was officiating as peace-preserver in the Normandie - rathskeller. By way of opener, I spoke of his mission on the rathskeller - earth. - </p> - <p> - “I'm here to keep out everybody I know,” said he simply. - </p> - <p> - There was a pathetic side to this which, in his ingenuousness, Frank - failed wholly to remark. - </p> - <p> - “About Indian Louie?” I at last said. - </p> - <p> - It was within an hour after Louie had been killed. - </p> - <p> - “I'll tell youse about Louie,” returned Frank. “Of course, he's dead, an' - lyin' on a slab in th' morgue right now. They 'phoned me woid ten minutes - ago. But that don't make no difference. He was a bluff; he wasn't th' - goods. He went around wit' his hat over his eyes, bulldozin' everybody he - could, an' lettin' on to be a hero. An' he's got what heroes get.” - </p> - <p> - “Did you ever get tangled up with him?” I asked. - </p> - <p> - “Let me show you,” and Frank became confidential. “This'll give youse a - line. One time he's got two hundred bones. Mollie Squint climbs into a - yap-wagon an' touches a rube for it. Louie takes it, an' plants it wit' - Nigger Mike. That's about six months ago. Th' next night, me bein' wise to - it, I chases to Mike an' says, 'Louie's over to Jigger's, pointin' stuss, - an' he wants th' two hundred.' So Mike hands me th' dough. I splits it - five ways wit' th' gang who's along, each of us gettin' his little old bit - of forty dollars apiece. - </p> - <p> - “Louie, when he finds out next day, makes an awful beef. He tells - everybody he's goin' to hand it to me—goin' to cook me on sight, - see? I hears of it, an' I hunts Louie up in Jack Sirocco's. - </p> - <p> - “'Say, Louie,' I says, 'about that cookin' me. Th' bully way would be to - come right now over to Hoboken, an' bump me off to-night. I'll go wit' - youse. An' there won't be no hang-over, see; 'cause no one in Joisey'll - care, an' no one in New York'll know.' - </p> - <p> - “Do youse think Louie'll come? Not on your necktie! He didn't want me game—just - wanted to talk, that's all. - </p> - <p> - “'Not youse, Frank,' he said; 'I ain't gunnin' for youse. It's Nigger - Mike; he's th' guy I'm goin' to croak. He oughtn't to have let youse have - th' money.' No, of course, he don't go after Mike; that's simply his - crawl. - </p> - <p> - “Take it from me,” Frank concluded, “Louie wasn't th' goods. He'd run a - bluff, but he never really hoited a guy in his whole life. As I says, he - goes about frownin', an' glarin', an' givin' people th' fiery eye, an' - t'rowin' a chest, an' lettin' it go broadcast that he's a hero. An' for a - finish he's got w'at heroes get.” - </p> - <p> - Such was the word of Sardinia Frank. - </p> - <p> - When he fell with two bullets through his brain, and two more through his - body, Louie had $170 in his pocket, $700 in his shoe, and $3,000 in the - Bowery Bank. This prosperity needn't amaze. There was, for one thing, a - racket reason to be hereinafter set forth. Besides, Pretty Agnes and - Mollie Squint both walked the streets in Louie's loved behalf, and brought - him all in the way of riches that came to their lure. Either was sure for - five dollars a day, and Mollie Squint, who could graft a little, once came - in with $800. Both Pretty Agnes and Mollie Squint most fiercely adored - Louie, and well did he know how to play one loving heart against the - other. Some say that of the pair he preferred Pretty Agnes. If so, he - wasn't fool enough to let her find it out. She might have neglected her - business to bask in his sweet society. - </p> - <p> - Besides, when it came to that, Louie's heart was really given to a blonde - burlesquer, opulent of charm. This <i>artiste</i> snubbed and neglected - Louie for the love of a stage manager. But she took and spent Louie's - money, almost if not quite as fast as Pretty Agnes and Mollie Squint could - bring it to him from the streets. - </p> - <p> - Louie never made any place his hangout long. There was no element of - loyalty in him, whether for man or for woman, and he went from friend to - friend and gang to gang. He would stay nowhere, remain with no one, after - his supremacy had been challenged. And such hardy natures as Biff Ellison, - Jimmy Kelly, Big Mike Abrams, Chick Tricker and Jack Sirocco were bound to - challenge it. They had a way, too, of putting the acid on an individual, - and unless his fighting heart were purest gold they'd surely find it out. - And Louie never stood the test. Thus, beginning at Big Jack's in Chatham - Square, Louie went from hangout to hangout, mob to mob, until, working - through Nigger Mike's, the Chatham Club and Sharkey's, he came at last to - pal in with the Humpty Jackson guerrillas. - </p> - <p> - These worthies had a stamping ground in a graveyard between First and - Second Avenue, in the block bounded north and south by Twelfth and - Thirteenth Streets. There Louie was wont to meet such select company as - Monahokky, Nigger Ruhl, Candy Phil, the Lobster Kid, Maxie Hahn, and the - Grabber. As they lolled idly among the tombstones, he would give them his - adventures by flood and by field. Louie, besides being conceited, was - gifted with an imagination and liked to hear himself talk. Not that he - felt obliged to accuracy in these narrations. It was enough that he made - them thrilling, and in their telling shed an effulgent ray upon himself. - </p> - <p> - While he could entertain with his stories, Louie was never popular. There - was that doubt about his courage. Also, he was too frugal. No one had ever - caught the color of his money. Save in the avaricious instance of the big - blonde burlesquer, as hungry as false, he held by the selfish theology - that it is more blessed to receive than to give. - </p> - <p> - Taking one reason and another, those about Louie at the finish were mainly - the Humpty Jackson bunch. His best hangout of any fashion was the Hesper - Club. Had Humpty Jackson remained with his own, Louie might have been - driven, in search of comradeship, to go still further afield. Humpty was - no weakling, and while on the surface a whining, wheedling, complaining - cripple, owned his volcanic side, and had once shot it out, gun to gun and - face to face, with no less a paladin than Jimmy Kelly. Louie would have - found the same fault with Humpty that he had found with those others. Only - Humpty didn't last long enough after Louie joined his forces. Some robbery - came off, and a dull jury held Humpty responsible. With that, the judge - sent him up for a long term of years, and there he sticks to-day. Humpty - took the journey crying that he had been jobbed by the police. However - that may have been, his going made it possible for Louie to remain with - the Jacksons, and shine at those ghoulish, graveyard meetings, much longer - than might otherwise have been the case. - </p> - <p> - While Louie had removed to the remote regions about Fourteenth Street and - Third Avenue, and was seldom seen in Chatham Square or Chinatown, he was - not forgotten in those latter precincts. Jew Yetta brought up his name one - evening in the Chatham Club, and spoke scornfully of him in conjunction - with the opulent blonde. - </p> - <p> - “That doll's makin' a farmer of Louie,” was the view of Jew Yetta. - </p> - <p> - “At that,” remarked the Dropper—for this was in the days of his - liberty and before he had been put away—“farmer or no farmer, it's - comin' easier for him now than when he was in the navy, eatin' sow-belly - out of a harness cask an' drinkin' bilge. W'at's that ship he says he's - sailin' in, Nailer?” continued the Dropper. “Ain't it a tub called <i>Atalanta?</i>” - </p> - <p> - “There never is a ship in the navy named <i>Atalanta</i>.” - </p> - <p> - This declaration, delivered with emphasis, emanated from old Jimmy, who - had a place by himself in East Side consideration. Old Jimmy was about - sixty, with a hardwood-finish face and 'possum-colored hair. He had been a - river pirate in the old days, and roamed the midnight waters for what he - might pick up. Those were times when he troubled the police, who made him - trouble in return. But one day old Jimmy salvaged a rich man's daughter, - who—as though to make his fortune—had fallen overboard from a - yacht, and bored her small hole in the water within a rod or two of - Jimmy's skiff. Certainly, he fished her out, and did it with a boat hook. - More; he sagaciously laid her willowy form across a thwart, to the end - that the river water flow more easily from her rosebud mouth. Relieved of - the water, the rescued beauty thanked Jimmy profusely; and, for his - generous part, her millionaire father proceeded to pension his child's - preserver for life. The pension was twenty-five dollars a week. Coming - fresh and fresh with every Monday, Jimmy gave up his piracies and no - longer haunted in the name of loot the nightly reaches of the river. - Indeed, he became offensively idle and honest. - </p> - <p> - “No sir,” repeated old Jimmy; “there never is a ship in our navy named <i>Atalanta</i>.” - </p> - <p> - “All th' same,” retorted the dropper, “I lamps a yacht once w'at's called - <i>Atalanta</i>.” - </p> - <p> - “An' who says No?” demanded old Jimmy, testily. “I'm talkin' about th' - United States Navy. But speakin' of Louie, it ain't no cinch he's ever in - th 'navy. I'd sooner bet he's been in jail.” - </p> - <p> - “An' if he was,” said Jew Yetta, “there ain't no one here who's got - anything on him.” - </p> - <p> - “W'at does Atalanta mean, anyway?” questioned the Dropper, who didn't like - the talk of jails. “Is it a place?” - </p> - <p> - “Nixie,” put in Slimmy, the erudite, ever ready to display his learning. - “Atalanta's the name of a skirt, who b'longs 'way back. She's some soon as - a sprinter, too, an' can run her one hundred yards in better than ten - seconds. Every god on Olympus clocked this dame, an' knew what she could - do.” - </p> - <p> - “W'at's her story?” asked the Dropper. - </p> - <p> - “It gets along, d'ye see, where Atalanta's folks thinks she ought to get - married. But she won't have it; she'd sooner be a sprinter. With that, - they crowd her hand; an' to get shut of 'em, she finally tacks it up on - the bulletin board that she'll chase to th' altar only with some student - who can beat her at a quarter mile dash. 'No lobsters need apply!' says - she. Also, there's conditions. Under the rules, if some chump calls th' - bluff, an' can't make good—if she lands him loses—her papa's - headsman will be on th' job with his axe, an' that beaten gink'll get his - block whacked off.” - </p> - <p> - “An' does any one go against such a game?” queried Jew Yetta. - </p> - <p> - “Sure! A whole fleet of young Archibalds and Reginalds went up ag'inst it. - They all lose; an' his jiblets wit' th' cleaver chops off their youthful - beans. - </p> - <p> - “But the luck turns. One day a sure-thing geek shows up whose monaker is - Hippomenes. Hippy's a fly Indian; there ain't goin' to be no headsman in - his. Hippy's hep to skirts, too, an' knows where th' board is off their - fence. He organizes with three gold apples, see, an' every time little - Atalanta Shootin' Star goes flashin' by, he chucks down one of 'em in - front of her. She simply eats it up; she can't get by not one; an' she - loses so much time grabbin' for 'em, Hippy noses in a winner.” - </p> - <p> - “Good boy!” broke forth the Dropper. “An' do they hook up?” - </p> - <p> - “They're married; but it don't last. You see its Venus who shows Hippy how - to crab Atalanta's act an' stakes him to th' gold apples. An' later, when - he double-crosses Venus, that goddess changes him an' his baby mine into - a-couple of lions.” - </p> - <p> - The Irish Wop had been listening impatiently. It was when Governor Hughes - flourished in Albany, and the race tracks were being threatened. The Wop, - as a pool-room keeper, was vastly concerned. - </p> - <p> - “I see,” said the Wop, appealing directly to old Jimmy as the East Side - Nestor, “that la-a-ad Hughes is makin' it hot for Belmont an' Keene an' - th' rist av th' racin' gang. Phwat's he so ha-a-ard on racin' for? Do yez - look on playin' th' ponies as a vice, Jimmy?” - </p> - <p> - “Well,” responded old Jimmy with a conservative air, “I don't know as I'd - call it a vice so much as a bonehead play.” - </p> - <p> - “They call it th' shpo-r-rt av kings,” observed die Wop, loftily. - </p> - <p> - Old Jimmy snorted. “Sport of kings!” said he. “Sport of come-ons, rather. - Them Sport-of-kings gezebos 'll go on, too, an' give you a lot of guff - about racin' bein' healthy. But they ain't sayin' a word concernin' th' - mothers an' youngones livin' in hot two-room tenements, an' jumpin' - sideways for grub, while th' husbands and fathers is blowin' in their - bank-rolls in th' bettin' ring, an' gettin' healthy. An' th' little jocks, - too—mere kids! I've wondered th' Gerries didn't get after 'em. But I - suppose th' Gerries know who to pass up, an' who to pinch, as well as th' - oldest skipper on th' Force.” - </p> - <p> - “F'r all that,” contended the Wop, stubbornly, “thim la-a-ads that's mixed - up wit' th' racin' game is good feltys.” - </p> - <p> - “Good fellows,” repeated old Jimmy with contempt. “I recollect seein' a - picture once, a picture of a girl—a young wife, she is—lyin' - with her head on an untouched dinner table—fallen asleep, poor - thing! Th' clock in the picture is pointin' to midnight. There she's been - waitin' with th' dinner she's cooked with her own little lovin' mitts, for - that souse of a husband to come home. Under th' picture it says, 'For he's - a jolly good fellow!'” - </p> - <p> - “Somebody'd ought to have put a head on him!” quoth Jew Yetta, whose - sympathies were both active and militant. - </p> - <p> - “Say,” went on Jimmy, “that picture gets on my nerves. A week later I'm - down be th' old Delmonico joint at Twenty-sixth an' Broadway. It's meb-by - one o'clock in th' mornin'. As I'm goin' by th' Twenty-sixt' Street door, - out floats a fleet of Willies, stewed to the gills, singin' in honor of a - dude who's in th' middle, 'For he's a jolly good fellow.' - </p> - <p> - “'Who's that galoot?' I asks th' dub who's slammin' carriage doors at the - curb. 'Is he a married man?' - </p> - <p> - “'He's married all right,” says th' door-slammin' dub. - </p> - <p> - “Wit that I tears into him. It's a good while ago, an' I could slug a - little. Be th' time th' copper gets there, I've got that jolly good fellow - lookin' like he'd been caught whistlin' <i>Croppies Lie Down</i> at - Fiftieth Street an' Fift' Avenoo when th' Cathedral lets out.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, I'm not married,” remarked the Wop, snappishly;—“I'm not - married; I niver was married; an' I niver will be married aloive.” - </p> - <p> - “Did youse notice?” remarked the Dropper, “how they gets a roar out of old - Boss Croker? He's for racin' all right.” - </p> - <p> - “Naturally,” said old Jimmy. “Him ownin' race horses, Croker's for th' - race tracks. He don't cut no ice.” - </p> - <p> - “How much do yez figger Croker had cleaned up, Jimmy, when he made his - getaway for Ireland?” asked the Wop, licking an envious lip. - </p> - <p> - “Without comin' down to book-keepin',” returned old Jimmy, carelessly, “my - understandin' is that, be havin' th' whole wad changed into thousand - dollar bills, he's able to get it down to th' dock on a dray.” - </p> - <p> - The Grabber came in. He beckoned Slimmy, and the two were at once immersed - in serious whisperings. - </p> - <p> - “What are youse two stews chinnin' about?” called out the Dropper lazily, - from across the room. “Be youse thinkin' of orderin' th' beer?” - </p> - <p> - “It's about Indian Louie,” replied Slimmy, angrily. “Th' Grabber here says - Louie's out to skin us.” - </p> - <p> - “Indian Louie,” remarked the Wop, with a gleam in his little gray eye. - “That's th' labberick w'at's goin' to shti-i-ick up me poolroom f'r thim - fifty bones. Anny wan that'd have annything to do wit' a bum loike him - ought to get skinned.” - </p> - <p> - “W'at's he tryin' to saw off on youse?” asked the Dropper. - </p> - <p> - “This is th' proposition.” It was the Grabber now. “Me an' Slimmy here - goes in wit' Louie to give that racket last week in Tammany Hall. Now - Louie's got th' whole bundle, an' he won't split it. Me an' Slimmy's been - t'run down for six hundred good iron dollars apiece.” - </p> - <p> - “An' be yez goin' to let him get away wit' it?” demanded the Wop. - </p> - <p> - “W'at can we do?” asked the Grabber, disconsolately. - </p> - <p> - “It's that big blonde,” declared Jew Yetta' with acrimony. “She's goin' - through Louie for every dollar. I wonder Mollie Squint an' Pretty Agnes - don't put her on th' fritz.” - </p> - <p> - The Hesper Club was in Second Avenue between Sixth and Seventh Streets. It - was one o'clock in the morning when Indian Louie took his accustomed seat - at the big table in the corner. - </p> - <p> - “How's everybody?” he asked, easily. “I oversleeps meself, or I'd been - here hours ago.” - </p> - <p> - “W'at tires you?” asked Candy Phil. Not that he cared, but merely by way - of conversation. - </p> - <p> - “It's th' big feed last night at Terrace Garden. I'm two days trainin' for - it, an' all day gettin' over it. Them swell blowouts is something fierce!” - and Louie assumed a wan and weary air, intended to be superior. - </p> - <p> - “So you was at Terrace Garden?” said Nigger Ruhl. - </p> - <p> - “Was I? Youse should have seen me! Patent leathers, white choker, and a - diamond in th' middle of me three-sheet big enough to trip a dog.” - </p> - <p> - “There's nothin' in them dress suits,” protested Maxie Hahn. “I'm ag'inst - 'em; they ain't dimmycratic.” - </p> - <p> - “All th' same, youse've got to wear 'em at these swell feeds,” said Candy - Phil. “They'd give youse th' gate if you don't. An' as for not bein' - dimmycratic”—Candy Phil had his jocose side—“they make it so - you can't tell th' high-guys from th' waiters, an' if that ain't - dimmycratic what is? Th' only thing I know ag'inst 'em is that youse can't - go to th' floor wit' a guy in 'em. You've got to cut out th' scrappin', - an' live up to the suit, see?” The Grabber strolled in, careless and - smiling. Louie fastened him with eyes of dark suspicion, while Maxie Hahn, - the' Lobster Kid and Candy Phil began pushing their chairs out of the line - of possible fire. For they knew of those monetary differences. - </p> - <p> - “Not a chance, sports,” remarked the Grabber, reassuringly. “No one's - goin' to start anything. Let's take a drink,” and the Grabber beat upon - the table as a sign of thirst. “I ain't after no one here.” - </p> - <p> - “Be youse alludin' to me, Grabber?” asked Louie, with a frown like a great - cloud. “I don't like them cracks about startin' somethin'.” - </p> - <p> - “Keep your shoit on,” expostulated the Grabber, clinking down the change - for the round of beers; “keep your shoit on, Louie. I ain't alludin' at - nobody nor nothin', least of all at youse. Besides, I just gets a message - for you—only you don't seem in no humor to receive it.” - </p> - <p> - “Who's it from?” asked Louie. - </p> - <p> - “It's Laura”—Laura was the opulent blonde—“Mollie Squint an' - Pretty Agnes runs up on her about an hour ago at Twelfth Street an' Second - Avenoo, an' Mollie bounces a brick off her coco. A copper comes along an' - chases Mollie an' Pretty Agnes. I gets there as they're carry in' Laura - into that Dago's joint be th' corner. Laura asks me if I sees youse to - tell w'at's happened her; that's all.” - </p> - <p> - “Was Mollie and Agnes sloughed in?” asked Louie, whose practical mind went - first to his breadwinners. - </p> - <p> - “No, they faded into th' next street. Th' cop don't want to pinch 'em - anyway.” - </p> - <p> - “About Laura; was she hoited much?” - </p> - <p> - “Ten stiches, an' a week in Roosevelt Hospital; that's the best she can - get.” - </p> - <p> - “I must chase round an' look her over,” was Louie's anxious conclusion. - “W'at's that Dago joint she's at?” - </p> - <p> - “It's be th' corner,” said the Grabber, “an' up stairs. I forgets the - wop's monaker.” As Louie hesitated over these vague directions, the - Grabber set down his glass. “Say, to show there's no hard feelin', I'll go - wit' youse.” - </p> - <p> - As Louie and the Grabber disappeared through the door, Candy Phil threw up - both hands as one astonished to the verge of nervous shock. - </p> - <p> - “Well, w'at do youse think of that?” he exclaimed. “I always figgered - Louie had bats in his belfry; now I knows it. They'll croak him sure!” - Nigger Ruhl and the Lobster Kid arose as though to follow. At this, Candy - Phil broke out fiercely. - </p> - <p> - “W'at's wrong wit' youse stews? Stick where you be!” - </p> - <p> - “But they'll cook Louie!” expostulated the Lobster Kid. - </p> - <p> - “It ain't no skin off your nose if they do. W'y should youse go buttin' - in?” - </p> - <p> - Louie and the Grabber were in Twelfth Street, hurrying towards Second - Avenue. Not a soul, except themselves, was abroad. The Grabber walked on - Louie's right, which showed that either the latter was not the gunplayer - he pretended, or the word from Laura had thrown him off his guard. - </p> - <p> - Suddenly, as the pair passed a dark hallway, the Grabber's left arm stole - round Louie's neck. - </p> - <p> - “About that dough, Louie!” hissed the Grabber, at the same time tightening - his left arm. - </p> - <p> - Louie half turned to free himself from the artful Grabber. As he did so, - the Grabber's ready right hand brought his pistol into action, and one - bullet and then another flashed through Louie's brain. A slim form rushed - out of the dark hallway, and fired two bullets into Louie's body. Louie - was dead before he struck the pavement. - </p> - <p> - The Grabber, with his slim companion, darted through the dark hallway, out - a rear door and over a back fence. Sixty seconds later they were quietly - walking in Thirteenth Street, examples of law-abiding peace. - </p> - <p> - “It was th' easiest ever, Slimmy!” whispered the Grabber, when he had - recovered his breath. “I knew that stall about Laura'd fetch him.” - </p> - <p> - “Who was at th' Hesper Club?” - </p> - <p> - “On'y Candy Phil, th' Lobster Kid an' two or three other blokes. Every one - of 'em's a right guy. They won't rap.” - </p> - <p> - “Thim la-a-ads,” remarked the Wop, judiciously, when he heard of Louie's - taking off—“thim la-a-ads musht 'av lost their heads. There's six or - seven hundred bones on that bum, an' they niver copped a splinter!” - </p> - <p> - The word came two ways to the Central Office. One report said “Indian - Louie” and another “Johnny Spanish.” Detective O'Farrell invaded - Chinatown, and dug up Big Mike Abrams, that the doubt might be removed. - </p> - <p> - “It's Indian Louie, all right,” said Big Mike, following a moment's silent - survey of the rigid form. Then, in a most unlooked for vein of sentiment: - “They all get here at last!” - </p> - <p> - “That's no dream!” agreed the morgue attendant. “An', say, Mike”—he - liked his joke as well as any other—“I've been expectin' you for - some time.” - </p> - <p> - “Sure!” returned Big Mike, with a friendly grin; “I'll come chasin' along, - feet foist, some mornin'. But don't forget that while I'm waitin' I'm - workin'. I've sent two stiffs down here to youse already, to help keep you - goin' till I comes. Accordin' to th' chances, however, me own turn - oughtn't to be so very far away.” - </p> - <p> - Big Mike Abram's turn was just three weeks away. - </p> - <p> - “Who were those two, Mike, you sent down here to the morgue?” asked - O'Farrell, carelessly. - </p> - <p> - O'Farrell had a catlike fame for slyness. - </p> - <p> - “Say,” grinned Big Mike, derisively; “look me over! I ain't wearin' no - medals, am I, for givin' meself up to you bulls?” - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2H_4_0007" id="link2H_4_0007"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - VI.—HOW JACKEEN SLEW THE DOC - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>n person he was - tall, languid, slender, as neat as a cat, and his sallow face—over - which had settled the opium pallor—was not an ugly face. Also, there - abode such weakness, some good, and no harm in him. His constitution was - rickety. In the winter he coughed and invited pneumonia; in the summer, - when the sun poured down, he trembled on the brink of a stroke. But - neither pneumonia nor sunstroke ever quite killed him. - </p> - <p> - It was written that Jackeen would do that—Jackeen Dalton, <i>alias</i> - Brady; and Jackeen did it with five bullets from an automatic-38. Some - said that opium was at the bottom of it; others laid it to love. It is - still greatly talked over in what pipe joints abound in Mott, Pell and - Doyers, not to mention the wider Catherine Street, in the neighborhood of - number Nineteen, where he had his flat and received his friends. - </p> - <p> - They called him the Doc. Twenty years ago the Doc studied dentistry with - his father, who flourished reputably as a tooth surgeon at the Troy Dental - Parlors in Roosevelt Street. The father died before the Doc had been given - a diploma; and the Doc, having meanwhile picked up the opium habit, was - never able afterwards to see the use. Why should he be examined or ask for - a license? What foolishness! Magnanimously waving aside every thought of - the sort, he plunged into the practice of his cheerless art among those - who went in and out of Chinatown, and who lived precariously by - pocket-picking, porch-climbing, safe-blowing and all-round strong-arm - methods; and, careless of the statute in such case made and provided, he - proceeded to file and drill and cap and fill and bridge and plug and pull - their aching cuspids, bicuspids and molars, and all with as quick an - instinct and as deft a touch as though his eyes were sharpened and his - hand made steady by the dental sheepskins of a dozen colleges. That he was - an outlaw among tooth-drawers served only to knit him more closely to the - hearts of his patients—themselves merest outlaws among men. - </p> - <p> - The Doc kept his flat in Catherine Street as bright and burnished as the - captain's cabin of a man-of-war. There was no prodigious wealth of - furniture, no avalanche of ornament to overwhelm the taste. Aside from an - outfit of dental tools, the most expensive belongings appeared to be what - lamps and pipes and kindred paraphernalia were required in the smoking of - opium. - </p> - <p> - Those who visited the Doc were compelled to one formality. Before he would - open his door, they must push the bell four times and four times tap on - the panel. Thus did they prove their friendly identity. Lawful dentists, - in their jealousy, had had the Doc arrested and fined, from time to time, - for intromitting with the teeth of his fellow worms without a license. - Hence that precautionary quartet of rings, followed by the quartet of - taps, indicative that a friend and not a foe was at his gate. - </p> - <p> - The Doc had many callers who came to smoke opium. For these he did divers - kindly offices, mostly in the letter-writing line. As they reclined and - smoked, they dictated while the Doc transcribed, and many and weird were - the epistles from Nineteen Catherine Street which found their way into the - mails. For this service, as for his opium and dentistry, the Doc's callers - never failed to press upon him an honorarium. And so he lived. - </p> - <p> - Love, that flowerlike sentiment for which—as some jurist once - remarked of justice—all places are palaces, all seasons summer, is - not incompatible with either dentistry or opium. The Doc had a sweetheart - named Lulu. Lulu was very beautiful and very jealous. Also, she was - broadly popular. All Chinatown made songs to the deep glories of her eyes, - which were supposed to have excited the defeated envy of many stars. The - Doc, in what odd hours he could snatch from tooth-drawing and - opium-smoking, worshipped at the shrine of Lulu; and Lulu was wrapped up - in the Doc. Number Nineteen Catherine Street served as their Garden of - Eden. - </p> - <p> - Now it is among the many defects of opium that it renders migratory the - fancy. An ebon evidence of this was to be given at number Nineteen. The I - love of the Doc became, as it were, pipe-deflected, and one day left Lulu, - and, after a deal of fond circling, settled like some errant dove upon a - rival belle called May. - </p> - <p> - Likewise, there was a dangerous side to this dulcet, new situation. The - enchanting May, when the Doc chose her for his goddess, vice Lulu thrown - down, could not be described as altogether disengaged. Was she not also - the goddess of Jackeen? Had not that earnest safe-robber laid his heart at - her feet? - </p> - <p> - Moreover, there were reasons even more substantial. The gentle May was in - her way a breadwinner. When the fortunes of Jackeen were low, she became - their mutual meal-ticket. May was the most expert shoplifter in all of - broad New York. If not upon heart arguments, then upon arguments of the - pocket, not to say stomach, Jackeen might be expected to fiercely resent - any effort to win her love away. - </p> - <p> - Jackeen? - </p> - <p> - Not much is to be told by an appearance, although physiognomists have sung - otherwise. The egg of the eagle is less impressive than the egg of: the - goose. And yet it hotly houses in its heart an' eagle. The egg of the - nightingale shows but-meanly side by side with the egg of the crow. And: - yet it hides within its modest bosom the limpid music of the moon. - </p> - <p> - So it is with men. - </p> - <p> - Jackeen was not an imposing personality. But neither is the tarantula. He - was five feet and an inch in stunted stature, and weighed a mean shadow - under one hundred and ten pounds. Like the Doc—who had stolen his - love away—Jackeen's hollow cheeks were of that pasty gray which - speaks of opium. Also, from opium, the pupils of his vermin eyes had - become as the points of two dull pins. Shrivelled, degenerate, a tattered - rag of humanity, Jackeen was none the less a perilous spirit, and so the - Doc—too late—would learn. - </p> - <p> - From that Eden at Nineteen Catherine Street, the fair Lulu had been put - into the street. This was to make pleasant room for the visits of the - fairer May. Jackeen was untroubled, knowing nothing about it. He was for - the moment too wholly engaged, being in the throes of a campaign against - the Savoy theatre safe, from which strongbox he looked forward to a - harvest of thousands. - </p> - <p> - The desolate Lulu went everywhere seeking Jackeen, to tell him of his - wrongs. Her search was vain; those plans touching the Savoy safe had - withdrawn him from his accustomed haunts. One night, however, the safe was - blown and plundered. Alas and alack! Jackeen's share, from those hoped-for - thousands, dwindled to a paltry sixty dollars—not enough for a - single spree! - </p> - <p> - In his resentment, Jackeen, with the aid of a bevy of friends, hastily - stuck-up a wayfarer, whom he met in Division Street. The wayfarer's - pockets proved empty. It was even more of a waterhaul than had been the - Savoy safe. The double disappointment turned Jackeen's mood to gall and it - was while his humor was thus bilious that he one day walked into the - Chatham Club. - </p> - <p> - There was a distinguished company gathered at the Chatham Club. Nannie - Miller, Blinky the Lob-bygow, Dago Angelo, Roxie, Jimida, Johnny Rice, - Stagger, Jimmy Foy, and St. Louis Bill—all were there. And these - were but a handful of what high examples sat about the Chatham Club, and - with calls for beer, and still more beer, kept Nigger Mike and his - assistants on the joyful jump. - </p> - <p> - When Jackeen came in, Mike greeted him warmly, and placed a chair next to - that of Johnny Rice. Conversation broke out concerning the dead and - departed Kid Twist. While Twist was an Eastman and an enemy of Roxie—himself - of the Five Points—the latter was no less moved to speak in highest - terms of him. He defended this softness by remarking: - </p> - <p> - “Twist's dead, see! An' once a guy's been put to bed wit' a shovel, if - youse can't speak well of him youse had better can gabbin' about him - altogether. Them's my sentiments.” - </p> - <p> - Dago Angelo, who had been a friend of the vanished Twist, applauded this, - and ordered beer. - </p> - <p> - Twist—according to the veracious Roxie—had not been wanting in - brilliancy as a Captain of Industry. He had showed himself ingenious when - he took his poolroom into the Hatmakers' Union, as a safeguard against - raids by the police. - </p> - <p> - Upon another occasion, strictly commercial—so said Roxie—Twist - had displayed a generalship which would have glorified a Rockefeller. Baby - Flax, named for the soft innocuousness of his countenance, kept a grogshop - in Houston Street. One quiet afternoon Twist abruptly broke that cherubic - publican's windows, mirrors, glasses, bottles. - </p> - <p> - Lighting a cigar, Twist stood in the midst of that ruin undismayed. - </p> - <p> - “What's up?” demanded the policeman, who came hot-foot to the scene. - </p> - <p> - “Well,” vouchsafed Twist, between puffs, “there's a party chases in, - smashes things, an' then beats it up the street wit'out sayin' a woid.” - </p> - <p> - The policeman looked at Baby Flax. - </p> - <p> - “It's straight,” chattered that ill-used proprietor, who, with the - dangerous eye of Twist upon him, wouldn't have told the truth for gold and - precious stones. - </p> - <p> - “What started youse, Twist?” asked a friend. - </p> - <p> - “It's this way,” explained Twist. “I'm introducin' a celery bitters—because - there's cush in it. I goes into Baby Flax's an' asks him to buy. He hands - me out a 'No!' So I ups an' puts his joint on the bum. After this, when I - come into a dump, they'll buy me bitters, see! Sure, I cops an order for - two cases from Flax before I leaves.” - </p> - <p> - Leaving Twist to sleep in peace, and by way of turning the laugh on that - gentleman, Roxie related an adventure with Nigger Mike. It was when that - sub-chief of the Eastmans kept at number Twelve Pell, by word of the - vivacious Roxie, he, with certain roysterers belonging to the Five Points, - had gone to Mike's to drink beer. They were the foe. But no less he served - them, as he was doing now, for such was and is the bland etiquette of the - gangs. - </p> - <p> - One o'clock struck, and Mike locked his door. Key turned, the beer flowed - on unchecked. - </p> - <p> - At half after one, when Mike himself was a law-breaker under the excise - statute by full thirty criminal minutes, Roxie with his Five Points - merrymakers arose, beat up Mike and his few retainers, skinned the damper - for fifty bones, and departed singing songs of victory. - </p> - <p> - Mike was powerless. - </p> - <p> - As was well said by Roxie: “W'at could he do? If he makes a roar to th' - cops for us puttin' his joint in th' air, we'd have whipped one over on - him for bein' open after hours.” - </p> - <p> - Mike laughed with the rest at Roxie's reminiscence. It was of another day. - </p> - <p> - “W'at's th' matter wit' your mouth, Mike?” asked St. Louis Bill, for there - was a lisping queerness, not only about Mike's talk, but about his laugh. - </p> - <p> - Nigger Mike proceeded to lay bare the causes of that queerness. While - engaged in a joint debate—years ago, it was—with a gentleman - given as much to sudden petulances as to positive views, he had lost three - of his teeth. Their place had been artifically but not artistically - supplied. - </p> - <p> - “An' lately they've been feelin' funny,” explained Mike, alluding to the - supplemental teeth, “an' I toins 'em over to th' Doc to fix. That guy who - made 'em for me foist must have been a bum dentist. An' at that, w'at do - you t'ink he charges? I'm a Dutchman if he don't lash me to th' mast for - forty bucks! He says th' gold plate is wort' twenty.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, Mike,” said Nannie Miller, who'd been listening, “I don't want to - make you sore, but on the level you talk like your mouth is full of mush. - I'd make th' Doc come through wit' 'em as soon as I could.” - </p> - <p> - “He says he'll bring 'em in to-morry,” returned Mike. - </p> - <p> - “It's ten to one you don't see 'em for a week,” declared the pessimistic - St. Louis Bill. “Youse can't tell nothin' about them hop-heads. They say - 'to-morry' when they mean next year.” - </p> - <p> - St. Louis Bill, being virtuously superior to opium, never lost a chance to - speak scornfully of those who couldn't make that boast. - </p> - <p> - Mike, at the discouraging view expressed, became doleful. “Say,” he - observed, “I'd look like a sucker, wouldn't I, if anything happens th' - Doc, an' I don't get 'em?” - </p> - <p> - St. Louis Bill assured Mike that he would indeed look like a sucker, and - re-declared his conviction—based upon certain occult creepings and - crawlings in his bones—that Mike had seen the last of those teeth. - </p> - <p> - “Take my steer,” said St. Louis Bill in conclusion; “treat them teeth you - gives th' Doc as a dead issue, an' go get measured for some more. Twenty - dollars wort' of gold, you says! It ain't no cinch but the Doc's hocked - 'em for hop.” - </p> - <p> - “Nothin' to that!” returned Mike, decisively. “Th' Doc's a square guy. - Them teeth is all safe enough. Only, as you says, bein' he hits the pipe, - he may be slow about chasin' in wit' 'em.” - </p> - <p> - While Nigger Mike and his guests are in talk, run your eye over the scene. - Those citizens of Gangland assembled about the Chatham Club tables would - have made a study, and mayhap a chapter, for Lombroso. Speaking generally, - they are a stunted litter, these gangmen, and seldom stand taller than - five feet four. Their weight wouldn't average one hundred and twenty - pounds. They are apt to run from the onslaught of an outsider. This is not - perhaps from cowardice; but they dislike exertion, even the exertion of - fighting, and unless it be to gain money or spoil, or a point of honor is - involved—as in their duels and gang wars—they back away from - trouble. In their gang battles, or when fighting the police, their - strategy is to lie flat on the ground and shoot. Thus they save themselves - a clubbing, and the chances from hostile lead are reduced. - </p> - <p> - To be sure there are exceptions. Such as Chick Tricker, Ike the Blood, Big - Mike Abrams, Jack Sirocco, the Dropper, and the redoubtable Jimmy Kelly - never fly and always fight. No one ever saw their backs. - </p> - <p> - You are inclined to doubt the bloody character of those gang battles. Why - doesn't one hear of them?—you ask. Because the police conceal as - much as may be all word and all sign of them. For the public to know might - get the police criticized, and they are granted enough of that without - inviting it through any foolish frankness. The hospitals, however, will - tell you of a weekly average of fifty patients, suffering from knife or - gun-shot wounds, not to name fractures born of bottles, bricks and - blackjacks. A bottle judiciously wielded, or a beer stein prudently broken - in advance to assure a jagged edge, is no mean weapon where warriors are - many and the fields of battle close. - </p> - <p> - While Roxie rattled on, and the others gave interested ear, Jackeen was - commenting in discouraged whispers to Johnny Rice on those twin setbacks - of the Division Street stick-up and the Savoy safe. - </p> - <p> - “It looks like nobody's got any dough,” replied Rice, in a spirit of - sympathy. “Take me own self. I ain't made a touch youse could call a - touch, for a mont' of Sundays. Me rag, Josie, an' I was chin-nin' about it - on'y last night, an' Josie herself says she never sees th' town so dead.” - </p> - <p> - “It's somethin' fierce!” returned Jackeen, moodily. - </p> - <p> - More beer, and a moment of silence. - </p> - <p> - “W'at's you' goil May doin'?” asked Rice. - </p> - <p> - “She's graftin' a little,” responded Jackeen; “but w'at wit' th' stores - full of private dicks a booster can't do much.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, you can bet May ought to know!” returned Rice. “As a derrick, she' - got the Darby Kid an' the best of 'em beat four ways from th' jack. She - could bring home th' bacon, if any of them hoisters could.” - </p> - <p> - Then appeared Lulu the houseless—Lulu, the forlorn and outcast Eve - of that Catherine Street Eden! - </p> - <p> - Lulu stood a polite moment behind the chair of Jackeen. At a lull in the - talk, she whispered a word in his ear. He looked up, nodded, and then - followed her out into Doyers Street. - </p> - <p> - “It's this way,” said Lulu. “May's copped th' Doc from me, see! An' she's - givin' you the cross, Jackeen. You ought to hand her out a good heatin'. - She's over hittin' the pipe wit' th' Doc right now.” - </p> - <p> - “G'wan!” came jealously from Jackeen. - </p> - <p> - “Honest! You come wit' me to number Nineteen, an' I'll show youse.” - </p> - <p> - Jackeen paused as though weighing the pros and cons. - </p> - <p> - “Let me go get Ricey,” he said at last. “He's got a good nut, an' I'll put - th' play up to him.” - </p> - <p> - “All right,” responded Lulu, impatient in her desolation; “but get a move - on! I've wised you; an' now, if you're any good at all, you'll take May - out of number Nineteen be th' mop. W'at license has she, or any other - skirt for that matter, got to do me out of me Doc?” - </p> - <p> - The last ended in a howl. - </p> - <p> - Leaving Lulu in the midst of her complaints, Jackeen wheeled back into the - Chatham Club for a word with Rice. Even during his absence, a change had - come over the company. He found Rice, St. Louis Bill and Nannie Miller, - holding anxious confab with a ratfaced person who had just come in. - </p> - <p> - “See here, Jackeen,” said St. Louis Bill in an excited whisper, “there's - been a rap about that Savoy safe trick, an' th' bulls are right now - lookin' for th' whole mob. They say it's us, too, who put that rube in the - air over in Division Street.” - </p> - <p> - “An' th' question is,” broke in Nannie Miller, who was quick to act, “do - we stand pat, or do we do a lammister?” - </p> - <p> - “There's on'y one answer to that,” said St. Louis Bill. “For my end of it - I'm goin' to lamm.” - </p> - <p> - Jackeen had May and his heart troubles upon the back of his regard. Still - he heard; and he arrived at a decision. He would run—yes; for flight - was preferable to four stone walls. But he must have revenge—revenge - upon the Doc and May. - </p> - <p> - “Wit' th' bulls after me, an' me away, it 'ud be comin' too soft for 'em,” - thought Jackeen. - </p> - <p> - “W'at do youse say?” asked St. Louis Bill, who was getting nervous. - </p> - <p> - “How did youse get the woid?” demanded Jackeen, turning upon Ratface. It - was he who had brought the warning. - </p> - <p> - “I'm a stool for one of the bulls,” replied Ratface, “an' it's him tells - me you blokes is wanted, see!” - </p> - <p> - “So you're stoolin' for a Central Office cop?” - </p> - <p> - Jackeen's manner was fraught with suspicion. “How do we know you're givin' - us th' correct dope?” - </p> - <p> - “Miller knows me,” returned Ratface, “an' so does Bill. They'll tell youse - I'm a right guy. That stool thing is only a stall. I gets more out of the - bull than he gets out of me. Sure; I give him a dead one now an' then, - just be way of puttin' in a prop for meself. But not youse;—w'en - it's any of me friends I puts 'em hep, see!” - </p> - <p> - “Do you sign for this duck?” demanded Jackeen of St. Louis Bill. “He's a - new one on me.” - </p> - <p> - “Take it from me, he's all right,” said St. Louis Bill, decisively. “Why, - you ought to know him, Jackeen. He joined out wit' that mob of gons Goldie - Louie took to Syracuse last fall. He's no farmer, neither; Ricey there - ain't got nothin' on him as a tool.” - </p> - <p> - This endorsement of Ratface settled all doubt. Jackeen's mind was made up. - Addressing the others, he said: - </p> - <p> - “Fade's the woid! I'll meet youse over in Hoboken to-night at Beansey's. - Better make th' ferry one at a time.” - </p> - <p> - “W'at do youse want to wait till night for?” asked Nannie Miller. “Th' - foist t'ing you know you'll get th' collar.” - </p> - <p> - “I'm goin' to take the chance, though,” retorted Jackeen. “It's some - private business of me own. An' say”—looking at Rice—“I want a - pal. Will youse stick, Ricey?” - </p> - <p> - “Sure, Mike!” said Rice, who had nerve and knew how to be loyal. - </p> - <p> - Thus it was adjusted. Ratface went his way, to exercise his gifts of - mendacity upon his Central Office principal, while the others scattered—all - save Jackeen and Rice. - </p> - <p> - Jackeen gave his faithful friend the story of his wrongs. - </p> - <p> - “I wouldn't have thought it of the Doc,” was the pensive comment of Rice. - He had exalted the Doc, because of his book learning, and groaned to see - his idol fall. “No, I wouldn't have guessed it of him! Of course, it's - different wit' a doll. They'd double-cross their own mothers.” - </p> - <p> - Over in Catherine Street at number Nineteen the Doc was teaching May how - to cook opium. The result fell below the Doc's elevated notions. - </p> - <p> - “You aren't to be compared with Lulu,” he complained, as he trimmed the - peanut-oil lamp. “All Chinatown couldn't show Lulu's equal for cooking - hop. She had a genius for it.” - </p> - <p> - The Doc took the needle from May, and cooked for himself. May looked - discouraged and hurt. - </p> - <p> - “It's all right,” said the Doc, dreamily, replying to the look of injury. - “You'll get it right in time, dear. Only, of course, you'll never quite - equal Lulu; that would be impossible.” - </p> - <p> - The Doc twirled the little ball of opium in the flame of the lamp, - watching the color as it changed. May looked on as upon the labors of a - master. - </p> - <p> - “I'll smoke a couple of pipes,” vouchsafed the Doc; “then I must get to - work on Nigger Mike's, teeth. Mike's a good fellow; they're all good - fellows over at the Chatham Club,” and the Doc sank back upon the pallet. - </p> - <p> - There was the sound of someone in the hall. Then came those calmative four - rings and four taps. - </p> - <p> - “That's Mike now,” said the Doc, his eyes half closed. “Let him in; I - suppose he's come for his teeth. I'll have to give him a stand-off. Mike - ought to have two sets of teeth. Then he could wear the one while I'm - fixing the other. It's a good idea; I'll tell him.” - </p> - <p> - May, warned by some instinct, opened the door but a timorous inch. What - she saw did not inspire confidence, and she tried with all her little - strength to close and bolt it. - </p> - <p> - Too late! - </p> - <p> - The door was flung inward, and Jackeen, followed by Rice, entered the - room. They paid no heed to the opium fumes; almost stifling they were, but - Jackeen and Rice had long been used to them. - </p> - <p> - May gazed at Jackeen like one planet-struck. The Doc, moveless on the - pallet, hardly raised his opium-weighted lids. - </p> - <p> - “This is a fine game I'm gettin'!” - </p> - <p> - Jackeen sneered out the words. The Doc pulled tranquilly at his pipe; - while May stood voiceless, staring with scared eyes. - </p> - <p> - “I'd ought to peg a bullet into you,” continued Jackeen, addressing May. - </p> - <p> - He had drawn his heavy gun. May stood as if the sight of the weapon had - frozen her. Jackeen brought it down on her temple. The Doc never moved. - Peace—the peace of the poppy—was on his brow and in his heart. - May fell to the floor, her face a-reek with blood. - </p> - <p> - “Now you've got yours!” said Jackeen. - </p> - <p> - May struggled unsteadily to her feet, and began groping for the door. - </p> - <p> - “That ought to do youse till I get back,” was Jackeen's good-by. “You'll - need a few stitches for that.” - </p> - <p> - Unruffled, untroubled, the Doc drew blandly at the mouthpiece of the pipe. - </p> - <p> - Jackeen surveyed him. - </p> - <p> - “Go on!” cried Rice; “hand it to him, if you're goin' to!” - </p> - <p> - Rice was becoming fretted. He hadn't Jackeen's sustaining interest. - Besides, he was thinking of that word from the Central Office, and how - much safer he would be with Beansey, on the Hoboken side of the Hudson. - </p> - <p> - Jackeen took a step nearer. The Doc smiled, eyes just showing through the - dreamy lids. - </p> - <p> - “Turn it loose!” cried Rice. - </p> - <p> - The gun exploded five times, and five bullets ploughed their way into the - Doc's body. - </p> - <p> - Not a cry, not a movement! The bland, pleased smile never left the sallow - face. With his mouth to the pipestem, the Doc dreamed on. - </p> - <p> - In the street, Jackeen and Rice passed Lulu. As they brushed by her, Rice - fell back a pace and whispered: - </p> - <p> - “He croaked th' Doc.” - </p> - <p> - Lulu gave a gulping cry and hurried on. - </p> - <p> - “Is that you, Lulu?” asked the Doc, his drug-uplifted soul untouched, - untroubled by what had passed, and what would come. Still, he must have - dimly known; for his next words, softly spoken, were: “I'm sorry about - Mike's teeth! Cook me a pill, dear; I want one last good smoke.” - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2H_4_0008" id="link2H_4_0008"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - VII.—LEONI THE TROUBLE MAKER - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>t was a perfect - day for a funeral. The thin October air had in it a half-chill, like the - cutting edge of the coming winter, still six weeks away. The leaves, crisp - and brown from early frosts, seemed to rustle approval of the mournful - completeness of things. - </p> - <p> - Florists' shops had been ransacked, greenhouses laid waste, the leading - carriages were moving jungles of blossoms. It was magnificent, and as the - procession wound its slow way into Calvary, the heart of the undertaker - swelled with pride. Not that he was justified; the glory was the glory of - Paper-Box Johnny, who stood back of all this gloomy splendor with his - purse. - </p> - <p> - “Remember,” was Paper-Box's word to the undertaker, “I'm no piker, an' - neither was Phil; so wade in wit' th' bridle off, an' make th' spiel same - as if you was buryin' yourself.” - </p> - <p> - Thus exhorted, and knowing the solvency of Paper-Box, the undertaker had - no more than broken even with his responsibilities. - </p> - <p> - Later, Paper-Box became smitten of concern because he hadn't thought to - hire a brass band. A brass band, he argued, breathing Chopin's Funeral - March, would have given the business a last artistic touch. - </p> - <p> - “I'd ought to have me nut caved in for forget-tin' it,” he declared; “but - Phil bein' croaked like he was, got me rattled. I'm all in th' air right - now! Me head won't be on straight ag'in for a mont'.” - </p> - <p> - In the face of Paper-Box's self-condemnation, ones expert in those - sorrowful matters of crape and immortelles, averred that the funeral was a - credit to Casey, and regrets were expressed that the bullet in that dead - hero's brain forbade his sitting up in the hearse and enjoying what was - being done in his honor. - </p> - <p> - As the first shovelful of earth awoke the hollow responses of the coffin, - there occurred what story writers are fond of describing as a dramatic - incident. As though the hollow coffin-note had been the dead voice of - Casey calling, Dago Frankie knelt at the edge of the grave. Lifting his - hands to heaven, he vowed to shed without mercy the blood of Goldie Louie - and Brother Bill Orr, on sight. The vow was well received by the uncovered - ring of mourners, and no one doubted but Casey's eternal slumbers would be - the sounder for it. - </p> - <p> - In the beginning, she went by the name of Leoni; the same being - subsequently lengthened, for good and sufficient reasons, to Leoni the - Trouble Maker. As against this, however, her monaker, with the addition, - “Badger,” as written upon her picture—gallery number 7409—to - be found in that interesting art collection maintained by the police, was - given as Mabel Grey. - </p> - <p> - Leoni—according to Detective Biddinger of that city's Central Office—was - born in Chicago, upon a spot not distant from the banks of the classic - Drainage Canal. She came to New York, and began attracting police - attention about eight years ago. In those days, radiant as a star, face of - innocent beauty, her affections were given to an eminent pickpocket known - and dreaded as Crazy Barry, and it was the dance she led that bird-headed - person's unsettled destinies which won her the <i>nom de cour</i> of - Trouble Maker. - </p> - <p> - It was unfortunate, perhaps, since it led to many grievous complications, - that Leoni's love lacked every quality of the permanent. Hot, fierce, it - resembled in its intensity a fire in a lumber yard. Also, like a fire in a - lumber yard, it soon burned itself out. Her heart was as the heart of a - wild goose, and wondrous migratory. - </p> - <p> - Having loved Crazy Barry for a space, Leoni turned cool, then cold, then - fell away from him altogether. At this, Crazy Barry, himself a volcano of - sensibility, with none of Leoni's saving genius to grow cold, waxed wroth - and chafed. - </p> - <p> - While in this mixed and storm-tossed humor, he came upon Leoni in the - company of a fellow gonoph known as McTafife. In testimony of what - hell-pangs were tearing at his soul, Crazy Barry fell upon McTaffe, and - cut him into red ribbons with a knife. He would have cut his throat, and - spoke of doing so, but was prevailed upon to refrain by Kid Jacobs, who - pointed out the electrocutionary inconveniences sure to follow such a - ceremony. - </p> - <p> - “They'd slam youse in th' chair, sure!” was the sober-headed way that - Jacobs put it. - </p> - <p> - Crazy Barry, one hand in McTafife's hair, had drawn the latter's head - across his knee, the better to attend to the throat-cutting. Convinced, - however, by the words of Jacobs, he let the head, throat all unslashed, - fall heavily to the floor. After which, first wiping the blood from his - knife on McTafife's coat—for he had an instinct to be neat—he - lam-mistered for parts unknown, while McTafife was conveyed to the New - York Hospital. This chanced in the Sixth Avenue temple of entertainment - kept by the late Paddy the Pig. - </p> - <p> - Once out of the hospital and into the street, McTafife and the fair Leoni - found no trouble in being all the world to one another. Crazy Barry was a - thing of the past and, since the Central Office dicks wanted him, likely - to remain so. - </p> - <p> - McTafife was of the swell mob. He worked with Goldie Louie, Fog-eye Howard - and Brother Bill Orr. Ask any Central Office bull, half learned in his - trade of crook-catcher, and he'll tell you that these names are of a - pick-purse peerage. McTaffe himself was the stinger, and personally - pinched the poke, or flimped the thimble, or sprung the prop, of whatever - boob was being trimmed. The others, every one a star, were proud to act as - his stalls; and that, more than any Central Office assurance, should show - how near the top was McTaffe in gonoph estimation. - </p> - <p> - Every profession has its drawbacks, and that of picking pockets possesses - several. For one irritating element, it is apt to take the practitioner - out of town for weeks on end. Some sucker puts up a roar, perhaps, and - excites the assiduities of the police; or there is a prize fight at Reno, - or a World's Fair at St. Louis, or a political convention at Chicago, or a - crowd-gathering tour by some notable like Mr. Roosevelt or Mr. Taft, which - gives such promise of profit that it is not to be refused. Thus it befell - that McTaffe, with his mob, was greatly abroad in the land, leaving Leoni - deserted and alone. - </p> - <p> - Once McTaffe remained away so long that it caused Leoni uneasiness, if not - alarm. - </p> - <p> - “Mack's fell for something,” was the way she set forth her fears to Big - Kitty: “You can gamble he's in hock somewheres, or I'd have got the office - from him by wire or letter long ago.” - </p> - <p> - When McTaffe at last came back, his face exhibited pain and defeat. He - related how the mob had been caught in a jam in Chihuahua, and Goldie - Louie lagged. - </p> - <p> - “The rest of the fleet managed to make a getaway,” said McTaffe, “all but - poor Goldie. Those Greasers have got him right, too; he's cinched to do a - couple of spaces sure. When I reached El Paso, I slimmed me roll for five - hundred bucks, an' hired him a mouthpiece. But what good is a mouthpiece - when there ain't the shadow of a chance to spring him?” - </p> - <p> - “So Goldie got a rumble, did he?” said Leoni, with a half sigh. - </p> - <p> - Her tones were pensive to the verge of tears; since her love for Goldie - was almost if not quite equal to the love she bore McTaffe. - </p> - <p> - Goldie Louie lay caged in the Chihuahua calaboose, and Sanky Dunn joined - out with McTaffe and the others in his place. With forces thus - reorganized, McTaffe took up the burdens of life again, and—here one - day and gone the next—existence for himself and Leoni returned to - old-time lines. - </p> - <p> - Leoni met Casey. With smooth, dark, handsome face, Casey was the superior - in looks of either McTaffe or Goldie Louie. Also, he had fame as a - gun-fighter, and for a rock-like steadiness under fire. He was credited, - too, by popular voice, with having been busy in the stirring, near - vicinity of events, when divers gentlemen got bumped off. This had in it a - fascination for Leoni, who—as have the ladies of every age and clime—dearly - loved a warrior. Moreover, Casey had money, and, unlike those others, he - was always on the job. This last was important to Leoni, who at any moment - might find herself at issue with the powers, and Casey, because of his - political position, could speak to the judge. - </p> - <p> - Leoni loved Casey, even as she had aforetime loved McTaffe, Goldie Louie - and Crazy Barry. True, Casey owned a wife. But there arose nothing in his - conduct to indicate it; and since he was too much of a gentleman to let it - get in any one's way, Leoni herself was so generous as to treat it as a - technicality. - </p> - <p> - McTaffe and his mob returned from a losing expedition through the West. - Leoni asked as to results. - </p> - <p> - “Why,” explained McTaffe, sulkily, “th' trip was not only a waterhaul, but - it leaves me on the nut for twelve hundred bones.” - </p> - <p> - McTaffe turned his pockets inside out, by way of corroboration. - </p> - <p> - While thus irritated because of that financial setback, McTaffe heard of - Leoni's blushing nearness to Casey. It was the moment of all moments when - he was least able to bear the blow with philosophy. - </p> - <p> - And McTaffe stormed. Going farther, and by way of corrective climax, he - knocked Leoni down with a club. After which—according to - eye-witnesses, who spoke without prejudice—he proceeded to beat her - up for fair. - </p> - <p> - Leoni told her adventures to Casey, and showed him what a harvest of - bruises her love for him had garnered. Casey, who hadn't been born and - brought up in Mulberry Bend to become a leading light of Gangland for - nothing, took his gun and issued forth on the trail of McTaffe. McTaffe - left town. Also, that he didn't take his mob with him proved that not - graft, but fear of Casey, was the bug beneath the chip of his - disappearance. - </p> - <p> - “He's sherried,” Casey told Leoni, when that ill-used beauty asked if he - had avenged her bruises. “But he'll blow in ag'in; an' when he does I'll - cook him.” - </p> - <p> - Goldie Louie came up from Chihuahua, his yellow hair shot with gray, the - prison pallor in the starved hollows of his cheeks. Mexicans are the most - merciless of jailers. Fog-eye Howard, who was nothing if not a gossip, - wised him up as to Leoni's love for Casey. In that connection Fog-eye - related how McTaffe, having rebuked Leoni's heart wanderings with that - convincing club, had now become a fugitive from Casey's gun. - </p> - <p> - Having heard Fog-eye to the end, Goldie faithfully hunted up Leoni and - wore out a second club on her himself. Again did Leoni creep to Casey with - her woes and her wrongs, and again did that Knight of Mulberry Bend gird - up his fierce loins to avenge her. - </p> - <p> - Let us step rearward a pace. - </p> - <p> - After the Committee of Fourteen, in its uneasy purities, had caused Chick - Tricker's Park Row license to be revoked, Tricker, seeking a livelihood, - became the owner of the Stag in Twenty-eighth Street, just off Broadway. - That license revocation had been a financial jolt, and now in new - quarters, with Berlin Auggy, whom he had brought with him as partner, he - was striving, in every way not likely to invoke police interference to - re-establish his prostrate destiny. - </p> - <p> - It was the evening next after the one upon which Goldie Louie, following - the example of the vanished McTaffe, had expressed club-wise his - disapproval of Leoni's love for Casey. The Stag was a riot of life and - light and laughter; music and conversation and drink prevailed. In the - rear room—fenced off from the bar by swinging doors—was Goldie - Louie, together with Fog-eye Howard, Brother Bill Orr and Sanky Dunn. - There, too, Whitey Dutch was entertaining certain of the choicest among - the Five Pointers. Scattered here and there were Little Red, the Baltimore - Rat, Louis Buck, Stager Bennett, Jack Cohalan, the Humble Dutchman, and - others of renown in the grimy chivalry of crime. There were fair ones, - too, and the silken sex found dulcet representation in such unchallenged - belles as Pretty Agnes, Jew Yetta, Dutch Ida, and Anna Gold. True, an - artist in womanly beauty might have found defects in each of these. And if - so? Venus had a mole on her cheek, Helen a scar on her chin. - </p> - <p> - Tricker was not with his guests at the Stag that night. His father had - been reported sick, and Tricker was in filial attendance at the Fourteenth - Street bedside of his stricken sire. In his absence, Auggy took charge, - and under his genial management beer flowed, coin came in, and all Stag - things went moving merrily. - </p> - <p> - Whitey Dutch, speaking to Stagger Bennett concerning Pioggi, aforetime put - away in the Elmira Reformatory for the Coney Island killing of Cyclone - Louie and Kid Twist, made quite a tale of how Pioggi, having served his - time, had again shown up in town. Whitey mentioned, as a matter for - general congratulation, that Pioggi's Elmira experience had not robbed him - of his right to vote, as would have been the blighting case had he gone to - Sing Sing. - </p> - <p> - “There's nothing in that disfranchisement thing, anyhow,” grumbled the - Humble Dutchman, who sat sourly listening. “I've been up th' river twict, - an' I've voted a dozen times every election since. Them law-makin' stiffs - is goin' to take your vote away! Say, that gives me a pain!” - </p> - <p> - The Humble Dutchman got off the last in tones of supreme contempt. - </p> - <p> - Grouped around a table near the center, and under convoy of a Central - Office representative who performed towards them in the triple rôle of - guide, philosopher and friend, were gathered a half dozen Fifth Avenue - males and females, all members in good standing of the Purple and Fine - Linen Gang. Auggy, in the absence of Tricker, had received them - graciously, pressed cigars and drinks upon them, declining the while their - proffered money of the realm in a manner composite of suavity and princely - ease. - </p> - <p> - “It's an honor, loides an' gents,” said Auggy, “merely to see your maps in - the Stag at all. As for th' booze an' smokes, they're on th' house. Your - dough don't go here, see!” - </p> - <p> - The Purple and Fine Linen contingent called their visit slumming. If they - could have heard what Auggy, despite his beaming smiles and royal - liberality touching those refreshments, called both them and their visit, - after they had left, it might have set their patrician ears afire. - </p> - <p> - Having done the Stag, and seen and heard and misunderstood things to their - slumming souls' content, the Purple and Fine Linen Gang said goodbye. They - must drop in—they explained—at the Haymarket, just around the - corner in Sixth Avenue. Auggy invited them to come again, but was visibly - relieved once they had gone their slumming way. - </p> - <p> - “I was afraid every minute some duck'd start something,” said Auggy, “an' - of course if anything did break loose—any little t'ing, if it ain't - no more than soakin' some dub in th' jaw—one of them Fift' Avenoo - dames's 'ud be bound to t'row a fit.” - </p> - <p> - “Say!” broke in Anna Gold resentfully; “it's somethin' fierce th' way them - high s'ciety fairies comes buttin' in on us. W'at do they think they're - tryin' to give us, anyway? For th' price of a beer, I'd have snatched one - of them baby-dolls baldheaded. I'd have nailed her be th' mop; an' w'en - I'd got t'rough doin' stunts wit' her, she wouldn't have had to tell no - one she'd been slummin'.” - </p> - <p> - “Now, forget it!” interposed Auggy warningly. “You go reachin' for any - skirt's puffs round here, an' it'll be the hurry-up wagon at a gallop an' - you for the cooler, Anna. The Stag's a quiet joint, an' that rough-house - stuff don't go. Chick won't stand for no one to get hoited.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, Chick won't stand for no one to get hoited!” retorted the acrid Anna, - in mighty dudgeon. “An' the Stag's a quiet joint! Why, it ain't six weeks - since a guy pulls a cannister in this very room, an' shoots Joe Rocks full - of holes. You helps take him to the hospital yourself.” - </p> - <p> - “Cut out that Joe Rocks stuff,” commanded Aug-gy, with vast heat, “or - you'll hit the street on your frizzes—don't make no mistake!” - </p> - <p> - Observing the stormy slant the talk was taking, Whitey Dutch - diplomatically ordered beer, and thus put an end to debate. It was a move - full of wisdom. Auggy was made nervous by the absence of Tricker, and Anna - the Voluble, on many a field, had shown herself a lady of spirit. - </p> - <p> - While the evening at the Stag thus went happily wearing towards the - smaller hours, over in Twenty-ninth Street, a block away, the stuss game - of Casey and Paper-Box Johnny was in full and profitable blast. Paper-Box - himself was in active charge. Casey had for the moment abandoned business - and every thought of it. Leoni had just informed him of those visitations - at the hands of Goldie Louie, and set him to thinking on other things than - cards. - </p> - <p> - “An' he says,” concluded Leoni, preparing to go, “after he's beat me half - to death, 'now chase 'round an' tell your Dago friend, Casey, that my - monaker ain't McTaffe, an' that if he starts to hand me anythin', I'll put - him down in Bellevue for the count.'” - </p> - <p> - The dark face of Casey displayed both anger and resolution. He made - neither threat nor comment, but his eyes were full of somber fires. Leoni - departed with an avowed purpose of subjecting her injuries to the curative - effects of arnica, while Casey continued to gloom and glower, drinking - deeply the while to take the edge off his feelings. - </p> - <p> - Harry Lemmy, a once promising prize-fighter of the welter-weight variety, - showed up. Also, he had no more than settled to the drink, which Casey—whom - the wrongs of his idolized Leoni could not render unmindful of the claims - of hospitality—had ordered, when Jack Kenny and Charlie Young - appeared. - </p> - <p> - The latter, not alive to the fatal importance of such news, spoke of the - Stag, which he had left but the moment before, and of the presence there - of Goldie Louie. - </p> - <p> - “McTaffe's stalls, Fog-eye, Brother Bill an' Sanky Dunn, are lushin' wit' - him,” said Young. “You know Sanky filled in wit' th' mob th' time Goldie - gets settled in Mexico.” - </p> - <p> - Goldie Louie, only a block away, set the torch to Casey's heart. - </p> - <p> - “Where's Dago Frankie?” he asked. - </p> - <p> - Dago Frankie was his nearest and most trusted friend. - </p> - <p> - “He's over in Sixt' Avenoo shootin' craps,” replied Lemmy. “Shall I go dig - him up?” - </p> - <p> - “It don't matter,” said Casey, after a moment's thought. Then, getting up - from his chair, he inquired, “Have you guys got your cannons?” - </p> - <p> - “Sure t'ing!” came the general chorus, with a closer from Kenny. - </p> - <p> - “I've got two,” he said. “A sport might get along wit'out a change of - shoits in Noo York, but he never ought to be wit'out a change of guns.” - </p> - <p> - “W'at's on, Phil?” asked Charlie Young, anxiously, as Casey pulled a - magazine pistol, and carefully made sure that its stomach was full of - cartridges; “w'at's on?” - </p> - <p> - “I'm goin' over to the Stag,” replied Casey. “If you ducks'll listen - you'll hear a dog howl in about a minute.” - </p> - <p> - “We'll not only listen, but we'll go 'long,” returned Young. - </p> - <p> - Lemmy and Kenny fell behind the ethers. “W'at's th' muss?” whispered - Lemmy. - </p> - <p> - “It's Leoni,” explained Kenny guardedly. “Goldie give her a wallop or two - last night, an' Phil's goin' to do him for it.” - </p> - <p> - Casey strode into the Stag, his bosom a storm-center for every black - emotion. The sophisticated Auggy smelled instant trouble on him, as one - smells fire in a house. Bending over the friendly shoulder of Whitey - Dutch, Auggy spoke in a low tone of warning. - </p> - <p> - “There's Phil Casey,” he said, “an' t'ree of his bunch. It's apples to - ashes he's gunnin' for Goldie. If Chick were here, now, he'd somehow put - the smother on him.” - </p> - <p> - “Give him a call-down your own self,” was Whitey's counsel. “W'at with - Chick's license bein' revoked in Park Row, an' Joe Rocks goin' to the - hospital from here only a little over a mont' ago, the least bit of - cannonadin' 's bound to put th' joint in Dutch all the way from - headquarters to the State excise dubs in Albany.” - </p> - <p> - “I know it,” returned Auggy, in great trouble of mind. “If a gun so much - as cracks once, it'll be th' fare-you-well of the Stag.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, w'at do youse say?” demanded the loyal Whitey. “I'm wit' youse, an' - I'm wit' Chick, an' I'm wit' Goldie. Give th' woid, an' I'll pull in a - harness bull from off his beat.” - </p> - <p> - “No, none of that! Chick'd sooner burn the joint than call a cop.” - </p> - <p> - “I'll go give Casey a chin,” said Whitey, “meb-by I can hold him down. You - put Goldie wise. Tell him to keep his lamps on Casey, an' if Casey reaches - for his gatt to beat him to it.” - </p> - <p> - Casey the decisive moved swiftly, however, and the proposed peace - intervention failed for being too slow. Casey got a glimpse of Goldie - through the separating screen doors. It was all he wanted. The next moment - he had charged through. - </p> - <p> - Chairs crashed, tables were overthrown, women shrieked and men cursed. - Twenty guns were out. Casey fired six times at Goldie Louie, and six times - missed that lucky meddler with other people's pocket-books. Not that - Casey's efforts were altogether thrown away. His first bullet lodged in - the stomach of Fog-eye, while his third broke the arm of Brother Bill. - </p> - <p> - Whitey Dutch reached Casey as the latter began his artillery practice, and - sought by word and moderate force to induce a truce. Losing patience, - however, Whitey, as Casey fired his final shot, pulled his own gun and put - a bullet through and through that berserk's head. As Casey fell forward, a - second bullet—coming from anywhere—buried itself in his back. - </p> - <p> - “By the Lord, I've croaked Phil!” was the exclamation of Whitey, addressed - to no one in particular. - </p> - <p> - They were Whitey's last words; some one shoved the muzzle of a gun against - his temple, and he fell by the side of Casey. - </p> - <p> - No sure list of dead and wounded for that evening's battle of the Stag - will ever be compiled. The guests scattered like a flock of blackbirds. - Some fled limping and groaning, others nursing an injured arm, while three - or four, too badly hurt to travel, were dragged into nooks of safety by - friends who'd come through untouched. There was blood to the east, blood - to the west, on the Twenty-eighth Street pavements, and a wounded - gentleman was picked up in Broadway, two blocks away. The wounded one, - full of a fine prudence and adhering strictly to gang teachings, declared - that the bullet which had struck him was a bullet of mystery. Also, he - gave his word of honor that, personally, he had never once heard of the - Stag. - </p> - <p> - When the police reached the field of battle—wearing the ill-used - airs of folk who had been unwarrantably disturbed—they found Casey - and Whitey Dutch dead on the floor, and Fog-eye groaning in a corner. To - these—counting the injured Brother Bill and the prudent one picked - up in Broadway, finally identified as Sanky Dunn—rumor added two - dead and eleven wounded. - </p> - <p> - Leoni? - </p> - <p> - The Central Office dicks who met that lamp of loveliness the other evening - in Broadway reported her as in abundant spirits, and more beautiful than - ever. She had received a letter from McTaffe, she said, who sent his love, - and her eyes shone like twin stars because of the joy she felt. - </p> - <p> - “Mack always had a good heart,” said Leoni. - </p> - <p> - Paper-Box Johnny—all in tears—bore sorrowful word of her loss - to Mrs. Casey, calling that matron from her slumbers to receive it. - Paper-Box managed delicately. - </p> - <p> - “It's time to dig up black!” sobbed Paper-Box; “they've copped Phil. - </p> - <p> - “Copped Phil?” repeated Mrs. Casey, sleepily. “Where is he?” - </p> - <p> - “On a slab in the morgue. Youse'd better chase yourself over.” - </p> - <p> - “All right,” returned Mrs. Casey, making ready to go back to bed, “I will - after awhile.” - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2H_4_0009" id="link2H_4_0009"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - VIII. THE WAGES OF THE SNITCH - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">K</span>nowledge is power, - and power is a good thing, as you yourself well know. Since Eve opened the - way, and she and Adam paid the price—a high one, I sometimes think—you - are entitled to every kind of knowledge. Also, you are entitled to all - that you can get. - </p> - <p> - But having acquired knowledge, you are not entitled to peddle it out in - secret to Central Office bulls, at a cost of liberty and often life to - other men. When you do that you are a snitch, and have thrown away your - right to live. Anyone is free to kill you out of hand, having regard only - to his own safety. For such is the common law of Gangland. - </p> - <p> - Let me ladle out a cautionary spoonful. - </p> - <p> - As you go about accumulating knowledge, you should fix your eye upon one - or two great truths. You must never forget that when you are close enough - to see a man you are close enough to be seen. It is likewise foolish, - weakly foolish, to assume that you are the only gas jet in the chandelier, - the only pebble on the beach, or possess the only kodak throughout the - entire length of the boardwalk. Bear ever in mind that while you are - getting the picture of some other fellow, he in all human chance is - snapping yours. - </p> - <p> - This last is not so much by virtue of any law of Gangland as by a law of - nature. Its purpose is to preserve that equilibrium, wanting which, the - universe itself would slip into chaos and the music of the spheres become - but the rawest tuning of the elemental instruments. The stars would no - longer sing together, but shriek together, and space itself would be - driven to stop its ears. Folk who fail to carry these grave matters upon - the constant shoulder of their regard, get into trouble. - </p> - <p> - At Gouverneur hospital, where he died, the register gave his name as - “Samuel Wendell,” and let it go at that. The Central Office, which finds - its profit in amplification, said, “Samuel Wendell, <i>alias</i> Kid - Unger, <i>alias</i> the Ghost,” and further identified him as “brother to - Johnny the Mock.” - </p> - <p> - Samuel Wendell, <i>alias</i> Kid Unger, <i>alias</i> the Ghost, brother to - Johnny the Mock, was not the original Ghost. Until less than two years ago - the title was honorably worn by Mashier, who got twenty spaces for a night - trick he turned in Brooklyn. Since Mashier could not use the name in Sing - Sing, Wendell, <i>alias</i> Kid Unger, brother to Johnny the Mock, adopted - it for his own. It fitted well with his midnight methods and noiseless, - gliding, skulking ways. Moreover, since it was upon his own sly rap to the - bulls, who made the collar, that Mashier got pinched, he may have felt - himself entitled to the name as part of his reward. The Indian scalps his - victim, and upon a similar principle Wendell, <i>alias</i> Unger, brother - to Johnny the Mock, when Mashier was handed that breath-taking twenty - years, may have decided to call himself the Ghost. - </p> - <p> - It will never be precisely known how and why and by whose hand the Ghost - was killed, although it is common opinion that Pretty Agnes had much to do - with it. Also, common opinion is more often right than many might believe. - In view of that possible connection with the bumping off of the Ghost, - Pretty Agnes is worth a word. She could not have been called old. When - upon a certain Saturday evening, not remote, she stepped into Jack - Sirocco's in Chatham Square, her years counted fewer than nineteen. Still, - she had seen a good deal—or a bad deal—whichever you prefer. - </p> - <p> - Pretty Agnes' father, a longshoreman, had found his bread along the docks. - None better ever-shaped for a boss stevedore, or trotted up a gangplank - with a 280-pound sack of sugar on his back. One day he fell between the - side of a moored ship and the stringpiece of the wharf; and the ship, - being at that moment ground against the wharf by the swell from a passing - steamer, he was crushed. Those who looked on called him a fool for having - been killed in so poor a way. He was too dead to resent the criticism, and - after that his widow, the mother of Pretty Agnes, took in washing. - </p> - <p> - Her mother washed, and Pretty Agnes carried home the clothes. This went on - for three years. One wind-blown afternoon, as the mother was hanging out - clothes on the roof—a high one—and refreshing her energies - with intermittent gin from the bottle of her neighbor, the generous Mrs. - Callahan, she stepped backward down an airshaft. She struck the flags ten - stories below, and left Pretty Agnes to look out for herself. - </p> - <p> - Looking out for herself, Pretty Agnes worked in a sweatshop in Division - Street. Here she made three dollars a week and needed five. The sweatshop - owner—for she was a dream of loveliness, with a fog of blue-black - hair and deep brown eyes—offered to make up the lacking two, and was - accepted. - </p> - <p> - Round, ripe, willowy, Pretty Agnes graduated from the Division Street - sweatshop to a store in Twenty-third Street. There she served as a cloak - model, making fourteen dollars a week while needing twenty. The manager of - the cloak store was as generous as had been the owner of the sweatshop, - and benevolently made up the absent six. - </p> - <p> - For Pretty Agnes was lovelier than ever. - </p> - <p> - All work and no play, makes Jack a dull boy. Also, it has the same effect - on Jill. Pretty Agnes—she had a trunkful of good clothes and yearned - to show them—went three nights a week to one of those dancing - academies wherewith the East Side was and is rife. As she danced she met - Indian Louie, and lost no time in loving him. - </p> - <p> - Having advantage of her love, that seeker after doubtful dollars showed - Pretty Agnes where and how she could make more money than would come to - her as a cloak model in any Twenty-third Street store. Besides, he - jealously disapproved of the benevolent manager, though, all things - considered, it is hard to say why. - </p> - <p> - Pretty Agnes, who had grown weary of the manager and to whom Louie's word - was law, threw over both the manager and her cloak-model position. After - which she walked the streets for Louie—as likewise did Mollie Squint—and, - since he often beat her, continued to love him from the bottom of her - heart. - </p> - <p> - Between Pretty Agnes and Mollie Squint, Louie lived sumptuously. Nor could - they themselves be said to have altogether suffered; for each knew how to - lick her fingers as a good cook should. Perhaps Louie was aware that his - darlings held out on him, but regarded it as just an investment. He must - have known that to dress well stood first among the demands of their - difficult profession, which was ancient and had been honorable, albeit in - latter days ill spoken of. - </p> - <p> - Louie died, and was mourned roundly by Pretty Agnes for eight weeks. Then - she gave her love to Sammy Hart, who was out-on-the-safe. Charlie Lennard, - <i>alias</i> Big Head, worked pal to Sammy Hart, and the Ghost went with - them as outside man and to help in carrying the tools. - </p> - <p> - Commonly Sammy and Big Head tackled only inferior safes, in cracking which - nothing nobler nor more recondite than a can-opener was demanded. Now and - then, however, when a first-class box had to be blown and soup was an - absolute requirement, the Ghost came in exceeding handy. No yegg who ever - swung under and traveled from town to town without a ticket, knew better - than did the Ghost how to make soup. - </p> - <p> - The soup-making process, while ticklish, ought to be worth reading about. - A cake of dynamite is placed in the cold bottom of a kettle. Warm water is - added, and the kettle set a-simmer over a benzine lamp. As the water - heats, the dynamite melts into oil, and the oil—being lighter—rises - to the top of the water. - </p> - <p> - The oil is drawn softly off with a syringe, and as softly discharged into - a bottle half filled with alcohol. The alcohol is to prevent explosion by - jarring. Soup, half oil, half alcohol, can be fired with a fuse, but will - sustain quite a jolt without resenting it. - </p> - <p> - This was not true in an elder day, before our box workers discovered that - golden alcoholic secret. There was a yegg once who was half in, half out, - of the window of a P. O. Pie had the bottle of soup in his hip pocket. The - sash fell, struck the consignment of hip-pocket soup, and all that was - found of the yegg were the soles of his shoes. Nothing so disconcerting - would have happened had the Ghost made the soup. - </p> - <p> - The Ghost, while believed in by Big Head and Sammy, was distrusted by - Pretty Agnes. She distrusted him because of his bad repute as a snitch. - She called Sammy's attention to what tales were abroad to the black effect - that the Ghost was a copper in his mildewed soul, and one time and another - had served stoolpigeon to many dicks. - </p> - <p> - Sammy took no stock in these reports, and told Pretty Agnes so. - </p> - <p> - “Th' Ghost's all right,” he said; “he's been wit' me an' Big Head when we - toins off twenty joints.” - </p> - <p> - “He may go wit' you,” retorted Pretty Agnes, “for twenty more tricks, an' - never rap. But mark me woids, Sammy; in th' end he'll make a present of - youse to th' bulls.” - </p> - <p> - Sammy only laughed, holding that the feminine intelligence, while - suspicious, was not a strong intelligence. - </p> - <p> - “Well,” said Sammy, when he had ceased laughing, “if th' Ghost does - double-cross me, w'at'll youse do?” - </p> - <p> - “W'at'll I do? As sure as my monaker is Pretty Agnes, I'll have him - cooked.” - </p> - <p> - “Good goil!” said Sammy Hart. - </p> - <p> - Gangland discusses things social, commercial, political, and freely forms - and gives opinions. From a panic in Wall Street to the making of a - President, nothing comes or goes uncommented upon and unticketed in - Gangland. Even the fashions are threshed out, and sage judgments rendered - concerning frocks and hats and all the latest hints from Paris. This you - can test for yourself, on any evening, at such hubs of popular interest as - Sirocco's, Tony's, Jimmy Kelly's or the Chatham Club. - </p> - <p> - Sirocco's was a-swarm with life that Saturday evening when Pretty Agnes - dropped in so casually. At old Jimmy's table they were considering the - steel trust investigation, then proceeding—ex-President Roosevelt - had that day testified—and old Jimmy and the Irish Wop voiced their - views, and gave their feelings vent. Across at Slimmy's the dread doings - of a brace of fair ones, who had excited Coney Island by descending upon - that lively suburb in harem skirts, was under discussion. - </p> - <p> - Speaking of the steel trust investigation and its developments, old Jimmy - was unbelting after this wise. Said he, bringing down his hairy fist with - a whack that startled every beer glass on the table into an upward jump of - full three inches: - </p> - <p> - “Th' more I read of th' doin's of them rich guys, th' more I begin to - think that th' makin' of a mutt lurks in every million dollars. Say, Wop, - they don't know how to pick up a hand an' play it, after it's been dealt - 'em. Take 'em off Wall Street an' mix 'em up wit' anything except stocks, - an' they can't tell a fire plug from a song an' dance soubrette. If some - ordinary skate was to go crabbin' his own personal game th' way they do - theirs, th' next you'd hear that stew would be in Blooming-dale.” - </p> - <p> - “Phwat's eatin' yez now, Jimmy?” inquired the Wop, carelessly. “Is it that - steel trusht thing th' pa-a-apers is so full of?” - </p> - <p> - “That an' th' way Morgan an' th' balance of that fur-lined push fall over - themselves. Th' big thing they're shy on is diplomacy. When it comes to - diplomacy, they're a lot of dead ones.” - </p> - <p> - “An' phwat's diplom'cy?” - </p> - <p> - The Wop didn't like big words; his feeling was to first question, then - resent them. - </p> - <p> - “Phwat's diplom'cy?” he repeated. - </p> - <p> - “Diplomacy,” said old Jimmy, “is any cunnin' move that lands th' trick. - You wake up an' hear a noise; an' you think it's some porch-climber, like - th' Nailer here, turnin' off th' joint. At that, not knowin' but he's - framed up with a gun, you don't feel like goin' to th' mat with him. What - do you do? Well, you use diplomacy. You tosses mebby a dumbbell over th' - bannisters, an' lets it go bumpin' along from step to step, makin' more - row than some geezer failin' down stairs with a kitchen stove. Th' racket - throws a scare into th' Nailer, an' he beats it, see?” - </p> - <p> - “An' that's diplom'cy!” said the Wop. - </p> - <p> - “Also, it's exactly what them Wall Streeters ain't got. Look at th' way - they're always fightin' Roosevelt. For twenty-five years they've been - roustin' Teddy; an' for twenty-five years they've done nothin' but keep - him on th' map. When Teddy was in Mulberry Street th' Tammany ducks gets - along with him as peaceful as a basketful of pups. Diplomacy does it; - that, an' payin' strict attention to Teddy's blind side. 'What's th' use - of kickin' in th' gate,' says they, 'when we knows where a picket's off - th' fence?' You remember Big Florrie Sullivan puttin' young Brady on th' - Force? Teddy's in Mulberry Street then. Do you think Big Florrie goes - queerin' th' chances, be tellin' Teddy how Brady passes th' cush box in - Father Curry's church? Not on your life! It wouldn't have been diplomacy; - Teddy wouldn't have paid no attention. Big Florrie gets in his work like - this: - </p> - <p> - “'Say, Commish,' he says, 'I sees th' fight of my life last night. - Nineteen rounds to a knockout! It's a left hook to th' jaw does it.' - </p> - <p> - “'No!' Teddy says, lightin' up like Chinatown on th' night of a Chink - festival; 'you int'rest me! Pull up a stool,' says he, 'an' put your feet - on th' desk. There; now you're comfortable, go on about th' fight. Who - were they?' - </p> - <p> - “'A lad from my district named Brady,' says Big Florry, 'an' a - dock-walloper from Williamsburg. You ought to have seen it, Commish! Oh, - Brady's th' goods! Pie's th' lad to go th' route! He's all over that - Williamsburg duffer like a cat over a shed roof! He went 'round him like a - cooper 'round a barrel!' - </p> - <p> - “Big Florrie runs on like that, using diplomacy, an' two weeks later - Brady's thumpin' a beat.” - </p> - <p> - “Ye're r-r-right, Jimmy,” said the Wop, after a pause which smelled of - wisdom; “I agrees wit' yez. Morgan, Perkins, Schwab an' thim rich omadauns - is th' bum lot. Now I think av it, too, Fatty Walsh minchons that wor-r-rd - diplom'cy to me long ago. Yez knew Fatty, Jimmy?” - </p> - <p> - “Fatty an' me was twins.” - </p> - <p> - “Fatty's th' foine la-a-ad; on'y now he's dead—Mary resht him! Th' - time I'm in th' Tombs for bouncin' th' brick off th' head av that - Orangeman, who's whistlin' th' Battle av th' Boyne to see how long I can - shtand it, Fatty's th' warden; an' say, he made th' place home to me. He's - talkin', Fatty is, wan day about Mayor Hughey Grant, an' it's then he - shpeaks av diplom'cy. He says Hughey didn't have anny.” - </p> - <p> - “Don't you believe it!” interrupted old Jimmy; “Fatty had Hughey down - wrong. When it comes to diplomacy, Hughey could suck an egg an' never chip - th' shell.” - </p> - <p> - “It's a special case loike. Fatty's dishtrict, d'yez see, has nothin' in - it but Eyetalians. Wan day they'r makin' ready to cilibrate somethin'. - Fatty's in it, av course, bein' leader, an' he chases down to th' City - Hall an' wins out a permit for th' Dago parade.” - </p> - <p> - “What's Hughey got to do with that?” - </p> - <p> - “Lishten! It shtrikes Hughey, him bein' Mayor, it'll be th' dead wise - play, when Fatty marches by wit' his Guineas, to give them th' gay, - encouragin' face. Hughey thinks Fatty an' his pushcart la-a-ads is - cilibratin' some Dago Saint Patrick's day, d'yez see. It's there Fatty - claims that Hughey shows no diplom'cy; he'd ought to have ashked.” - </p> - <p> - “Asked what?” - </p> - <p> - “I'm comin' to it. Fatty knows nothin' about phwat's on Hughey's chest. - His first tip is when he sees Hughey, an' th' balance av th' Tammany - administration cocked up in a hand-me-down grandstand they've faked - together in City Hall Park. Fatty pipes 'em, as he an' his Black Hand - bunch comes rowlin' along down Broadway, an' th' sight av that grandshtand - full av harps, Hughey at th' head, almosht gives him heart failure. - </p> - <p> - “Fatty halts his Eyetalians, sets them to ma-a-arkin' toime, an' comes - sprintin' an' puffin' on ahead. - </p> - <p> - “'Do a sneak!' he cries, when he comes near enough to pass th' wor-r-rd. - 'Mother above! don't yez know phwat these wops av mine is cilibratin'? - It's chasin' th' pope out av Rome. Duck, I tell yez, duck!” - </p> - <p> - “Sure; Hughiy an' th' rist av th' gang took it on th' run. Fatty could - ma-a-arch all right, because there's nobody but blackhanders in his - dish-trict. But wit' Hughey an' th' others it's different. They might have - got his grace, th' archbishop, afther thim.” - </p> - <p> - “Goin' back to Teddy,” observed old Jimmy, as he called for beer, “them - rich lobsters is always stirrin' him up. An' they always gets th' worst of - it. They've never brought home th' bacon yet. Tie's put one over on 'em - every time. - </p> - <p> - “Yez can gamble that Tiddy's th' la-a-ad that can fight!” cried the Wop in - tones of glee; “he's th' baby that's always lookin' f'r an argument!” Then - in a burst, both rapturous and irrelevant: “tie's th' idol av th' criminal - illimint!” - </p> - <p> - “I don't think that's ag'inst him,” interjected the Nailer, defensively. - </p> - <p> - “Nor me neither,” said old Jimmy. “When it comes down to tacks, who's - quicker wit' th' applaudin' mitt at sight of an honest man than th' - crim'nal element?—only so he ain't bumpin' into their graft. Who is - it hisses th' villyun in th' play till you can hear him in Hoboken? Ain't - it some dub just off the Island? Once a Blind Tom show is at Minor's, an' - a souse in th' gallery is so carried away be grief at th' death of Little - Eva, he falls down two flights of stairs. I gets a flash at him as they - tosses him into th' ambulance, an' I hopes to join th' church if it ain't - a murderer I asks Judge Battery Dan to put away on Blackwell's for beatin' - up his own little girl till she can't get into her frock. Wall Streeters - an' college professors, when it comes to endorsin' an honest man, can't - take no medals off th' crim'nal element.” - </p> - <p> - “Phwy has Morgan an' th' rist av thim Wall Street geeks got it in f'r - Tiddy?” queried the Wop. “Phwat's he done to 'em?” - </p> - <p> - “Nothin'; only they claims it ain't larceny if you steal more'n a hundred - thousand dollars, an' Teddy won't stand for a limit.” - </p> - <p> - “If that's phwat they're in a clinch about, then I'm for Tiddy,” declared - the Wop. “Ain't it him, too, that says th' only difference bechune a rich - man an' a poor man is at th' bank? More power to him!—why not? Would - this beer be annythin' but beer, if it came through a spigot av go-o-old, - from a keg av silver, an' th' bar-boy had used a dia-mond-shtudded - bung-starter in tappin' it?” - </p> - <p> - Over at Slimmy's table, where the weaker sex predominated, the talk was - along lighter lines. Mollie Squint spoke in condemnation of those harem - skirts at Coney Island. - </p> - <p> - “What do youse think,” she asked, “of them she-scouts showin' up at Luna - Park in harem skirts? Coarse work that—very coarse. It goes to prove - how some frails ain't more'n half baked.” - </p> - <p> - “Why does a dame go to th' front in such togs?” asked Slimmy disgustedly. - </p> - <p> - “Because she's stuck on herself,” said the Nailer, who had drifted over - from old Jimmy and the Wop, where the talk was growing too heavy for him; - “an' besides, it's an easy way of gettin' th' spot-light. Take anything - like this harem skirt stunt, an' oodles of crazy Mollies'll fall for it. - Youse can't hand it out too raw! So if it's goin' to stir things up, an' - draw attention, they're Johnny-at-the-rat-hole every time!” - </p> - <p> - “We ladies,” remarked Jew Yetta, like a complacent Portia giving judgment, - “certainly do like to be present at th' ball game! An' if we can't beat - th' gate—can't heel in—we'll climb th' fence. Likewise, we're - right there whenever it's th' latest thing. Especially, if we've got a - face that'd stop traffic in th' street. Do youse remember”—this to - Anna Gold—“when bicycles is new, how a lot of old iron-bound - fairies, wit' maps that'd give youse a fit of sickness, never wastes a - moment in wheelin' to th' front?” - </p> - <p> - “Do I remember when bicycles is new?” retorted Anna Gold, resentfully. - “How old do youse think I be?” - </p> - <p> - “Th' Nailer's right,” said Slimmy, cutting skilfully in with a view to - keeping the peace. “Th' reason why them dames breaks in on bicycles, an' - other new deals, is because it attracts attention; an' attractin' - attention is their notion of bein' great. Which shows that they don't know - th' difference between bein' famous an' bein' notorious.” - </p> - <p> - Slimmy, having thus declared himself, looked as wise as a treeful of owls. - </p> - <p> - “Well, w'at is th' difference?” demanded Anna Gold. - </p> - <p> - “What's th' difference between fame an' notoriety?” repeated Slimmy, brow - lofty, manner high. “It's th' difference, Goldie, between havin' your - picture took at th' joint of a respectable photographer, an' bein' mugged - be th' coppers at th' Central Office. As to harem skirts, however, I'm - like Mollie there. Gen'rally speakin', I strings wit' th' loidies; but - when they springs a make-up like them harem skirts, I pack in. Harem - skirts is where I get off.” - </p> - <p> - “Of course,” said Big Kitty, who while speaking little spoke always to the - point, “youse souses understands that them dolls who shakes up Coney has - an ace buried. They're simply a brace of roof-gardeners framin' up a - little ink. I s'pose they fig-gered they'd make a hit. Did they?”—this - was in reply to Mollie Squint, who had asked the question. “Well, if - becomin' th' reason why th' bull on post rings in a riot call, an' brings - out th' resoives, is your idee of a hit, Mollie, them dames is certainly - th' big scream.” - </p> - <p> - “Them harem skirts won't do!” observed the Nailer, firmly; “youse hear me, - they won't do!” - </p> - <p> - “An' that goes f'r merry widdy hats, too,” called out the Wop, from across - the room. “Only yister-day a big fat baby rounds a corner on me, an' bang! - she ketches me in th' lamp wit' th' edge av her merry widdy. On the livil, - I thought it was a cross-cut saw! She came near bloindin' me f'r loife. As - I side-steps, a rooshter's tail that's sproutin' out av th' roof, puts me - other optic on th' blink. I couldn't have seen a shell av beer, even if - Jimmy here was payin' fer it. Harem skirts is bad; but th' real minace is - merry widdys.” - </p> - <p> - “I thought them lids was called in,” remarked Slimmy. - </p> - <p> - “If they was,” returned the Wop, “they got bailed out ag'in. Th' one I'm - nailed wit' is half as big as Betmont Pa-a-ark. Youse could 've raced a - field av two-year olds on it.” - </p> - <p> - “Well,” remarked the Nailer, resignedly, “it's th' fashion, an' it's up to - us, I s'pose, to stand it. That or get off the earth.” - </p> - <p> - “Who invints th' fashions?” and here the Wop appealed to the deep - experience of old Jimmy. - </p> - <p> - “Th' French.” - </p> - <p> - Old Jimmy—his pension had just been paid—motioned to the - waiter to again take the orders all 'round. - </p> - <p> - “Th' French. They're the laddy-bucks that shoves 'em from shore. Say - 'Fashion!' an' bing! th' French is on th' job, givin' orders.” - </p> - <p> - “Thim Frinch 're th' great la-a-ads,” commented the Wop, admiringly. - “There's a felly on'y this mornin' tellin' me they can cook shnails so's - they're almosht good to eat.” - </p> - <p> - “Tell that bug to guess ag'in, Wop,” said Mollie Squint. “Snails is never - good to eat. As far as them French are concerned, however, I go wit' old - Jimmy. They're a hot proposition.” - </p> - <p> - Jack Sirocco had been walking up and down, his manner full of uneasiness. - </p> - <p> - “What's wrong, Jack?” at last asked old Jimmy, who had observed that - proprietor's anxiety. - </p> - <p> - Sirocco explained that divers gimlet-eyed gentlemen, who he believed were - emissaries of an antivice society, had been in the place for hours. - </p> - <p> - “They only now screwed out,” continued Sirocco. Then, dolefully: “It'd be - about my luck, just as I'm beginnin' to get a little piece of change for - myself, to have some of them virchoo-toutin' ginks hand me a wallop. I - wonder w'at good it does 'em to be always tryin' to knock th' block off - somebody. I ain't got nothin' ag'inst virchoo. Vir-choo's all right in its - place. But so is vice.” - </p> - <p> - Old Jimmy's philosophy began manoeuvring for the high ground. - </p> - <p> - “This vice and virtue thing makes me tired,” he said; “there's too much of - it. Also, there's plenty to be said both ways. Th' big trouble wit' them - anti-vice dubs is that they're all th' time connin' themselves. They feel - moral when it's merely dyspepsia; they think they're virchous when they're - only sick. In th' end, too, virchoo always falls down. Virchoo never puts - a real crimp in vice yet. Virchoo's a sprinter; an' for one hundred yards - it makes vice look like a crab. But vice is a stayer, an' in th' Marathon - of events it romps in winner. Virchoo likes a rockin'-chair; vice puts in - most of its time on its feet. Virchoo belongs to th' Union; it's for th' - eight hour day, with holidays an' Saturday afternoons off. Vice is always - willin' to break th' wage schedule, work overtime or do anythin' else to - oblige. Virchoo wants two months in th' country every summer; vice never - asks for a vacation since th' world begins.” - </p> - <p> - The Wop loudly cheered old Jimmy's views. Sirocco, however, continued - gloomy. - </p> - <p> - “For,” said the latter with a sigh, “I can feel it that them anti-vice - guys has put th' high-sign on me. They'll never rest now until they've got - me number.” - </p> - <p> - Pretty Agnes, on comin' in, had taken a corner table by herself. She - heard, but did not join in the talk. She even left untouched the glass of - beer, which, at a word from old Jimmy, a waiter had placed before her. - Silent and sad, with an expression which spoke of trouble present or - trouble on its way, she sat staring into smoky space. - </p> - <p> - “W'at's wrong wit' her?” whispered Slimmy, who, high-strung and sensitive, - could be worked upon by another's troubles. - </p> - <p> - “Why don't youse ask her?” said Big Kitty. - </p> - <p> - Slimmy shook a doubtful head. “She ain't got no use for me,” he explained, - “since that trouble wit' Indian Louie.” - </p> - <p> - “She sure couldn't expect you an' th' Grabber,” remarked Anna Gold, quite - scandalized at the thought of such unfairness, “to lay dead, while Louie - does you out of all that dough!” - </p> - <p> - “It's th' rent,” said Jew Yetta. She had been canvassing Pretty Agnes out - of the corners of her eyes. “I know that look from me own experience. She - can't come across for the flat, an' some bum of an agent has handed her a - notice.” - </p> - <p> - “There's nothin' in that,” declared Mollie Squint. “She could touch me for - th' rent, an' she's hep to it.” Then, in reproof of the questioning looks - of Anna Gold: “Sure; both me an' Agnes was stuck on Indian Louie, but w'at - of that? Louie's gone; an' besides, I never blames her. It's me who's th' - butt-in; Agnes sees Louie first.” - </p> - <p> - “Youse 're wrong, Yetta,” spoke up the Nailer, confidently. “Agnes ain't - worryin' about cush. There ain't a better producer anywhere than Sammy - Hart. No one ever sees Sammy wit'out a roll.” - </p> - <p> - The Nailer lounged across to Pretty Agnes; Mollie Squint, whose heart was - kindly, followed him. - </p> - <p> - “W'y don't youse lap up your suds?” queried the Nailer, pointing to the - beer. Without waiting for a return, he continued, “Where's Sammy?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, I don't know,” returned Pretty Agnes, her manner half desperate. - “Nailer, I'm simply fretted batty!” - </p> - <p> - “W'at's gone crooked, dear?” asked Mollie Squint, soothingly. “Youse ain't - been puttin' on th' mitts wit' Sammy?” - </p> - <p> - “No,” replied Pretty Agnes, the tears beginning to flow; “me an' Sammy's - all right. On'y he won't listen!” Then suddenly pointing with her finger, - she exclaimed; “There! It's him I'm worryin' about!” - </p> - <p> - The Nailer and Mollie Squint glanced in the direction indicated by Pretty - Agnes. The Ghost had just come in and was sidling into a chair. It must be - admitted that there was much in his appearance to dislike. His lips were - loose, his eyes half closed and sleepy, while his chin was catlike, - retreating, unbased. In figure he was undersized, slope-shouldered, - slouching. When he spoke, his voice drawled, and the mumbled words fell - half-formed from the slack angles of his mouth. He was an eel—a - human eel—slippery, slimy, hard to locate, harder still to hold. To - find him you would have to draw off all the water in the pond, and then - poke about in the ooze. - </p> - <p> - “It's him that's frettin' me,” repeated Pretty Agnes. “He's got me wild!” - </p> - <p> - The Nailer donned an expression, cynical and incredulous. - </p> - <p> - “W'at's this?” said he. “W'y Agnes, youse ain't soft on that mutt, be - youse? Say, youse must be gettin' balmy!” - </p> - <p> - “It ain't that,” returned Pretty Agnes, indignantly. “Do youse think I'd - fall for such a chromo? I'd be bughouse!” - </p> - <p> - “Bughouse wouldn't half tell it!” exclaimed Mollie Squint fervently. - “Him?”—nodding towards the Ghost. “W'y he's woise'n a wet dog!” - </p> - <p> - “Well,” returned the puzzled Nailer, who with little imagination, owned - still less of sentimental breadth, “if youse ain't stuck on him, how's he - managin' to fret youse? Show me, an' I'll take a punch at his lamp.” - </p> - <p> - “Punchin' wouldn't do no good,” replied Pretty Agnes, resignedly. “This is - how it stands. Sammy an' Big Head's gettin' ready to do a <i>schlam</i> - job. They've let th' Ghost join out wit' 'em, an' I know he's goin' to - give 'em up.” - </p> - <p> - The Nailer looked grave. - </p> - <p> - “Unless youse've got somethin' on him, Agnes.” he remonstrated, “you - oughtn't to make a squawk like that. How do youse know he's goin' to rap?” - </p> - <p> - “Cause he always raps,” she cried fiercely. “Where's Mashier? Where's - Marky Price? Where's Skinny Goodstein? Up th' river!—every mother's - son of 'em! An' all his pals, once; every one! He's filled in wit' th' - best boys that ever cracked a bin. An' every one of 'em's doin' their - bits, while he's here drinkin' beer. I tell youse th' Ghost's a snitch! - Youse can see 'Copper' written on his face.” - </p> - <p> - “If I t'ought so,” growled the Nailer, an evil shine in his beady eyes, - “I'd croak him right here.” Then, as offering a solution: “If youse 're so - sure he's a stool, w'y don't youse tail him an' see if he makes a meet - wit' any bulls?” - </p> - <p> - “Tail nothin'!” scoffed Pretty Agnes, bitterly; “me mind's made up. All - I'll do is wait. If Sammy falls, it'll be th' Ghost's last rap. I know a - party who's crazy gone on me. For two weeks I've been handin' him th' ice - pitcher. All I has to do is soften up a little, an' he'll cook th' Ghost - th' minute I says th' woid.” - </p> - <p> - Pretty Agnes, as though the sight of the Ghost were too much for her - feelings, left the place. The Ghost himself, appeared uneasy, and didn't - remain long. - </p> - <p> - The Nailer turned soberly to Mollie Squint. “Do youse t'ink,” said he, - “there's anythin' in that crack of Agnes?” - </p> - <p> - “Search me!” returned Mollie Squint, conservatively. “I ain't sayin' a - woid.” - </p> - <p> - “It's funny about youse skoits,” remarked the Nailer, his manner an - imitation of old Jimmy's. “Here's Agnes talkin' of havin' th' Ghost - trimmed in case he tips off Sammy to th' dicks, an' yet when Slimmy an' - th' Grabber puts Indian Louie over th' jump, neither Agnes nor you ever so - much as yelps!” - </p> - <p> - “You don't understand,” said Mollie Squint, tolerantly. “Sammy's nice to - Agnes. Louie? Th' best he ever hands us is to sting us for our rolls, an' - then go blow 'em on that blonde. There's a big difference, Nailer, if - youse could only see it.” - </p> - <p> - “Well,” replied the Nailer, who boasted a heart untouched, “all I can say - is youse dolls are too many for me! You've got me wingin'.” - </p> - <p> - Midnight! - </p> - <p> - The theatre of operations was a cigar store, in Canal Street near the - Bowery. The Ghost was on the outside. The safe was a back number; to think - of soup would have been paying it a compliment. After an hour's work with - a can-opener, Sammy and Big Head declared themselves within ten minutes of - the money. All that remained was to batter in the inner-lining of the box. - </p> - <p> - Big Head cocked a sudden and suspicious ear. - </p> - <p> - “What's that?” he whispered. - </p> - <p> - Sammy had just reversed the can-opener, for an attack upon that sheet-iron - lining. He paused in mid-swing, and listened. - </p> - <p> - “It's a pinch,” he cried, crashing down the heavy iron tool with a - cataract of curses. “It's a pinch, an' th' Ghost is in on it. Agnes had - him right!” - </p> - <p> - It was a pinch sure enough. Even as Sammy spoke, Rocheford and Wertheimer - of the Central Office were covering them with their pistols. - </p> - <p> - “Hands up!” came from Wertheimer. - </p> - <p> - “You've got us bang right!” sighed Big Head. - </p> - <p> - Outside they found Cohen, also of the Central Office, with the ruffles on - the Ghost. - </p> - <p> - “That's only a throw-off,” sneered Sammy, pointing to the bracelets. - </p> - <p> - The Ghost began to whine. The loose lips became looser than ever, the - drooping lids drooped lower still. - </p> - <p> - “W'y, Sammy,” he remonstrated weepingly, “youse don't t'ink I'd go an' - give youse up!” - </p> - <p> - “That's all right,” retorted Sammy, with sullen emphasis. “Youse'll get - yours, Ghost.” - </p> - <p> - Had the Ghost been wise he would have remained in the Tombs; it was his - best chance. But the Ghost was-not wise. Within the week he was walking - the streets, and trying to explain a freedom which so sharply contrasted - with the caged condition of Big Head and Sammy Hart. Gangland turned its - back on him; his explanations were not received. And, sluggish and thick - as he was, Gangland made him feel it. - </p> - <p> - It was black night in University Place. The Ghost was gumshoeing his way - towards the Bridge Saloon. A taxicab came slowly crabbing along the curb. - It stopped; a quick figure slipped out and, muzzle on the very spot, put a - bullet through the base of the Ghost's brain. - </p> - <p> - The quick figure leaped back into the cab. The door slammed, and the cab - dashed off into the darkness at racing speed. - </p> - <p> - In that splinter of time required to start the cab you might have seen—had - you been near enough—two white small hands clutch with a kind of - rapturous acceptance at the quick figure, as it sprang into the cab, and - heard the eager voice of a woman saying “Promise for promise, and word for - word! Who wouldn't give soul and body for th' death of a snitch?—for - a snake that will bite no more?” - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2H_4_0010" id="link2H_4_0010"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - IX.—LITTLE BOW KUM - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">S</span>ince then no - Chinaman will go into the room. I had this from Loui Fook, himself an - eminent member of the On Leon Tong and a leading merchant of Chinatown. - Loui Fook didn't pretend to know of his own knowledge, but spoke by - hearsay. He said that the room was haunted. No one would live there, being - too wise, although the owner had lowered the rent from twenty dollars a - month to ten. Ten monthly dollars should be no inducement to live in a - place where, at odd, not to say untoward hours, you hear sounds of - scuffling and wing-beating, such as is made by a chicken when its head is - chopped off. Also, little Bow Kum's blood still stains the floor in a - broad red patch, and refuses to give way to soap and water. The wife of - the Italian janitor—who cannot afford to be superstitious, and - bemoans a room unrented—has scrubbed half through the boards in - unavailing efforts to wash away the dull red splotch. - </p> - <p> - Detective Raphael of the Central Office heard of the ghost. He thought it - would make for the moral uplift of Chinatown to explode so foolish a tale. - </p> - <p> - Yong Dok begged Raphael not to visit the haunted room where the blood of - little Bow Kum spoke in dumb, dull crimson from the floor. It would set - the ghosts to talking. - </p> - <p> - “Then come with me, and act as interpreter,” quoth Raphael, and he threw - Yong Dok over his heavy shoulder and began to climb the stairs. - </p> - <p> - Yong Dok fainted, and lay as limp as a wet bath towel. Loui Fook said that - Yong Dok would die if taken to the haunted room, so Raphael forbore and - set him down. In an hour Yong Dok had measurably recovered, but Tchin Foo - insists that he hasn't been the same man since. - </p> - <p> - Low Fong, Low Tching and Chu Wah, three hatchet men belonging to the Four - Brothers, were charged with the murder. But the coroner let Chu Wah go, - and the special sessions jury disagreed as to Low Fong and Low Tching; and - so one way and another they were all set free. - </p> - <p> - It is difficult to uncover evidence against a Chinaman. They never talk, - and their faces are as void of expression as the wrong side of a - tombstone. In only one way does a Chinaman betray emotion. When guilty, - and pressed upon by danger, a pulse beats on the under side of his arm, - just above the elbow. This is among the golden secrets known to what - Central Office men do duty along Pell, Mott and Doyers streets, but for - obvious reasons it cannot be used in court. - </p> - <p> - Although the white devils' law failed, the Chinese law was not so - powerless. Because of that murder, eight Four Brothers and five On Leon - Tongs have been shot dead. Also, slippered feet have stolen into the - sleeping rooms of offensive ones, as they dreamed of China the Celestial - far away beyond the sunset, and unseen bird-claw fingers have turned on - the white devils' gas. In this way a dozen more have died. They have - awakened in Chinatown to the merits of the white devils' gas as a method - of assassination. It bids fair to take the place of the automatic gun, - just as the latter shoved aside the old-time barbarous hatchet. - </p> - <p> - Little Bow Kum had reached her nineteenth year when she was killed. Her - husband, Tchin Len, was worth $50,000. He was more than twice as old as - little Bow Kum, and is still in Mott Street waiting for her spirit to - return and strangle her destroyers. This will one day come to pass, and he - is waiting for that day. Tchin Len has another wife in Canton, but he does - not go back to her, preferring to live in Chinatown with the memory of his - little lost Bow Kum. - </p> - <p> - Little Bow Kum was born in the Canton district, China. Her father's name - was Wong Hi. Her mother's name doesn't matter, because mothers do not - amount to much in China. As she lay in her mother's lap, a chubby, - wheat-hued baby, they named her Bow Kum, which means Sweet Flower, for - they knew she would be very beautiful. - </p> - <p> - When little Bow Kum was five years old, Wong Hi, her father, sold her for - $300. Wong Hi was poor, and $300 is a Canton fortune. Also, the sale had - its moral side, since everyone knows that children are meant to be a prop - and support to their parents. - </p> - <p> - Little Bow Kum was bought and sold, as was well understood by both Wong - Hi, the father, and the man who chinked down his hard three hundred silver - dollars as the price, with the purpose of rearing her to a profession - which, while not without honor among Orientals, is frowned upon by the - white devils, and never named by them in best society. Much pains were - bestowed upon her education; for her owner held that in the trade which at - the age of fifteen she was to take up, she should be able to paint, - embroider, quote Confucius, recite verses, and in all things be a mirror - of the graces. Thus she would be more valuable, being more attractive. - </p> - <p> - Little Bow Kum accepted her fate and made no protest, feeling no impulse - so to do. She knew that she had been sold, and knew her destiny; but she - felt no shock, was stricken by no desire to escape. What had happened and - would happen, had been for hundreds and thousands of years the life story - of a great feminine fraction of her people. Wherefore, the thought was at - home in her blood; her nature bowed to and embraced it. - </p> - <p> - Of course, from the white devils' view-point the fate designed for little - Bow Kum was as the sublimation of the immoral. But you must remember that - morality is always a question of geography and sometimes a question of - race. Climates, temperatures, also play their part. - </p> - <p> - Then, too, there is that element of support. In the tropics, where life is - lazy, easy, and one may pick a dinner from every tree, man is polygamous. - In the ice locked arctics, where one spears his dinner out of the cold, - reluctant sea, and goes days and days without it, man is polyandrous, and - one wife has many husbands. In the temperate zone, where life is neither - soft nor hard and yet folk work to live, man is monogamous, and one wife - to one husband is the only good form. - </p> - <p> - Great is latitude! - </p> - <p> - Take the business of steeping the senses in drinks or drugs. That eternal - quantity of latitude still worms its way into the equation. In the arctic - zone they drink raw alcohol, in the north temperate whiskey, in the south - temperate wine, while in the tropics they give up drinking and take to - opium, hasheesh and cocaine. - </p> - <p> - Little Bow Kum watched her fifteenth year approach—that year when - she would take up her profession—without shame, scandal or alarm. - </p> - <p> - Had you tried to show her the horrors of her situation, she wouldn't have - understood. She was beautiful beyond beauty. This she knew very well, and - was pleased to have her charms confessed. Her owner told her she was a - lamp of love, and that he would not sell her under $3,000. This of itself - was the prettiest of compliments, since he had never before asked more - than $2,000 for a girl. Koi Ton, two years older than herself, had brought - just $2,000; and Koi Ton was acknowledged to be a vision from heaven. And - so when Bow Kum learned that her price was to be $3,000, a glow overspread - her—a glow which comes to beauty when it feels itself supreme. - </p> - <p> - Little Bow Kum was four feet tall, and weighed only seventy pounds. Her - color was the color of old ivory—that is, if you can imagine old - ivory with the flush and blush of life. She had rose-red lips, onyx eyes, - and hair as black as a crow's wing. One day her owner went mad with opium. - As he sat and looked at her, and her star-like beauty grew upon him, he - struck her down with a bamboo staff. This frightened him; for he saw that - if he kept her he would kill her because of her loveliness. So, knowing - himself and fearing her beauty, he sent little Bow Kum to San Francisco, - and never laid eyes on her again. - </p> - <p> - Having ripened into her fifteenth year, and the value of girls being up in - San Francisco, little Bow Kum brought the price—$3,000—which - her owner had fixed for her. She kissed the hand of Low Hee Tong, her new - owner; and, having been adorned to the last limit of Chinese coquetry, - went with him to a temple, dedicated to some Mongolian Venus, which he - maintained in Ross Alley. Here little Bow Kum lived for nearly four years. - </p> - <p> - Low Hee Tong, the Ross Alley owner of little Bow Kum, got into trouble - with the police. Something he did or failed to do—probably the - latter—vastly disturbed them. With that, waxing moral, they decided - that Low Hee Tong's Temple of Venus in Ross Alley was an eyesore, and must - be wiped out. - </p> - <p> - And so they pulled it. - </p> - <p> - Little Bow Kum—so small, so much the rose-flower which her name - implied—aroused the concern of the judge. He gave her to a Christian - mission, which years before had pitched its tent in Frisco's Chinatown - with a hope of saving Mongol souls, which hope had failed. Thereafter - little Bow Kum lived at the mission, and not in Ross Alley, and was chaste - according to the ice-bound ideals of the white devils. - </p> - <p> - The mission was ruled over by a middle-aged matron with a Highland name. - This good woman was beginning to wonder what she should do with little Bow - Kum, when that almond-eyed floweret came preferring a request. Little Bow - Kum, while dwelling in Ross Alley, had met Tchin Len and thought him nice. - Tchin Len owned a truck-farm near Stockton, and was rich. Would the - Highland matron, in charge of the mission, write a letter to Tchin Len, - near Stockton, and ask that bewitching truck-gardener to come down and see - little Bow Kum? - </p> - <p> - “Because,” explained little Bow Kum, in her peculiar English, “I likee - Tchin Len to mally me.” - </p> - <p> - The Highland matron considered. A husband in the case of little Bow Kum - would supply a long-felt want. Also, no harm, even if no good, could flow - from Tchin Len's visit, since she, the Highland matron, sternly purposed - being present while Tchin Len and little Bow Kum conferred. - </p> - <p> - The matron wrote the letter, and Tchin Len came down to San Francisco. He - and little Bow Kum talked quietly in a language which the managing matron - did not understand. But she knew the signs; and therefore when, at the - close of the conversation, they explained that they had decided upon a - wedding, she was not astonished. She gave them her blessing, about which - they cared nothing, and they pledged each other their faith after the - Chinese manner—which is curious, but unimportant here—about - which they cared much. - </p> - <p> - Tchin Len went back to his Stockton truck garden, to put his house in - order against the wifely advent of little Bow Kum. It is not of record - that Tchin Len said anything about his Canton wife. The chances are that - he didn't. A Chinaman is no great hand to mention his domestic affairs to - anybody. Moreover, a wife more or less means nothing to him. It is - precisely the sort of thing he would forget; or, remembering, make no - reference to, lest you vote him a bore. What looks like concealment is - often only politeness, and goodbreeding sometimes wears the face of fraud. - </p> - <p> - It was settled that Tchin Len should marry little Bow Kum, and the latter, - aided and abetted by the watchful mission matron, waited for the day. - Affairs had reached this stage when the unexpected came rapping at the - door. Low Hee Tong, who paid $3,000 for little Bow Kum and claimed to own - her, had been keeping an eye on his delicate chattel. She might be living - at the mission, but he no less bore her upon the sky-line of his - calculations. Likewise he knew about the wedding making ready with Tchin - Len. He didn't object. He simply went to Tchin Len and asked for $3,000. - It was little enough, he said; especially when one considered that—excluding - all others—he would convey to Tchin Len in perpetuity every right in - and to little Bow Kum, who was so beautiful that she was hated by the - moon. - </p> - <p> - Tchin Len said the price was low enough; that is, if Low Hee Tong - possessed any interest in little Bow Kum to convey, which he doubted. - Tchin Len explained that he would talk things over with the mission matron - of the Highland name, and later let Low Hee Tong know. - </p> - <p> - Low Hee Tong said that this arrangement was agreeable, so long as it was - understood that he would kill both Tchin Len and little Bow Kum in case he - didn't get the money. - </p> - <p> - Tchin Len, after telling little Bow Kum, laid the business before the - mission matron with the Highland name. Naturally, she was shocked. She - said that she was amazed at the effrontery of Low Hee Tong! Under the - white devils' law he couldn't possess and therefore couldn't pretend to - any title in little Bow Kum. Tchin Len would be wild to pay him $3,000. - Low Hee Tong was lucky to be alive!—only the mission matron didn't - put it in precisely these words. If Tchin Len had $3,000 which he didn't - need, he might better contribute it to the mission which had sheltered his - little Bow Kum. It would be criminal to lavish it upon a yellow Pagan, who - threatened to shed blood. - </p> - <p> - Tchin Len heard this with pigtailed phlegm and politeness, and promised to - think about it. He said that it would give him no joy to endow Low Hee - Tong with $3,000; he was willing that much should be understood. - </p> - <p> - Little Bow Kum was placidly present at the discussion. When it ended she - placidly reminded Tchin Len that he knew what she knew, namely, that he in - all probability, and she in all certainty, would be killed if Low Hee - Tong's claim were refused. Tchin Len sighed and confessed that this was - true. For all that, influenced by the mission matron with the Highland - name, he was loth to give up the $3,000. Little Bow Kum bent her - flower-like head. Tchin Len's will was her law, though as the penalty of - such sweet submission death, bitter death, should be her portion. - </p> - <p> - Tchin Len and the mission matron held several talks; and Tchin Len and Low - Hee Tong held several talks. But the latter did not get the $3,000. Still - he threatened and hoped on. It was beyond his Chinese, comprehension that - Tchin Len could be either so dishonest or so dull as not to pay him that - money. Tchin Len was rich, and no child. Yes; he would pay. And Low Hee - Tong, confident of his position, made ready his opium layout for a good - smoke. - </p> - <p> - The mission matron and Tchin Len hit upon a plan. Tchin Len would privily - marry little Bow Kum—that must precede all else. Upon that point of - wedding bells, the mission matron was as moveless as Gibraltar. The knot - tied, Tchin Len should sell out his Stockton truck-farm and move to New - York. Then he was to send money, and the mission matron was to outfit - little Bow Kum and ship her East. With the wretched Low Hee Tong in San - Francisco, and Tchin Len and little Bow Kum in far New York, an - intervening stretch of three thousand five hundred miles might be expected - to keep the peace. - </p> - <p> - Tchin Len and little Bow Kum were married. A month later, Tchin Len left - for New York with $50,000 under his bridal blouse. He settled down in Mott - Street, dispatched New York exchange for $800 to the mission matron, who - put little Bow Kum aboard the Overland Express at Oakland, together with - three trunks and a ticket. Little Bow Kum arrived in due and proper time, - and Tchin Len—who met her in Jersey City—after saluting her in - the Chinese fashion, which is cold and lacks enthusiasm, bore her away to - Seventeen Mott, where he had prepared for her a nest. - </p> - <p> - There are three septs among Chinamen. These are the On Leon Tong, the Hip - Sing Tong and the Four Brothers. The two first are associations; the last - is a fraternity. You can join the Hip Sing Tong or the On Leon Tong. Your - sole chance of becoming a Four Brother lies in being born into the tribe. - </p> - <p> - Loui Fook told me these things late one night in the Port Arthur - restaurant, where the red lamps glow and there is an all-pervading smell - of preserved ginger, and added that the Four Brothers was very ancient. - Its sources were lost in the dimmest vistas of Chinese antiquity, said - Loui Fook. - </p> - <p> - “One thousand years old?” I asked. - </p> - <p> - “Much older.” - </p> - <p> - “Five thousand?” - </p> - <p> - “Much older.” - </p> - <p> - “Ten thousand?” - </p> - <p> - “Maybe!” - </p> - <p> - From which I inferred that the Four Brothers had beheld the dawn and death - of many centuries. - </p> - <p> - Every member of the Four Brothers is to be known by his name. When you cut - the slippered trail of a Chinaman whose name begins with Low or Chu or - Tching or Quong, that Chinaman is a Four Brothers. A Chinaman's first name - is his family name. In this respect he runs counter to the habit of the - white devils; just as he does in the matter of shirts, which the white - devil tucks in and the Chinaman does not. Wherefore, the names of Low, - Chu, Tching and Quong, everywhere the evidence of the Four Brothers, are - family names. - </p> - <p> - Loui Fook gave me the origin of the Four Brothers—he himself is an - On Leon Tong. Many thousands of years ago a Chinaman was travelling. - Dusty, weary, he sat down by a well. His name was Low. Another - travel-stained Chinaman joined him. They talked, and liked each other - much. The second traveler's name was Chu. Then a third sat down, and the - three talked and liked each other much. His name was Tching. Lastly, came - a fourth Chinaman, and the weary dust lay deep upon his sandals. His name - was Quong. He was equally talked to by the others, and by them equally - well liked. They—the four—decided, as they parted, that - forever and forever they and their descendants should be as brothers. - </p> - <p> - Wherefore the Four Brothers. - </p> - <p> - Low Hee Tong was a member of the Four Brothers—a descendant of the - earliest Chinaman at that well, back in the world's morning. When he found - that Tchin Len had married little Bow Kum and stolen her away to New York, - his opium turned bitter and he lost his peace of mind. Low Hee Tong wrote - a Chinese letter, giving the story of his injuries, and sent it via the - white devils' mails to Low Hee Jit, chief of the Four Brothers. - </p> - <p> - Low Hee Jit laid the case before Lee Tcin Kum, chief of the On Leon Tong. - The wise men of the On Leon Tong appointed a hearing. Low Hee Jit came - with the wise men of the Four Brothers to the company rooms of the On Leon - Tong. Tchin Len and little Bow Kum were there. The question was, should - the On Leon Tong command Tchin Len to pay Low Hee Tong $3,000—the - price of little Bow Kum? - </p> - <p> - Lee Tcin Kum and the wise men of the On Leon Tong, after long debate, said - that Tchin Len should pay Low Hee Tong nothing. And they argued after this - wise. The white devils' law had taken hold of little Bow Kum, and - destroyed Low Hee Tong's title. She was no longer his property. She might - marry whom she would, and the bridegroom owe Low Hee Tong nothing. - </p> - <p> - This was in the On Leon Tong's Company rooms in Mott Street. - </p> - <p> - Low Hee Jit and the wise men of the Four Brothers opposed this. - Particularly they declined the white devils' laws as of controlling pith - and moment. Why should a Chinaman heed the white devils' laws? The white - devils were the barbarous inferiors of the Chinese. The latter as a race - had long ago arrived. For untold ages they had been dwelling upon the - highest peaks of all possible human advancement. The white devils, - centuries behind, were still blundering about among the foothills far - below. It was an insult, between Chinaman and Chinaman, for Lee Tcin Kum - and the wise men of the On Leon Tong to quote the white devils' laws, or - assume to yield them respect. - </p> - <p> - With this the council broke up. - </p> - <p> - War was declared by the Four Brothers against the On Leon Tong, and the - dead-walls of Chinatown were plastered with the declaration. Since the - white devils could not read Chinese, they knew nothing of all this. But - the On Leon Tong knew, and the Four Brothers knew, and both sides began - bringing in their hatchet-men. - </p> - <p> - When a Chinaman is bent on killing, he hires an assassin. This is not - cowardice, but convenience. The assassin never lives in the town where the - killing is to occur. He is always imported. This is to make detection - difficult. The Four Brothers and the On Leon Tong brought in their - hatchet-men from Chicago, from Boston, from Pittsburg, from Philadelphia. - </p> - <p> - Some impression of the extent of this conscription might be gathered from - the following: When last New Year the On Leon Tong gave a public dinner at - the Port Arthur, thirty hatchet-men were on the roof and eighty in the - street. This was to head off any attempt the Four Brothers might make to - blow that banquet up. I received the above from an esteemed friend of - mine, who was a guest at the dinner, but left when told what profuse - arrangements had been made to insure his skin. - </p> - <p> - Tchin Len and little Bow Kum kept up the fires of their love at Seventeen - Mott. They took their daily chop suey and sharkfin, not to mention their - bird's-nest soup, across the way at Twenty-two with their friends, Sam Lee - and Yong Dok. - </p> - <p> - It was a showery, August afternoon. Tchin Len had been all day at his - store, and little Bow Kum was sitting alone in their room. Dismal as was - the day outside, the room showed pleasant and bright. There were - needlework screens, hangings of brocade and silk, vases of porcelain, - statuettes in jade. The room was rich—a scene of color and Chinese - luxury. - </p> - <p> - Little Bow Kum was the room's best ornament—with her jade bracelets, - brocade jacket, silken trousers, golden girdle, and sandaled feet as small - as the feet of a child of six. It would be twenty minutes before the - Chinese dinner hour, when she was to join Tchin Len across the street, and - she drew out pen and ink and paper that she might practice the white - devils' way of writing; and all with the thought of some day sending a - letter of love and gratitude to the mission matron with the Highland name. - </p> - <p> - So engrossed was little Bow Kum that she observed nothing of the soft - opening of the door, or the dark savage face which peered through. The - murderer crept upon her as noiselessly as a shadow. There was a hawk-'like - swoop. About the slender throat closed a grip of steel. The fingers were - long, slim, strong. She could not cry out. The dull glimmer of a Chinese - knife—it was later picked up in the hall, a-drip with blood—flashed - before her frightened eyes. She made a convulsive clutch, and the blade - was drawn horribly through her baby fingers. - </p> - <p> - Over across, not one hundred feet away, sat Tchin Len and his two friends - in the eating room of Twenty-two. It was a special day, and they would - have chicken and rice. This made them impatient for the advent of little - Bow Kum. She was already ten minutes behind the hour. His friends rallied - Tchin Len about little Bow Kum, and evolved a Chinese joke to the effect - that he was a slave to her beauty and had made a foot-rest of his heart - for her little feet. Twenty minutes went by, and his friends had grown too - hungry to jest. - </p> - <p> - Tchin Len went over to Seventeen, to bring little Bow Kum. As he pushed - open the door, he saw the little silken brocaded form, like a child - asleep, lying on the floor. Tchin Len did not understand; he thought - little Bow Kum was playing with him. - </p> - <p> - Poor little Bow Kum. - </p> - <p> - The lean fingers had torn the slender throat. Her baby hand was cut half - in two, where the knife had been snatched away. The long blade had been - driven many times through and through the little body. A final slash, - hari-kari fashion and all across, had been the awful climax. - </p> - <p> - His friends found Tchin Len, seated on the floor, with little Bow Kum in - his arms. Grief was neither in his eyes nor in his mouth, for his mind, - like his heart, had been made empty. - </p> - <p> - Tchin Len waits for the vengeance of little Bow Kum to fall upon her - murderers. Some say that Tchin Len was a fool for not paying Low Hee Tong - the $3,000. Some call him dishonest. All agree that the cross-fire of - killings, which has raged and still rages because of it, can do little Bow - Kum no good. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2H_4_0011" id="link2H_4_0011"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - X.—THE COOKING OF CRAZY BUTCH - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>his is not so much - to chronicle the bumping off of Crazy Butch, as to open a half-gate of - justice in the maligned instance of the Darby Kid. There is subdued - excitement in and about the Central Office. There is more excitement, - crossed with a color of bitterness, in and about the Chatham Club. The - Central Office, working out a tip, believes it has cut the trail of Harry - the Soldier, who, with Dopey Benny, is wanted for the killing of Crazy - Butch. The thought which so acrimoniously agitates the Chatham Club is - “Who rapped?” with the finger of jealous suspicion pointing sourly at the - Darby Kid. - </p> - <p> - That you be not misled in an important particular, it is well perhaps to - explain that the Darby Kid is a girl—a radiant girl—and in her - line as a booster, a girl of gold. She deeply loved Crazy Butch, having - first loved Harry the Soldier. If she owned a fault, it was that in - matters of the heart she resembled the heroine of the flat boatman's - muse.= - </p> - <p> - ```There was a womern in our town - </p> - <p> - ````In our town did dwell. - </p> - <p> - ```She loved her husband dear-i-lee - </p> - <p> - ````An' another man twict as well.= - </p> - <p> - But that is not saying she would act as stool-pigeon. To charge that the - Darby Kid turned copper, and wised up the Central Office dicks concerning - the whereabouts of Harry the Soldier, is a serious thing. The imputation - is a grave one. Even the meanest ought not to be disgraced as a snitch in - the eyes of all Gangland, lightly and upon insufficient evidence. There - were others besides the Darby Kid who knew how to locate Harry the - Soldier. Might not one of these have given a right steer to the bulls? Not - that the Darby Kid can be pictured as altogether blameless. She - indubitably did a foolish thing. Having received that letter, she should - never have talked about it. Such communications cannot be kept too secret. - Some wretched talebearer must have been lounging about the Chatham Club. - Why not? The Chatham Club can no more guarantee the character of its - patrons than can the Waldorf-Astoria. - </p> - <p> - The evening was a recent one. It was also dull. There wasn't an overflow - of customers, hardly enough in waiting on them, to take the stiffness out - of Nigger Mike's knees. - </p> - <p> - It was nine of the clock, and those two inseparables, the Irish Wop and - old Jimmy, sat in their usual chairs. The Wop spoke complainingly of the - poolroom trade, which was even duller than trade at the Chatham Club. - </p> - <p> - “W'at wit' killin' New York racin',” said the Wop dismally, “an' w'at wit' - raidin' a guy's joint every toime some av them pa-a-pers makes a crack, - it's got th' poolrooms on th' bum. For meself I'm thinkin' av closin'. - Every day I'm open puts me fifty dollars on th' nut. An' Jimmy, I've about - med up me moind to put th' shutters up.” - </p> - <p> - “Mebby you're in wrong with th' organization.” - </p> - <p> - “Tammany? Th' more you shtand in wit' Tammany, th' ha-a-arder you get - slugged.” - </p> - <p> - Old Jimmy signalled to Nigger Mike for beer. “Over to th' Little Hungary - last night,” remarked old Jimmy casually, “them swell politicians has a - dinner. I was there.” - </p> - <p> - The last came off a little proudly. - </p> - <p> - “They tell me,” said the Wop with a deprecatory shrug, “that Cha-a-arley - Murphy was there, too, an' that Se-r-rgeant Cram had to go along to heel - an' handle him. I can remimber whin chuck steak an' garlic is about - Cha-a-arley's speed. Now, whin he's bushtin' 'em open as Chief av Tammany - Hall, it's an indless chain av champagne an' tur'pin an' canvashback, with - patty-de-foy-grass as a chaser.” - </p> - <p> - Old Jimmy shook a severe yet lofty head. “If some guy tells you, Wop, that - Charley needs anybody in his corner at a dinner that guy's stringin' you. - Charley can see his way through from napkins to toothpicks, as well as old - Chauncey Depew. There's a lot of duffers goin' 'round knockin' Charlie. - They're sore just because he's gettin' along, see? They'll tell you how if - you butt him up ag'inst a dinner table, he'll about give you an imitation - of a blind dog in a meat-shop—how he'll try to eat peas with a knife - an' let 'em roll down his sleeve an' all that. So far as them hoboes - knockin' Charley goes, it's to his credit. You don't want to forget, Wop, - they never knock a dead one.” - </p> - <p> - “In th' ould gas house days,” enquired the Wop, “wasn't Cha-a-arley a - conducthor on wan av th' crosstown ca-a-ars?” - </p> - <p> - “He was! an' a good one too. That's where he got his start. He quit 'em - when they introduced bell punches; an' I don't blame him! Them big - companies is all alike. Which of 'em'll stand for it to give a workin' man - a chance?” - </p> - <p> - “Did thim la-a-ads lasht night make spaches?” - </p> - <p> - “Speeches? Nothin' but Trusts is to be th' issue this next pres'dential - campaign.” - </p> - <p> - “Now about thim trushts? I've been wantin' to ashk yez th' long time. I've - been hearin' av trushts for tin years, an' Mary save me! if I'd know wan - if it was to come an' live next dure.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, Wop,” returned old Jimmy engigmatically, “a trust is anything you - don't like—only so it's a corp'ration. So long as it stands in with - you an' you like it, it's all right, see? But once it takes to handin' you - th' lemon, it's a trust.” - </p> - <p> - “Speakin' av th' pris'dency, it looks loike this fat felly Taft's out to - get it in th' neck.” - </p> - <p> - “Surest ever! Th' trusts is sore on him; an' th' people is sore on him. - He's a frost at both ends of th' alley.” - </p> - <p> - “W'at crabbed him?” - </p> - <p> - “Too small in th' hat-band, too big in th' belt. Them republicans better - chuck Taft in th' discard an' take up Teddy. There's a live one! There's - th' sturdy plow-boy of politics who'd land 'em winner!” - </p> - <p> - The Nailer came strolling in and pulled up a chair. - </p> - <p> - “Roosevelt, Jimmy,” said he, “couldn't make th' run. Don't he start th' - argument himself, th' time he's elected, sayin' it's his second term an' - he'll never go out for th' White House goods again?” - </p> - <p> - “Shure he did,” coincided the Wop. “An' r-r-right there he give himsilf - th' gate. You're right, Nailer; he's barred.” - </p> - <p> - “Teddy oughtn't to have got off that bluff about not runnin' ag'in,” - observed old Jimmy thoughtfully. “He sees it himself now. Th' next day - after he makes his crack, a friend of mine, who's down to th' White House, - asks him about it; is it for the bleachers,' says my friend, 'or does it - go?' - </p> - <p> - “'Oh, it goes!' says Teddy. - </p> - <p> - “'Then,' says my friend, 'you'll pardon me, but I don't think it was up to - you to say it. It may wind up by puttin' everybody an' everything in - Dutch. No sport can know what he'll want to do, or what he ought to do, - four years ahead. Bein' pres'dent now, with four years to draw to, you can - no more tell whether or no you'll want to repeat than you can tell what - you'll want for dinner while you're eatin' lunch. Once I knew a guy who's - always ready to swear off whiskey, when he's half full. Used to chase - round to th' priest, on his own hunch; to sign th' pledge, every time he - gets a bun. Bein' soaked, he feels like he'll never want another drink. - After he'd gone without whiskey a couple of days, however, he'd wake up to - it that he's been too bigoted. He'd feel that he's taken too narrow a view - of th' liquor question, an' commence to see things in their true colors.' - That's what my friend told him. And now that Teddy's show-in' signs, I've - wondered whether he recalls them warnin' words.” - </p> - <p> - “W'at'll th' demmycrats do?” asked the Nailer. “Run Willyum Jennin's?” - </p> - <p> - “They will,” retorted the Wop scornfully, “if they want to get th' hoot. - Three toimes has this guy Bryan run—an' always f'r th' end book. - D'yez moind, Jimmy, how afther th' Denver Convention lie cha-a-ases down - to th' depot to shake ha-a-ands wit' Cha-a-arley Murphy? There's no class - to that! Would Washin'ton have done it?—Would Jefferson?” - </p> - <p> - “How was he hoited be shakin' hands wit' Murphy?” - </p> - <p> - The Nailer's tones were almost defiant. He had been brought up with a - profound impression of the grandeur of Tammany Hall. - </p> - <p> - “How was he hur-r-rted? D'yez call it th' cun-nin' play f'r him to be at - th' depot, hand stretched out, an' yellin' 'Mitt me, Cha-a-arley, mitt - me?' Man aloive, d'yez think th' country wants that koind av a ska-a-ate - in th' White House?” - </p> - <p> - The acrid emphasis of the Wop was so overwhelming that it swept the Nailer - off his feet. - </p> - <p> - The Wop resumed: - </p> - <p> - “Wan thing, that depot racket wasn't th' way to carry New York. Th' way to - bring home th' darby in th' Empire Shtate is to go to th' flure wit' - Tammany at th' ringin' av th' gong. How was it Cleveland used to win? Was - it be makin' a pet av Croker, or sendin' th' organization flowers? An' yez - don't have to be told what happened to Cleveland. An' Tammany, moind yez, - tryin' to thump his proshpecks on th' nut ivery fut av th' way! If Willyum - Jinnin's had been th' wise fowl, he'd have took his hunch fr'm th' career - av Cleveland, an' rough-housed Tammany whiniver an' wheriver found. If - he'd only knocked Tammany long enough an' ha-a-ard enough, he'd have had - an anchor-nurse on th' result.” - </p> - <p> - “This sounds like treason, Wop,” said old Jimmy in tones of mock reproach. - “Croker was boss in th' Cleveland days. You'll hardly say that Charlie - ain't a better chief than Croker?” - </p> - <p> - “Jimmy, there's as much difference bechune ould man Croker an' Cha-a-arley - Murphy as bechune a buffalo bull an' a billy-goat. To make Murphy chief - was loike settin' a boy to carryin' hod. While yez couldn't say f'r shure - whether he'd fall fr'm th' laddher or simply sit down wit' th' hod, it's a - cinch he'd niver get th' bricks to th' scaffold. Murphy's too busy - countin' th' buttons on his Prince Albert, an' balancin' th' gold - eye-glasshes on th' ridge av his nose, to lave him anny toime f'r - vict'ry.” - </p> - <p> - “While youse guys,” observed the Nailer, with a great air of knowing - something, “is indulgin' in your spiels about Murphy, don't it ever strike - youse that he's out to make Gaynor pres'dent?” - </p> - <p> - “Gaynor?” repeated old Jimmy, in high offence. “Do you think Charlie's - balmy? If it ever gets so that folks of th' Gaynor size is looked on as - big enough for th' presidency, I for one shall retire to th' booby house - an' devote th' remainder of an ill-spent life to cuttin' paper dolls. An' - yet, Nailer, I oughtn't to wonder at youse either for namin' him. There's - a Demmycrat Club mutt speaks to me about that very thing at th' Little - Hungary dinner.” - </p> - <p> - “'Gaynor is a college graduate,' says the Demmycrat Clubber. 'Is he?' says - I. 'Well then he ought to chase around to that college an' make 'em give - him back his money. They swindled him.' 'Look at th' friends he has!' says - th' Clubber. 'I've been admirin' 'em,' I says. 'What with one thing an' - another, them he's appointed to office has stole everything but th' back - fence.' 'But didn't Croker, in his time, hook him up with Tammany Hall?' - says th' Clubber; 'that ought to show you!' 'Croker did,' says I; 'it's an - old Croker trick. Croker was forever get-tin' th' Gaynors an' th' - Shepherds an' th' Astor-Chanlers an' th' Cord Meyers an' all them - high-fly-in' guys into Tammany. He does it for th' same reason they puts a - geranium in a tenement house window.' 'An' w'at may that be?' asks the - Clubber. 'Th' geranium's intended,' says I, 'to engage th' eye of th' - Health Inspector, an' distract his attention from th' drain.'” - </p> - <p> - The Darby Kid, a bright dancing light in her eyes and all a-flutter, - rushed in. The Nailer crossed over to a table at which sat Mollie Squint. - The Darby Kid joined them. - </p> - <p> - “W'at do youse think?” cried the Darby Kid. “I'm comin' out of me flat - when th' postman slips me a letter from Harry th' Soldier.” - </p> - <p> - “Where is he?” asked Mollie Squint. - </p> - <p> - “That's th' funny part. He's in th' Eyetalian Army, an' headed for Africa. - That's a fine layout, I don't think! An' he says I'm th' only goil he ever - loves, an' asts me to join him! Ain't he got his nerve?” - </p> - <p> - “W'y? You ain't mad because he croaks Butch?” - </p> - <p> - “No. But me for Africa!—the ideer!” - </p> - <p> - “About Dopey Benny?” said the Nailer. - </p> - <p> - “Harry says Benny got four spaces in Canada. It's a bank trick—tryin' - to blow a box in Montreal or somethin'.” - </p> - <p> - “Then you won't join Harry?” remarked Mollie Squint. - </p> - <p> - “In Africa? When I do, I'll toin mission worker.” - </p> - <p> - The next day the Central Office knew all that the Darby Kid knew as to - Harry the Soldier. But why say it was she who squealed? The Nailer and - Mollie Squint were quite as well informed as herself, having read Harry's - letter. - </p> - <p> - To begin at the foundation and go to the eaves—which is the only - right way to build either a house or a story. Crazy Butch had reached his - twenty-eighth year, when he died and was laid to rest in accordance with - the ceremonial of his ancient church. He was a child of the East Side, and - his vices out-topped his virtues upon a principle of sixteen to one. - </p> - <p> - The parents of Butch may be curtly dismissed as unimportant. They gave him - neither care nor guidance, but left him to grow up, a moral straggler, in - what tangled fashion he would. Never once did they show him the moral way - in which he should go. Not that Butch would have taken it if they had. - </p> - <p> - To Butch, as to Gangland in general, morality was as so much lost motion. - And, just as time-is money among honest folk, so was motion money with - Butch and his predatory kind. Old Jimmy correctly laid down the Gangland - position, which was Butch's position. Said old Jimmy: - </p> - <p> - “Morality is all to the excellent for geeks with dough to burn an' time to - throw away. It's right into the mitts of W'ite Chokers, who gets paid for - bein' good an' hire out to be virchuous for so much a year. But of what - use is morality to a guy along the Bowery? You could take a cartload of it - to Simpson's, an' you couldn't get a dollar on it.” - </p> - <p> - Not much was known of the childhood of Butch, albeit his vacuous lack of - book knowledge assisted the theory that little or less of it had been - passed in school. Nor was that childhood a lengthy one, for fame began - early to collect upon Butch's scheming brow. He was about the green and - unripe age of thirteen when he went abroad into the highways and byways of - the upper city and stole a dog of the breed termed setter. This animal he - named Rabbi, and trained as a thief. - </p> - <p> - Rabbi, for many months, was Butch's meal ticket. The method of their - thievish procedure was simple but effective. Butch—Rabbi alertly at - his godless heels—would stroll about the streets looking for prey. - When some woman drifted by, equipped of a handbag of promise, Butch - pointed out the same to the rascal notice of Rabbi. After which the - discreet Butch withdrew, the rest of it—as he said—being up to - Rabbi. - </p> - <p> - Rabbi followed the woman, his abandoned eye on the hand-bag. Watching his - chance, Rabbi rushed the woman and dexterously whisked the handbag from - out her horrified fingers. Before the woman realized her loss, Rabbi had - raced around a nearest corner and was lost to all pursuit. Fifteen minutes - later he would find Butch at Willett and Stanton Streets, and turn over - the touch. - </p> - <p> - Rabbi hated a policeman like a Christian. The sight of one would send him - into growling, snarling, hiding. None the less, like all great characters, - Rabbi became known; and, in the end, through some fraud which was - addressed to his softer side and wherein a canine Delilah performed, he - Avas betrayed into the clutches of the law. - </p> - <p> - This mischance marked the close, as a hanger-snatcher, of the invaluable - Rabbi's career. Not that the plain-clothes people who caught him affixed a - period to his doggish days. Even a plains-clothes man isn't entirely hard. - Rabbi's captors merely found him a home in the Catskills, where he spent - his days in honor and his nights in sucking unsuspected eggs. - </p> - <p> - When Rabbi was retired to private life, Butch, in his bread-hunting, - resolved to seek new paths. Among the cruder crimes is house-breaking and - to it the amateur law-breaker most naturally turns. Butch became a - house-worker with special reference to flats. - </p> - <p> - In the beginning, Butch worked in the day time, or as they say in - Gangland, “went out on <i>skush.</i>” Hating the sun, however, as all true - criminals, must, he shifted to night jobs, and took his dingy place in the - ranks of viciousness as a <i>schlamwerker</i>. As such he turned off - houses, flats and stores, taking what Fate sent him. Occasionally he - varied the dull monotony of simple burglary by truck-hopping. - </p> - <p> - Man cannot live by burglary alone, and Butch was not without his - gregarious side. Seeking comradeship, he united himself with the Eastman - gang. As a gangster he soon distinguished himself. He fought like a - berserk; and it was a sort of war-frenzy, which overtook him in battle, - that gave him his honorable prefix. - </p> - <p> - Monk Eastman thought well of Butch. Not even Ike the Blood stood nearer - than did Butch to the heart of that grim gang captain. Eastman's weakness - was pigeons. When he himself went finally to Sing Sing, he asked the court - to permit him another week in the Tombs, so that he might find a father - for his five hundred feathered pets. - </p> - <p> - In the days when Butch came to strengthen as well as ornament his forces, - Eastman kept a bird store in Broome Street, under the New Irving Hall. - Eastman also rented bicycles. Those who thirsted to stand well with him - were sedulous to ride a wheel. They rented these uneasy engines of - Eastman, with the view of drawing to themselves that leader's favor. - Butch, himself, was early astride a bicycle. One time and another he paid - into Eastman's hands the proceeds of many a <i>shush</i> or <i>schlam</i> - job; and all for the calf-developing privilege of pedalling about the - streets. - </p> - <p> - Butch conceived an idea which peculiarly endeared him to Eastman. In - Forsyth Street was a hall, and Butch—renting the same—organized - an association which, in honorable advertisement of his chief's trade of - pigeons and bicycles, he called the Squab-Wheelmen. Eastman himself stood - godfather to this club, and at what times he reposed himself from his bike - and pigeon labors, played pool in its rooms. - </p> - <p> - There occurred that which might have shaken one less firmly established - than Butch. As it was, it but solidified him and did him good. The world - will remember the great gang battle, fought at Worth and Center Streets, - between the Eastmans and the Five Points. The merry-making was put an end - to by those spoil sports, the police, who, as much without noble - sympathies as chivalric instincts, drove the contending warriors from the - field at the point of their night sticks. - </p> - <p> - Brief as was the fray, numerous were the brave deeds done. On one side or - the other, the Dropper, the Nailer, Big Abrams, Ike the Blood, Slimmy, - Johnny Rice, Jackeen Dalton, Biff Ellison and the Grabber distinguished - themselves. As for Butch, he was deep within the warlike thick of things, - and no one than he came more to the popular front. - </p> - <p> - Sequential to that jousting, a thought came to Butch. The Squab-Wheelmen - were in nightly expectation of an attack from the Five Pointers. By way of - testing their valor, and settle definitely, in event of trouble, who would - stick and who would duck, Butch one midnight, came rushing up the - stairway, which led to the club rooms, blazing with two pistols at once. - Butch had prevailed upon five or six others, of humor as jocose as his - own, to assist, and the explosive racket the party made in the narrow - stairway was all that heart could have wished. It was comparable only to a - Mott Street Chinese New Year's, as celebrated in front of the Port Arthur. - </p> - <p> - There were sixty members in the rooms of the Squab-Wheelmen when Butch led - up his feigned attack, and it is discouraging to relate that most if not - all of them fled. Little Kishky, sitting in a window, was so overcome that - he fell out backwards, and broke his neck. Some of those who fled, by way - of covering their confusion, were inclined to make a deal of the death of - Little Kishky and would have had it set to the discredit of Butch. - Gangland opinion, however, was against them. If Little Kishky hadn't been - a quitter, he would never have fallen out. Butch was not only exonerated - but applauded. He had devised—so declared Gangland—an ideal - method of separating the sheep who would fly from the goats who would stay - and stand fire. - </p> - <p> - Then, too, there was the laugh. - </p> - <p> - Gangland was quick to see the humorous side; and since humanity is prone - to decide as it laughs, Gangland overwhelmingly declared in favor of - Butch. - </p> - <p> - It was about this time that Butch found himself in a jam. His <i>schlam</i> - work had never been first class. It was the want of finish to it which - earned him the name of Butch. The second night after his stampede of the - Squab-Wheelmen, his clumsiness in a Brooklyn flat woke up a woman, who - woke up the neighborhood. Whereupon, the neighborhood rushed in and sat - upon the body of Butch, until the police came to claim him. Subsequently, - a Kings County judge saw his way clear to send Butch up the river for four - weary years. And did. - </p> - <p> - Butch was older and soberer when he returned. Also, his world had changed. - Eastman had been put away, and Ritchie Fitzpatrick ruled in his place. - Butch cultivated discretion, where before he had been hot and headlong, - and no longer sought that gang prominence which was formerly as the breath - to his nostrils. - </p> - <p> - Not that Butch altogether turned his back upon his old-time associates. - The local Froissarts tell how he, himself, captained a score or so of - choice spirits among the Eastmans, against the Humpty Jackson gang, beat - them, took them prisoners and plundered them. This brilliant action - occurred in that Fourteenth Street graveyard which was the common hang-out - of the Humpty Jacksons. Also, Humpty Jackson commanded his partisans in - person, and was captured and frisked with the rest. Butch gained much - glory and some money; for the Jacksons—however it happened—chanced - to be flush. - </p> - <p> - Butch, returning from Sing-Sing exile, did not return to his <i>schlam</i> - work. That trip up-the-river had shaken him. He became a Fagin, and taught - boys of tender years to do his stealing for him. - </p> - <p> - Butch's mob of kids counted as many as twenty, all trained in - pocket-picking to a feather-edge. As aiding their childish efforts, it was - Butch's habit to mount a bicycle, and proceed slowly down the street, his - fleet of kids going well abreast of him on the walks. Acting the part of - some half-taught amateur of the wheel, Butch would bump into a man or a - woman, preferably a woman. There would be cries and a scuffle. The woman - would scold, Butch would expound and explain. Meanwhile the wren-head - public packed itself ten deep about the center of excitement. - </p> - <p> - It was then that Butch's young adherents pushed their shrewd way in. - Little hands went flying, to reap a very harvest of pokes. Butch began - building up a bank account. - </p> - <p> - As an excuse for living, and to keep his mob together, Butch opened a pool - parlor. This temple of enjoyment was in a basement in Willett Street near - Stanton. The tariff was two-and-a-half cents a cue, and what Charley - Bateses and Artful Dodgers worked for Butch were wont to refresh - themselves at the game. - </p> - <p> - Butch made money with both hands. He took his share as a Fagin. Then, what - fragmentary remnants of their stealings he allowed his young followers, - was faithfully blown in by them across his pool tables. - </p> - <p> - Imagination rules the world. Butch, having imagination, extended himself. - Already a Fagin, Butch became a <i>posser</i> and bought stolen goods for - himself. Often, too, he acted as a <i>melina</i> and bought for others. - Thus Butch had three strings to his business bow. He was getting rich and - at the same time keeping out of the fingers of the bulls. This caused him - to be much looked up to and envied, throughout the length and breadth of - Gangland. - </p> - <p> - Butch was thus prosperous and prospering when it occurred to him to fall - in love. Harry the Soldier was the Mark Antony of the Five Points, his - Cleopatra the Darby Kid. There existed divers reasons for adoring the - Darby Kid. There was her lustrous eyes, her coral mouth, her rounded - cheek, her full figure, her gifts as a shop lifter. As a graceful crown to - these attractions, the Darby Kid could pick a pocket with the best wire - that ever touched a leather. In no wise had she been named the Darby Kid - for nothing. Not even Mollie Squint was her superior at getting the bundle - of a boob. They said, and with truth, that those soft, deep, lustrous eyes - could look a sucker over, while yet that unconscious sucker was ten feet - away, and locate the keck wherein he carried his roll. Is it astonishing - then that the heart of Butch went down on its willing knees to the Darby - Kid? - </p> - <p> - Another matter:—Wasn't the Darby Kid the chosen one of Harry the - Soldier? Was not Harry a Five Pointer? Had not Butch, elbow to elbow, with - his great chief, Eastman, fought the Five Pointers in the battle at Worth - and Center? It was a triumph, indeed, to win the heart of the Darby Kid. - It was twice a triumph to steal that heart away from Harry the Soldier. - </p> - <p> - The Darby Kid crossed over from Harry the Soldier to Butch, and brought - her love along. Thereafter her smiles were for Butch, her caresses for - Butch, her touches for Butch. Harry the Soldier was left desolate. - </p> - <p> - Harry the Soldier was a gon of merit and deserved eminence. That he had - been an inmate not only of the House of Refuge but the Elmira Reformatory, - should show you that he was a past-master at his art. His steady partner - was Dopey Benny. With one to relieve the other in the exacting duties of - stinger, and a couple of good stalls to put up an effective back, trust - them, at fair or circus or theatre break, to make leathers, props and - thimbles fly. - </p> - <p> - It was Gangland decision that for Butch to win the Darby Kid away from - Harry the Soldier, even as Paris aforetime took the lovely Helen from her - Menelaus, touched not alone the honor of Harry but the honor of the Five - Points. Harry must revenge himself. Still more must he revenge the Five - Points. It had become a case of Butch's life or his. On no milder terms - could Harry sustain himself in Gangland first circles. His name else would - be despised anywhere and everywhere that the fair and the brave were wont - to come together and unbuckle socially. - </p> - <p> - Butch, tall and broad and strong, smooth of face, arched of nose, was a - born hawk of battle. Harry the Soldier, dark, short, of no muscular power, - was not the physical equal of Butch. Butch looked forward with confidence - to the upcome. - </p> - <p> - “An' yet, Butch,” sweetly warned the Darby Kid, her arms about his neck, - “you mustn't go to sleep at the switch. Harry'll nail you if youse do. - It'll be a gun-fight, an' he's a dream wit' a gatt.” - </p> - <p> - “Never mind about that gatt thing! Do youse think, dearie, I'd let that - Guinea cop a sneak on me?” - </p> - <p> - It was a cool evening in September. A dozen of Butch's young gons were - knocking the balls about his pool tables. Butch himself was behind the - bar. Outside in Willett Street a whistle sounded. Butch picked up a pistol - off the drip-board, just in time to peg a shot at Harry the Soldier as - that ill-used lover came through the front door. Dopey Benny, Jonathan to - the other's David, was with Harry. Neither tried to shoot. Through a hail - of lead from Butch's pistol, the two ran out the back door. No one killed; - no one wounded. Butch had been shooting too high, as the bullet-raked - ceiling made plain. - </p> - <p> - Butch explained his wretched gun play by saying that he was afraid of - pinking some valued one among his boy scouts. - </p> - <p> - “At that,” he added, “it's just as well. Them wops 'll never come back. - Now when they see I'm organized they'll stay away. There ain't no sand in - them Sicilians.” - </p> - <p> - Butch was wrong. Harry, with Dopey Benny, was back the next night. This - time there was no whistle. Harry had sent forward a force of skirmishers - to do up those sentinels, with whom Butch had picketed Willett' Street. - Butch's earliest intimation that there was something doing came when a - bullet from the gun of Harry broke his back. Dopey Benny stood off the - public, while Harry put three more bullets into Butch. The final three - were superfluous, however, as was shown at the inquest next day. - </p> - <p> - The Darby Kid was abroad upon her professional duties as a gon-moll, when - Harry hived Butch. Her absence was regretted by her former lover. - </p> - <p> - “Because,” said he, as he and Dopey Benny fled down Stanton Street, “I'd - like to have made the play a double header, and downed the Kid along wit' - Butch.” - </p> - <p> - It was not so written, however. Double headers, whatever the field of - human effort, are the exception and not the rule of life. - </p> - <p> - It was whispered that Harry the Soldier and Dopey Benny remained three - days in the Pell Street room of Big Mike Abrams before their get-away. - They might have been at the bottom of the lower bay, for all the Central - Office knew. Butch was buried, and the Darby Kid wept over his grave. - After which she cheered up, and came back smiling. There is no good in - grief. Besides, it's egotistical, and trenches upon conceit. - </p> - <p> - The Central Office declares that, equipped of the right papers, it will - bring Harry the Soldier back from Africa. Also, it will go after Dopey - Benny in Kanuckland, when his time is out. The chair—says the - Central Office—shall yet have both. - </p> - <p> - Old Jimmy doesn't think there's a chance, while the jaundiced Wop openly - scoffs. Neither believes in the police. Meanwhile dark suspicions hover - cloudily over the Darby Kid. Did she rap? She says not, and offers to pawn - her soul. - </p> - <p> - “Why should I?” asks the Darby Kid. “Of course I'd sooner it was Butch - copped Harry. But it went the other way; an' why should I holler? Would - beefin' bring Butch back?” - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2H_4_0012" id="link2H_4_0012"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - XI.—BIG MIKE ABRAMS - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>his was after - Nigger Mike had gone into exile in cold and sorrowful Toronto, and while - Tony Kelly did the moist honors at Number Twelve Pell. Nigger Mike, you - will remember, hurried to his ruin on the combined currents of enthusiasm - and many drinks, had registered a score or two of times; for he meditated - casting full fifty votes at the coming election, in his own proper person, - and said so to his friends. - </p> - <p> - As Mike registered those numerous times, the snap-shot hirelings of - certain annoying reformers were busy popping him with their cameras. His - friends informed him of this, and counselled going slow. But Mike was - beyond counsel, and knew little or less of cameras—never having had - his picture taken save officially, and by the rules of Bertillon. In the - face of those who would have saved him, he continued to stagger in and out - upon that multifarious registration, inviting destruction. The purists - took the pictures to the District Attorney, their hirelings told their - tales, and Mike perforce went into that sad Toronto exile. He is back now, - however, safe, sober, clothed and in his right mind; but that is another - story. - </p> - <p> - The day had been a sweltering July day for all of Chinatown. Now that - night had come, the narrowness of Pell and Doyers and Mott Streets was - choked with Chinamen, sitting along the curb, lolling in doorways, or - slowly drifting up and down, making the most of the cool of the evening. - </p> - <p> - Over across from Number Twelve a sudden row broke out. There were - smashings and crashings, loopholed, as it were, with shrill Mongolian - shrieks. The guests about Tony's tables glanced up with dull, - half-interested eyes. - </p> - <p> - “It's Big Mike Abrams tearin' th' packin' out of th' laundry across th' - street,” said Tony. - </p> - <p> - Tony was at the front door when the war broke forth, and had come aft to - explain. Otherwise those about his tables might have gone personally - forth, seeking a solution of those yellings and smashings and crashings - for themselves, and the flow of profitable beer been thereby interrupted. - At Tony's explanation his guests sat back in their chairs, and ordered - further beer. Which shows that Tony had a knowledge of his business. - </p> - <p> - “About them socialists,” resumed Sop Henry, taking up the talk where it - had broken off; “Big Tom Foley tells me that they're gettin' something - fierce. They cast more'n thirty thousand votes last Fall.” - </p> - <p> - “Say,” broke in the Nailer, “I can't understand about a socialist. He must - be on the level at that; for one evenin', when they're holdin' a meetin' - in the Bowery, a fleet of gons goes through a dozen of 'em, an', exceptin' - for one who's an editor, and has pulled off a touch somewheres, there - ain't street car fare in all their kecks. That shows there's nothin' in it - for 'em. Th' editor has four bones on him—hardly enough for a round - of drinks an' beef stews. Th' mob blows it in at Flynn's joint, down be - th' corner.” - </p> - <p> - “I'm like you, Nailer,” agreed Sop Henry. “Them socialists have certainly - got me goin'. I can't get onto their coives at all.” - </p> - <p> - “Lishten, then.” This came from the Irish Wop, who was nothing if not - political. “Lishten to me. Yez can go to shleep on it, I know all about a - socialist. There's ould Casey's son, Barney—ould Casey that med a - killin' in ashphalt. Well, since his pah-pah got rich, young Casey's a - socialist. On'y his name ain't Barney now, it's Berna-a-ard. There's - slathers av thim sons av rich min turnin' socialists. They ain't strong - enough to git a fall out av either av th' big pa-a-arties, so they rush - off to th' socialists, where be payin' fer th' shpot light, they're - allowed to break into th' picture. That's th' way wit' young Barney, ould - Ashphalt Casey's son. Wan evenin' he dr-r-ives up to Lyon's wit' his - pah-pah's broom, two bob-tailed horses that spint most av their time on - their hind legs, an' th' Casey coat av arms on the broom dure, th' same - bein' a shtick av dynamite rampant, wit' two shovels reversed on a field - av p'tatoes. 'How ar-r-re ye?' he says. 'I want yez to jump in an' come - wit' me to th' Crystal Palace. It's a socialist meet-in',' he says. 'Oh, - it is?' says I; 'an' phwat's a socialist? Is it a game or a musical - inshtrumint?' Wit' that he goes into p'ticulars. 'Well,' thinks I, - 'there's th' ride, annyhow; an' I ain't had a carriage ride since - Eat-'em-up-Jack packed in—saints rest him! So I goes out to th' - broom; an' bechune th' restlessness av thim bob-tailed horses an' me not - seein' a carriage fer so long, I nearly br-r-roke me two legs gettin' in. - However, I wint. An' I sat on th' stage; an' I lishtened to th' - wind-jammin'; an' not to go no further, a socialist is simply an anarchist - who don't believe in bombs.” - </p> - <p> - There arose laughter and loud congratulatory sounds about the door. Next, - broadly smiling, utterly complacent, Big Mike Abrams walked in. - </p> - <p> - “Did youse lobsters hear me handin' it to th' monkeys?” he asked, and his - manner was the manner of him who doubts not the endorsement of men. “That - chink, Low Foo, snakes two of me shirts. I sends him five, an' he on'y - sends back three. So I caves in his block wit' a flatiron. You ought to - pipe his joint! I leaves it lookin' like a poolroom that won't prodooce, - after the wardman gets through.” - </p> - <p> - “An' Low Foo?” queried Tony, who had shirts of his own. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, a couple of monks carries him to his bunk out back. It'll take - somethin' more'n a shell of hop to chase away his troubles!” Mike - refreshed himself with a glass of beer, which he called suds. “Say,” he - continued with much fervor, “I wisht I could get a job punchin' monks at a - dollar a monk!” - </p> - <p> - Mike Abrams, <i>alias</i> Big Mike, was a pillar of Chinatown, and added - distinctly to the life of that quarter. He was nearly six feet tall, with - shoulders as square as the foretopsail yard of a brig. His nervous arms - were long and slingy, his bony hands the size of hams. Neither the Dropper - nor yet Big Myerson could swap blows with him, and his hug—if it - came to rough-and-tumble—was comparable only to the hug of Mersher - the Strong Arm, who had out-hugged a bear for the drinks. - </p> - <p> - While he lived, Little Maxie greatly appreciated Big Mike. Little Maxie is - dead now. He ranked in the eyes of Mulberry Street as the best tool that - ever nailed a leather. To be allowed to join out with his mob was - conclusive of one's cleverness as a gon. For Maxie would have no bunglers, - no learners about him. - </p> - <p> - And, yet, as he himself said, Big Mike's value - </p> - <p> - Jay not in any deftness of fingers, but in his stout, unflinching heart, - and a knock-down strength of fist like unto the blow of a maul. - </p> - <p> - “As a stall he's worse'n a dead one,” Maxie had said. “No one ever put up - a worse back. But let a sucker raise a roar, or some galoot of a country - sheriff start something—that's where Mike comes on. You know last - summer, when I'm followin' Ringling's show? Stagger, Beansey an' Mike's - wit' me as bunchers. Over at Patterson we had a rumble. I got a rube's - ticker, a red one. He made me; an' wit' that youse could hear th' yell he - lets out of him in Newark. A dozen of them special bulls which Ringling - has on his staff makes a grab at us. Youse should have lamped Mike! Th' - way he laid out them circus dicks was like a tune of music. It's done in a - flash, an' every last guy of us makes his get-away. Hock your socks, it's - Mike for me every time! I'd sooner he filled in wit' a mob of mine than - th' best dip that ever pinched a poke.” - </p> - <p> - Big Mike had been a fixed star in the Gangland firmament for years. He - knew he could slug, he knew he could stay; and he made the most of these - virtues. When not working with Little Maxie, he took short trips into the - country with an occasional select band of yeggs, out to crack a P. O. or a - jug. At such times, Mike was the out-side man—ever a post of - responsibility. The out-side man watches while the others blow the box. In - case things take to looking queer or leary, he is to pass the whistle of - warning to his pals. Should an officer show unexpectedly up, he must stand - him off at the muzzle of his gatt, and if crowded, shoot and shoot to - kill. He is to stand fast by his partners, busy with wedges, fuse and soup - inside, and under no circumstances to desert them. Mike was that one of - ten thousand, who had the nerve and could be relied upon to do and be - these several iron things. Wherefore, he lived not without honor in the - land, and never was there a fleet of yeggs or a mob of gons, but received - him into its midst with joy and open hearts. - </p> - <p> - Mike made a deal of money. Not that it stuck to hum; for he was born with - his hands open and spent it as fast as he made it. Also, he drank deeply - and freely, and moreover hit the pipe. Nor could he, in the latter - particular, be called a pleasure smoker nor a Saturday nighter. Mike had - the habit. - </p> - <p> - At one time Mike ran an opium den at Coney Island, and again on the second - floor of Number Twelve Pell. But the police—who had no sure way of - gauging the profits of opium—demanded so much for the privilege that - Mike was forced to close. - </p> - <p> - “Them bulls wanted all I made an' more,” complained Mike, recounting his - wrongs to Beansey. “I had a 50-pipe joint that time in Pell, an' from the - size of the rake-off the captain's wardman asks, you'd have thought that - every pipe's a roulette-wheel.” - </p> - <p> - “Couldn't you do nothin' wit' 'em?” asked Bean-sey, sympathetically. - </p> - <p> - “Not a t'ing. I shows 'em that number-one hop is $87.50 a can, an' - yen-chee or seconds not less'n $32. Nothin' doin'! It's either come across - wit' five hundred bones th' foist of every month, or quit.” - </p> - <p> - Mike sighed over his fair prospects, blighted by the ignorant avarice of - the police. - </p> - <p> - “W'at was youse chargin' a smoke?” inquired Beansey. - </p> - <p> - “Two bits a shell. Of course, that's for yen-chee. I couldn't give 'em - number-one for two bits. After all, w'at I cares most for is me cats—two - long-haired Persians.” - </p> - <p> - “Cats?” repeated Beansey, suspiciously. “W'at be youse handin' me?” - </p> - <p> - Beansey by the way, knew nothing of opium. - </p> - <p> - “W'at am I handin' youse?” said Mike. “I'm handin' you th' goods. Cats get - th' habit same as people. My cats would plant be some party who's cookin' - a pill, an' sniff th' hop an' get as happy as anybody. Take 'em off the - pipe, an' it's th' same as if they're Christians. Dogs, too. Let 'em once - get th' habit, an' then take 'em away from a pipe joint, an' they has - pains in their stummicks, an' twists an' yowls till you think they're - goin' mad. When th' cops shut down on me, I has to give me cats to th' - monk who's runnin' th' opium dump on th' top floor. Sure t'ing! They'd - have croaked if I hadn't. They're on'y half happy, though; for while they - gets their hop they misses me. Them toms an' me has had many a good - smoke.” - </p> - <p> - Folks often wondered at the intimacy between Mike and Little Maxie—not - that it has anything to do with this story. Little Maxie—his name on - the Central Office books was Maxie Fyne, <i>alias</i> Maxie English, <i>alias</i> - Little Maxie, <i>alias</i> Sharapatheck—was the opposite of Big - Mike. He was small; he was weak; he didn't drink; he didn't hit the pipe. - Also, at all times, and in cold blood, he was a professional thief. His - wife, whom he called “My Kytie”—for Little Maxie was from - Houndsditch, and now and then his accent showed it—was as good a - thief as he, but on a different lay. Her specialty was robbing women. She - worked alone, as all good gon-molls do, and because of her sure - excellencies was known as the Golden Hand. - </p> - <p> - Little Maxie and his Golden Hand, otherwise his Kytie—her name was - Kate—had a clean little house near Washington Square on the south. - They owned a piano and a telephone—the latter was purely defensive—and - their two children went to school, and sat book to book with the children - of honest men and women. - </p> - <p> - The little quiet home, with its piano and defensive telephone, is gone - now. Little Maxie died and his Golden Hand married again; for there's no - false sentiment in Gangland. If a husband's dead he's dead, and there's - nothing made by mourning. Likewise, what's most wanted in any husband is - that he should be a live one. - </p> - <p> - Little Maxie died in a rather curious way. Some say he was drowned by his - pals, Big Mike among them. The story runs that there was a quarrel over - splitting up a touch, and the mob charged Little Maxie with holding out. - Be that as it may, the certainty is that Little Maxie and his mob, being - in Peekskill, got exceeding drunk—all but Little Maxie—and - went out in a boat. Being out, Little Maxie went overboard abruptly, and - never came up. Neither did anybody go after him. The mob returned to town - to weep—crocodile tears, some said—into their beer, as they - told and re-told their loss, and in due time Little Maxie's body drifted - ashore and was buried. That was the end. Had it been some trust-thief of a - millionaire, there would have been an investigation. But Little Maxie was - only a pick-pocket. - </p> - <p> - Big Mike, like all strong characters, had his weakness. His weakness was - punching Chinamen; fairly speaking, it grew to be his fad. It wasn't - necessary that a Chinaman do anything; it was enough that he came within - reach. Mike would knock him cold. In a single saunter through Pell Street, - he had been known to leave as many as four senseless Chinamen behind him, - fruits of his fist. - </p> - <p> - “For,” said Mike, in cheerful exposition of the motive which underlay that - performance, “I do so like to beat them monks about! I'd sooner slam one - of 'em ag'inst th' wall than smoke th' pipe.” - </p> - <p> - One time and another Mike punched two-thirds of all the pig-tailed heads - in Chinatown. Commonly he confined himself to punching, though once or - twice he went a step beyond. Lee Dok he nearly brained with a stool. But - Lee Dok had been insultingly slow in getting out of Mike's way. - </p> - <p> - Mike was proud of his name and place as the Terror of Chinatown. Whether - he walked in Mott or Pell or Doyers Street, every Chinaman who saw him - coming went inside and locked his door. - </p> - <p> - Those who didn't see him and so go inside and dock their doors—and - they were few—he promptly soaked. And if to see a Chinaman run was - as incense to Mike's nose, to soak one became nothing less than a sweet - morsel under his tongue. The wonder was that Mike didn't get shot or - knifed, which miracle went not undiscussed at such centers as Tony's, - Barney Flynn's, Jimmy Kelly's and the Chatham Club. But so it was; the - pig-tailed population of Chinatown parted before Mike's rush like so much - water. - </p> - <p> - One only had been known to resist—Sassy Sam, who with a dwarf's body - possessed a giant's soul. - </p> - <p> - Sassy Sam was a hatchet-man of dread eminence, belonging to the Hip Sing - Tong. Equipped of a Chinese sword, of singular yet murderous appearance, - he chased Mike the length of Pell Street. Mike out-ran Sassy Sam, which - was just as well. It took three shells of hop to calm Mike's perturbed - spirit; for he confessed to a congenital horror of steel. - </p> - <p> - “That's straight,” said Mike, as with shaking fingers he filled his - peanut-oil lamp, and made ready to cook himself a pill, “I never could - stand for a chive. An' say”—he shuddered—“that monk has: one - longer'n your arm.” - </p> - <p> - Sassy Sam and his snickersnee, however, did not cure Mike of his weakness - for punching the Mongolian head. Nothing short of death could have done - that. - </p> - <p> - Some six months prior to his caving in the skull of Low Foo, because of those - shirts improperly missing, Mike did that which led to consequences. - Prompted by an overplus of sweet, heady Chinese rum, or perhaps it was the - heroic example of Sassy Sam, Ling Tchen, being surprised by Mike in Pell - Street, did not—pig-tail flying—clatter inside and lock his - door. More and worse, he faced Mike, faced him, coughed contumeliously and - spat upon the cobbles. To merely soak Ling Tchen would have been no - adequate retort—Ling Tchen who thus studied to shame him. Wherefore - Mike killed him with a clasp knife, and even went so far as to cut off the - dead Tchen's head. The law might have taken notice of this killing, but - some forethoughtful friend had had wit enough to tuck a gun beneath the - dead Tchen's blouse, and thus it became at once and obviously a case of - self-defence. - </p> - <p> - There was a loose screw in the killing of Ling Tchen. The loose screw - dwelt not in the manner of that killing, which had been not only thorough - but artistic. Indeed, cutting off Ling Tchen's head as a finale was - nothing short of a stroke of genius. The loose screw was that Ling Tchen - belonged to the Hip Sing Tong; and the Hip Sing Tongs lived in Pell - Street, where Mike himself abode. To be sure, since Ling Tchen did the - provoking, Mike had had no choice. Still, it might have come off better - had Ling Tchen been an On Leon Tong. An On Leon Tong belongs in Mott - Street and doesn't dare poke his wheat-hued nose into Pell Street, where - the Four Brothers and the Hip Sing Tongs are at home. - </p> - <p> - Mike's room was in the rear, on the second floor of Number Twelve. It - pleased and soothed him, he said, as he smoked a pill, to hear the muffled - revelry below in Tony's. He had just come from his room upon that shirt - occasion which resulted so disastrously for Low Fee. - </p> - <p> - Mike was among friends in Tony's. Having told in full how he did up Low - Foo, and smashed that shirt thief's laundry, Mike drank two glasses of - beer, and said that he thought now he'd go upstairs and have a smoke. - </p> - <p> - “There must be somethin' in lickin' a chink,” expounded Mike, “that makes - a guy hanker for th' hop.” - </p> - <p> - “It's early yet; better stick 'round,” urged Tony, politely. “There is - some high-rollers from Newport up here on a yacht, an' crazy to see - Chinatown in th' summer when th' blankets is off. Th' dicks w'at's got 'em - in tow, gives me th' tip that they'll come lungin' in here about ten. - They're over in Mott Street now, takin' a peek at the joss house an' - drinkin' tea in the Port Arthur.” - </p> - <p> - “I don't want to meet 'em,” declared Mike. “Them stiffs makes me sick. If - youse'd promise to lock th' doors, Tony, an' put 'em all in th' air for - what they've got on 'em, I might stay.” - </p> - <p> - “That'd be a wise play, I don't think,” remarked the Dropper, who had just - come in. “Tony'd last about as long as a dollar pointin' stuss. Puttin' a - chink on th' bum is easy, an' a guy can get away wit' it; but lay a finger - on a Fift' Avenoo Willie-boy, or look cockeyed at a spark-fawney on th' - finger of one of them dames, an' a judge'll fall over himself to hand - youse twenty years.” - </p> - <p> - “Right youse be, Dropper!” said the sophistcated Tony. - </p> - <p> - Mike climbed the creaking stairway to his room. - </p> - <p> - Below, in Tony's, the beer, the gossip, the music, the singing and the - dancing went on. Pretty Agnes sang a new song, and was applauded. That is, - she was applauded by all save Mollie Squint, who uplifted her nose and - said that “it wasn't so much.” - </p> - <p> - Mollie Squint was invited to sing, but refused. - </p> - <p> - About ten o'clock came the Newport contingent, fresh from quaffing tea and - burning joss sticks. They were led by a she-captain of the Four Hundred, - who shall go here as Mrs. Vee. Mrs. Vee, young, pretty, be-jeweled, was in - top spirits. For she had just been divorced from her husband, and they put - brandy into the Port Arthur tea if you tell them to. - </p> - <p> - Tony did the honors for Number Twelve. He and Mrs. Vee, surrounded by a - fluttering flock of purple doves, all from aristocratic cotes, became as - thick as thieves. The Dropper, who was not wanting in good looks and could - spiel like a dancing master, went twice around the room with Mrs. Vee—just - for a lark, you know—to a tune scraped from Tony's fiddles and - thumped from that publican's piano. After which, Mrs. Vee and her flutter - of followers, Willieboys and all, went their purple way. - </p> - <p> - Tony, with never flagging courtesy, escorted them to the door. What he - beheld filled his somewhat sluggish soul with wonder. Pell Street was - thronged with Chinamen. They were sitting or standing, all silent, faces - void of meaning. The situation, too, was strange in this. A Chinaman could - have told you that they were all of the Hip Sing Tong, and not a Four - Brothers among them. He wouldn't of course, for a Chinaman tells a white - devil nothing. Pell, by the way, was as much the home street of the Four - Brothers as of the Hip Sing Tong. - </p> - <p> - Tony expressed his astonishment at the pigtailed press which thronged the - thoroughfare. - </p> - <p> - “This is how it is,” vouchsafed the explanatory Tony to Mrs. Vee and her - purple fluttering doves. “Big Mike's just after standin' Low Foo's - wash-shop on its nut, an' these monks are sizin' up th' wreck. When - anything happens to a monk his tong makes good, see?” - </p> - <p> - Tony might not have said this had he recalled that Low Foo was a Four - Brothers, and understood that no one not a Hip Sing Tong was in the crowd. - Tony, however, recalled nothing, understood nothing; for he couldn't tell - one Chinaman from another. - </p> - <p> - “How interesting!” cooed Mrs. Vee, in response to Tony's elucidation; and - with that her flock of purple doves, in fluttering agreement, cooed, “How - interesting!” - </p> - <p> - “Did youse lamp th' ice on them dames?” asked Sop Henry, when the slumming - Mrs. Vee and her suite were out of ear-shot. - </p> - <p> - Sop had an eye for diamonds. - </p> - <p> - “That bunch ain't got a thing but money!” observed the Wop, his eyes - glittering enviously. “I wisht I had half their cush.” - </p> - <p> - “Money ain't th' whole box of tricks.” - </p> - <p> - This deep declaration emanated from old Jimmy. Old Jimmy's home was a rear - room on Second Street near the Bowery, which overlooked a graveyard hidden - in the heart of the block. There, when not restoring himself at Tony's or - Sirocco's or Lyon's, old Jimmy smoked a vile tobacco known as Sailors' - Choice, in a vile clay pipe as black as sin, and meditated. Having nothing - to do but think, he evolved in time into a philosopher, and it became his - habit to unload chunks of wisdom on whomsoever seemed to stand in need. - Also, since he was warlike and carried a knife, and because anyone in hard - luck could touch him for a dollar, he was listened to politely in what - society he favored with his countenance. - </p> - <p> - “Money ain't th' whole box of tricks,” old Jimmy repeated, severely, - wagging a grizzled head at the Wop, “an' only you're Irish an' ignorant - you wouldn't have to be told so.” - </p> - <p> - “Jimmy, you're nutty,” returned the Wop. “Never mind me bein' nutty,” - retorted old Jimmy, dogmatically. “I know all about th' rich.” Then, in - forgetfulness of his pension and the liberal source of it, he continued: - “A rich man is so much like a fat hog that he's seldom any good until he's - dead.” - </p> - <p> - Old Jimmy called for beer; wisdom is always dry. “Say?” observed the - Dropper, airily, “do youse guys know that I'm thinkin' I'll just about cop - off some dame with millions of dough, an' marry her.” - </p> - <p> - “Would she have youse?” inquired Mollie Squint, with the flicker of a - sneer. - </p> - <p> - “It's easy money,” returned the Dropper; “all I has to do is put out me - sign, see? Them rich frails would fall for me in a hully second.” - </p> - <p> - “You crooks can't think of a thing but money,” snorted old Jimmy. “Marry a - rich dame! A guy might as well get a job as valet or butler or footman - somewhere an' let it go at that. Do you mutts know what love is? Th' one - married chance of happiness is love. An' to love, folks must be poor. Then - they have to depend upon each other; and it's only when people depend upon - each other they love each other.” - </p> - <p> - “Jimmy,” quoth the Dropper, with mock sadness. “I can see your finish. - You'll land in Bloomingdale, playin' wit' a string of spools.” - </p> - <p> - “Did you ever,” demanded old Jimmy, disregarding the irreverent Dropper, - “see some strapping young party, up against the skyline on an iron - building, workin' away wit' one of them rivetin' guns? Well, somewhere - between th' two rivers there's a girl he's married to, who's doin' a - two-step 'round a cook stove, fryin' steak an' onions for him, an' keepin' - an eye out that their kids don't do a high dive off th' fire-escape. Them - two people are th' happiest in th' world. Such boneheads as you can't - appreciate it, but they are. Give 'em a million dollars an' you'll spoil - it. They'd get a divorce; you'd put that household on th' toboggan. If - this Mister Vee, now, had been poor an' drove a truck instead of bein' - rich an' drivin' a 6-horse coach, an' if Mrs. Vee had been poor an' done a - catch-as-catch-can with th' family washtub instead of havin' money to burn - an' hirein' a laundress, she'd never have bucked th' divorce game, but - lived happy ever after.” - </p> - <p> - “But, Jimmy,” interposed Tony, “I've seen poor folks scrap.” - </p> - <p> - “Sure,” assented Jimmy; “all married folks scrap—a little. But - them's only love spats, when they're poor. Th' wife begins 'em. She thinks - she'll just about try hubby out, an' see can he go some. Th' only risk is - him bein' weak enough to let her win. She don't want to win; victory would - only embarrass her. What she's after is a protector; an' if hubby lets her - put him on th' floor for th' count, she don't know where she's at. She's - dead sure she's no good; an' if he's a quitter she's left all in th' air. - Havin' floored him, she thinks to herself, 'This thing protect me? Why, I - can lick him myself!' After that, hubby might better keep close tabs on - little Bright-eyes, or some mornin' he'll call the family roll an' she - won't answer. Take a boy an' a girl, both young, both square, both poor—so - they'll need each ether—an', so he's got her shaded a little should - it come to th' gloves, two bugs in a rug won't have nothin' on them.” - </p> - <p> - Old Jimmy up-ended his glass, as one who had settled grave matters, while - the Dropper and the Wop shook contemplative heads. - </p> - <p> - “An' yet,” said the Wop, after a pause, “goin' back to them rich babies - who was here, I still say I wisht I had their bundle.” - </p> - <p> - “It's four for one,” returned old Jimmy, his philosophy again forging to - the fore—“it's four for one, Wop, you'd have a dead bad time. What - street shows th' most empty houses? Ain't it Fift' Ave-noo? Why be they - empty? Because the ginks who lived in 'em didn't have a good time in 'em. - If they had they'd have stuck. A guy don't go places, he leaves places. He - don't go to Europe, he leaves New York.” - </p> - <p> - Old Jimmy turned to Tony. - </p> - <p> - “Fill up th' crockery. I'm talkin' 'way over th' heads of these bums.” - </p> - <p> - “Ain't he a wonder?” whispered Pretty Agnes to the Nailer. - </p> - <p> - “I should say as much,” responded the admiring Nailer. “He ought to be - sellin' gold bricks. He's talked th' Dropper an' th' Wop into a hard - knot.” - </p> - <p> - The Dropper was not to be quelled, and insisted that Jimmy was conversing - through his sou'wester. - </p> - <p> - “I don't think so,” broke in Jew Yetta; “I strings wit' Jimmy. Take a - tumble to yourself, Dropper. If you was to marry one of them money dames, - you'd have to go into high society. An' then what? W'y, you'd look like a - pig on a front porch.” - </p> - <p> - “Don't youse bet on it,” declared the Dropper loftily. “There's nothin' in - that high society stuff. A smart guy like me could learn his way t'rough - in a week.” - </p> - <p> - “Could he?” said the Nailer, and his tones were tones of derision. - </p> - <p> - “That's w'at I says!” replied the Dropper. Then, heatedly: “W'y, do you - geeks think I've never been north of Fourteenth Street? Youse make me - tired, Nailer. While you was up-th'-river, for toinin' off that loft in - Chambers Street, don't I go to a shindy at th' Demmycrat Club in honor of - Sen'tor Depew? There was loidies there—th' real thing, too. An' - wasn't I another time at th' Charlie Murphy dinner? Talk of high society!—if - that ain't high society, what is?” - </p> - <p> - Having squelched the Nailer, the Dropper proceeded more moderately. - </p> - <p> - “I remember th' scare that's t'run into me at the Depew racket. I've been - put up ag'inst some hot propositions, but if ever I'm faded it's then - when, for th' foist time, I lamps a full-blown dame in evenin' dress. On - th' dead, I felt like yellin' 'Police!'” - </p> - <p> - “Phwat was it scared yez, Dropper?” asked the Wop. - </p> - <p> - “It ain't that I'm so scared as rattled. There's too much free-board to - them evenin' dresses.” - </p> - <p> - “An' the Charlie Murphy banquet,” said Pretty Agnes, wistfully. “Didn't - yez get cold feet?” - </p> - <p> - “Naw, I don't git cold feet. I admits I falls down, I don't try to - sidestep that; but it wasn't my fault. Do it over again, an' I'd go - t'rough wit' bells on.” - </p> - <p> - “How did youse fall down?” - </p> - <p> - “It's be accident; I takes th' wrong steer, that's all. I makes it a - point, knowin' I'm none too wise, to plant meself when we pulls up to the - feed opposite to a gilded old bunk, who looked like ready money. 'Do as he - does, Dropper' I says to meself, 'an' you're winner in a walk!' So, when - he plays a fork, I plays a fork; if he boards a chive, I boards a chive; - from soup to birds I'm steerin' be his wake. Then all of a sudden I cops a - shock. We've just made some roast squabs look like five cents worth of - lard in a paper bag, an' slopped out a bunch of fizz to wash 'em down, - when what does that old Rube do but up an' sink his hooks in a bowl of - water. Honest, I like to 've fell in a fit! There I'd been feelin' as - cunning as a pet fox, an' me on a dead one from th' jump!” - </p> - <p> - “Did any of them smart Alecks give youse th' laugh?” asked the Nailer. - </p> - <p> - “Give me th' laugh,” repeated the Dropper, disgustedly. “I'd have smashed - whoever did in th' eye.” - </p> - <p> - While beer and conversation were flowing in Number Twelve, a sophisticated - eye would have noted divers outside matters which might or might not have - had a meaning. On the heels of Big Mike's laundry deeds of desolation and - destruction at Low Foo's, not a Chinaman was visible in Pell Street. It - was the same when Mike came out of Tony's and climbed the stairs to his - room. Mike safely retired from the field, a handful of Four Brothers—all - of them Lows and of the immediate clan of Low Foo—showed up, and - took a slanteyed squint at what ruin had been wrought. They spoke not - above a murmur, but as nearly as a white devil might gather a meaning, - they were of the view that no monsoon could have more thoroughly - scrap-heaped the belongings of Low Foo. - </p> - <p> - Other Chinamen began to gather, scores upon scores. These were Hip Sing - Tongs, and they paid not the slightest heed to Low Foo's laundry, or what - was left of it. What Four Brothers were abroad did not mingle with the Hip - Sing Tongs, although the two tribes lived in friendship. The Four Brothers - quietly withdrew, each to his own den, and left the Hip Sing Tongs in - possession of the street. - </p> - <p> - Being in possession, the Hip Sing Tongs did nothing beyond roost on the - curb, or squat in doorways, or stand idly about. Now and then one smoked a - cigarette. - </p> - <p> - About 11.20 o'clock, a Chinaman entered Pell Street from the Bowery. Every - one of the Hip Sing Tongs looked at him; none of them spoke to him. Only, - a place was made for him in the darkness of the darkest doorway. Had some - brisk Central Office intelligence been there and consulted its watch, it - might have occurred to such intelligence that had the newcomer arrived - from Philadelphia over the B. & O. by latest train, he—assuming - him to have taken the ferry with proper dispatch—would have come - poking into Pell Street at precisely that hour. - </p> - <p> - Trinity struck midnight. - </p> - <p> - The bells sounded dim and far away. It was as though it were the ghost of - some dead midnight being struck. At the sound, and as if he heard in it a - signal, the mysterious Chinaman came out of the double darkness of the - doorway in which he had been waiting, and crossed to the stairway that led - up to the room of Mike. Not a whisper came from the waiting Hip Sing - Tongs, who watched him with that blend of apathy and eagerness observable - only in the Oriental. No one went with the mysterious Chinaman. Nor did - the stairs creak—as with Big Mike—beneath his velvet shoes. - </p> - <p> - Five minutes passed. - </p> - <p> - The mysterious one emerged from Mike's stairway as silently as he had - entered it. He tossed a claw-like hand palm outward, toward the waiting, - watching Hip Sing Tongs, and then went slippering towards the Bowery. Had - that brisk Central Office intelligence been there to see, it might have - reflected, recalling a time table, that by taking the Cortlandt Street - ferry, the mysterious one would be in time for the 12.30 train to - Philadelphia over the Pennsylvania. - </p> - <p> - Before the mysterious one had reached the Bowery, those scores of waiting, - watching Hip Sing Tongs had vanished, and Pell Street was as empty as the - promise of a politician. - </p> - <p> - “Now,” whispered Ching Lee to Sam Kum, who kept the chop suey shop, as - they turned to go—“now he meet Ling Tchen, mebby so!” - </p> - <p> - One o'clock. - </p> - <p> - Tony began to think about locking his front door. This, out of respect for - the law. Not that beer and revelry were to cease in Number Twelve, but - because such was Tony's understanding with the precinct skipper. Some - reformer might come snooping else, and lodge complaint against that - skipper with the Commissioner of Police. - </p> - <p> - Just as Tony, on bidding “Good-bye!” to Mrs. Vee and her purple fluttering - flock, had been impressed by the crowded condition of Pell Street, so now, - when he made ready to lock up, was he impressed by that causeway's - profound emptiness. - </p> - <p> - “Say,” he cried to his guests in the rear, “you stews come here! This is - funny; there ain't a chink in sight!” - </p> - <p> - “D'youse think th' bulls are gettin' ready for a raid?” asked Sop Henry. - Sop, with the Nailer and the Wop, had joined Tony in the door. “Perhaps - there's somethin' doin' over at th' Elizabeth Street station, an' the - wardman's passed th' monks th' tip.” - </p> - <p> - “Nothin' in that,” responded Tony, confidently. “Wouldn't I be put wise, - too?” - </p> - <p> - Marvelling much, Tony fastened his door, and joined old Jimmy, Pretty - Agnes and the others in the rear room. When he got there, he found old - Jimmy sniffing with suspicious nose, and swearing he smelled gas. - </p> - <p> - “One of your pipes is leakin', Tony,” said Jimmy, “leakin' for fair, too, - or I'm a Dago!” - </p> - <p> - Tony, in refutation, called attention to a patent truth. He used electric - light, not gas. - </p> - <p> - “But they use gas upstairs,” he added. Then, half-anxiously; “It can't be - some hop-head has blown out the gas?” - </p> - <p> - The thought was enough to start the Dropper, ever full of enterprise. - </p> - <p> - “Let's have a look,” said he. “Nailer you an' th' Wop come wit' me.” - </p> - <p> - Tony again opened the front door, and the Dropper, followed by the Wop and - the Nailer, filed into the stairway that led to the floor above. They made - noise enough, blundering and stumbling in the sudden hurry of spirit which - had gripped them. As they reached the landing near Mike's door, the odor - of gas was even more pronounced than in Tony's rear room. - </p> - <p> - The hall was blind black with the thick darkness that filled it. - </p> - <p> - “How about this?” queried the Dropper. “I thought a gas jet was always - boinin' in th' hall.” - </p> - <p> - The Dropper, growing fearful, hung back. With that, the Wop pushed forward - and took the lead. Only for a moment. Giving a cry, he sprang back with - such sudden force that he sent the Dropper headlong down the stairs. - </p> - <p> - “Th' Virgin save us!” exclaimed the Wop, “but I touched somethin' soft!” - </p> - <p> - “What's th' row?” demanded Tony, coming to the foot of the stairs. - </p> - <p> - At the Dropper's request, Tony brought a candle, used by him in excursions - to those crypts wherein he kept his whiskey. - </p> - <p> - In a moment all was plain. That something soft which had so told upon the - Wop was a rubber tube. There was a gas jet in the hall. One end of the - rubber tube had been fastened over the gas jet, and the other stuffed into - the keyhole of Mike's door. Trap arranged, the gas had been set flowing - full blast. - </p> - <p> - “Well, what do youse think of that?” exclaimed Tony, who understood at a - glance. - </p> - <p> - With one swift move, Tony turned off the gas and tore away the rubber - tube. There was no talk of keys. He placed his powerful shoulder against - the door, and sent it crashing. The out-rush of gas drove them, choking - and gasping, into the open air. - </p> - <p> - “Take it from me,” said the Dropper, as soon as he could get his breath, - “they've croaked Mike.” - </p> - <p> - “But the window,” urged the Nailer; “mebbe Mike has the window open!” - </p> - <p> - “Not a chance!” retorted the Dropper. “No one has his window up while he - hits th' pipe. They don't jibe, fresh air an' dope.” - </p> - <p> - The Dropper was right. Big Mike, stark and still and yellow, lay dead in - his bed—the last place his friends would have anticipated—poisoned - by gas. - </p> - <p> - “Better notify th' cops,” advised Jimmy, the practical. - </p> - <p> - “Who did it?” sobbed Pretty Agnes. “Mike never handed it to himself.”. - </p> - <p> - “Who did it?” repeated the Dropper, bitterly. “Th' chinks did it. It's for - Low Foo's laundry.” - </p> - <p> - “You're down wrong, Dropper,” said old Jimmy. “It's that Ling Tchen trick. - I knew them Hip Sings would get Mike.” - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2H_4_0013" id="link2H_4_0013"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - XII.—THE GOING OF BIFF ELLISON - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>he jury returned a - verdict of guilty. Thereupon the judge, fixing Ellison with hard and - thoughtful eye, gave him “from eight to twenty years.” When a man gets - “from eight to twenty years” he is worth writing about. He would be worth - writing about, even though it had been for such crimes of the commonplace - as poke-getting at a ferry or sticking up a drunken sailor. And Ellison - was found guilty of manslaughter. - </p> - <p> - Razor Riley would have been sentenced along with Ellison, only he had - conveniently died. When the Gophers gather themselves together, they give - various versions of Razor Riley's taking off. Some say he perished of - pneumonia. Others lay it to a bullet in his careless mouth. In any case, - he was dead, and therefore couldn't, in the nature of things, accompany - Ellison to Sing Sing. - </p> - <p> - Razor was a little one-hundred-and-ten-pound man, with weak muscles and a - heart of fire. He had, razorwise, cut and slashed his way into much - favorable mention, when that pneumonia or bullet—whichever it was—stopped - short his career. - </p> - <p> - While the width of the city apart, he and Ellison were ever friends. They - drank together, fought together, and held their foes as they held their - money, in common. - </p> - <p> - When the jury said “Guilty,” it filled Ellison with resentful amazement. - His angry wonder grew as the judge coldly mentioned that “from eight - to-twenty years.” He couldn't understand! The politicians had promised to - save him. It was only upon such assurance that he had concluded to return. - Safe in Baltimore, he could have safely continued in Baltimore. Lured by - false lights, misled by spurious promises, he had come back to get “from - eight to twenty years!” Cray and Savage rounded him up. All his life a - cop-fighter, he would have given those Central Office stars a battle, had - he realized what was in store for him and how like a rope of sand were the - promises of politicians! - </p> - <p> - My own introduction to Ellison and Razor Riley was in the Jefferson Market - court. That was several years ago. The day was the eighteenth of March, - and Magistrate Corrigan had invited me to a seat on the bench. Ellison and - Razor were arraigned for disorderly conduct. They had pushed in the door - of a Sixth Avenue bird and animal store, kept by an agitated Italian, and - in the language of the officer who made the collar, “didn't do a thing to - it.” - </p> - <p> - “They are guilty, your honor,” said their lawyer, manner deprecatory and - full of conciliation, with a view to softening the magisterial heart—“they - are guilty. And yet there is this in their defense. They had been - celebrating Saint Patrick's Day, over-celebrating it, perhaps, your honor, - and they didn't know what they were about. That's the mere truth, your - honor. Befuddled by too much and too fervently celebrating the glorious - day, they really didn't know what they were about.” - </p> - <p> - The lawyer waved a virtuous hand, as one who submitted affairs to the - mercy of an enlightened court. - </p> - <p> - Magistrate Corrigan was about to impose sentence, when the agitated - Italian broke forth. - </p> - <p> - “Don't I get-a my chance, judge?” he called out. “Certainly,” returned - Magistrate Corrigan, “what is it you want to say?” - </p> - <p> - “Judge, that-a guy”—pointing the finger of rebuttal at the lawyer—“he - say theese mans don't know what-a they do. One lie! They know what-a they - do all right. I show you, judge. They smash-a th' canaries, they knock-a - th' blocks off-a th' monks, they tear-a th' tails out of th' macaws, but”—here - his voice rose to a screech—“they nevair touch-a th' bear.” - </p> - <p> - Magistrate Corrigan glanced at the policeman. The latter explained that, - while Ellison and Razor had spread wreck and havoc among the monkeys and - macaws, they had avoided even a remotest entanglement with a huge cinnamon - bear, chained in the center of the room. They had prudently plowed 'round - the bear. - </p> - <p> - “Twenty-five and costs!” said Magistrate Corrigan, a smile touching the - corners of his mouth. Then, raising a repressive palm towards the lawyer, - who betrayed symptoms of further oratory: “Not a word. Your people get off - very lightly. Upon the point you urge that these men didn't know what they - were about, the testimony of our Italian friend is highly convincing.” - </p> - <p> - When a gentleman goes to Sing Sing for longer than five years, it is - Gangland good manners to speak of him in the past tense. Thus, then, shall - I speak of Ellison. His name, properly laid down, was James Ellison. As, - iron on wrists, a deputy at his elbow, he stepped aboard the train, he - gave his age as thirty-nine. - </p> - <p> - His monaker of Biff came to him in the most natural way in the world. - Gangland is ever ready to bestow a title. Therefore, when a recalcitrant - customer of Fat Flynn's, having quaffed that publican's beer and then - refused to pay for it, was floored as flat as a flounder by a round blow - from Ellison's fist, Gangland, commemorating the event, renamed him Biff. - </p> - <p> - Ellison was in his angular, awkward twenties when he made his initial - appearance along the Bowery. He came from Maryland, no one knew why and a - youthful greenness would have got him laughed at, had it not been for a - look in his eye which suggested that while he might be green he might be - game. - </p> - <p> - Having little education and no trade Ellison met existence by hiring out - as bar-keeper to Fat Flynn, who kept a grog shop of singular vileness at - 34 Bond. Its beer glasses were vulgarly large, its frequenters of the - rough-neck school. But it was either work in Flynn's or carry a hod, and - Ellison, who was not fanatically fond of hard labor, and preferred to seek - his bread along lines of least resistance, instantly and instinctively - resolved on the side of Flynn's. - </p> - <p> - Gangland is much more given to boxing gloves than books, and the - conversation at Flynn's, as it drifted across the bar to Ellison—busy - drawing beer—was more calculated to help his hands than help his - head. Now and then, to be sure, there would come one who, like Slimmy, had - acquired a stir education, that is, a knowledge of books such as may be - picked up in prison; but for the most those whom Ellison met, in the - frothy course of business, were not the ones to feed his higher nature or - elevate his soul. It was a society where the strong man was the best man, - and only fist-right prevailed. - </p> - <p> - Ellison was young, husky, with length of reach and plenty of hitting - power, and, as the interests of Flynn demanded, he bowed to his - environment and beat up many a man. There were those abroad in Bond Street - whom he could not have conquered. But, commonly sober and possessed - besides of inborn gifts as a matchmaker, he had no trouble in avoiding - these. The folks whom he hooked up with were of the <i>genus</i> cinch, <i>species</i> - pushover, and proceeding carefully he built up in time a standing for - valor throughout all the broad regions lying between Fourteenth Street and - City Hall Park. - </p> - <p> - Let it be said that Ellison had courage. It was his prudence which taught - him to hold aloof from the tough ones. Now and then, when a tough one did - insist on war, Ellison never failed to bear himself with spirit. Only he - preferred to win easily, with little exertion and no injury to his nose - and eyes. For Ellison, proud of his appearance, was by Gangland's crude - standards the glass of fashion and the mould of form, and flourished the - idol of the ladies. Also, a swollen nose or a discolored eye is of no - avail in winning hearts. - </p> - <p> - Every dispenser of beer is by way of being a power in politics. Some soar - higher, some with weaker wing—that is a question of genius. One - sells beer and makes himself chief of Tammany Hall. Another rises on the - tides of beer to a district leadership. Still others—and it is here - that Ellison comes in—find their lower beery level as Tammany's - shoulder-hitting aides. - </p> - <p> - In the last rôle, Ellison was of value to Tammany Hall. Wherefore, - whenever he fell into the fingers of the police—generally for - assault—the machine cast over him the pinion of its prompt - protection. As the strong-arm pet of the organization, he punched and - slugged, knocked down and dragged out, and did all these in safety. Some - soft-whispering politician was sure to show a magistrate—all ears—that - the equities were on the side of Ellison, and what black eyes or broken - noses had been distributed went where they truly belonged and would do the - most Tammany good. - </p> - <p> - In his double role of beer dispenser and underthug of politics, Ellison - stood high in Gangland opinion. From Flynn's in Bond Street he went to - Pickerelle's in Chrystie Street. Then he became the presiding influence at - a dive of more than usual disrepute kept by one Landt, which had flung - open its dingy doors in Forsyth Street near Houston. - </p> - <p> - Ellison' took an impressive upward step at this time. That is, he nearly - killed a policeman. Nicely timing matters so that the officer was looking - the other way, he broke a bottle over the blue-coat's head. The blue-coat - fell senseless to the floor. Once down and helpless, Ellison hoofed him - after the rules of Gangland, which teach that only fools are fair, until - the hoofed one was a pick-up for an ambulance. - </p> - <p> - The officer spent two weeks in a hospital cot, Ellison two hours in a - station house cell. The politicians closed the officer's mouth, and opened - Ellison's cell. The officer got well after a while, and he and Ellison - grew to be good friends. The politicians said that there was nothing in it - for either the officer or Ellison to remain at loggerheads. No man may - write himself “politician” who does not combine the strength to prosecute - a war, with the wisdom to conclude a peace. Hence, at the command of the - politicians, Ellison and the smitten officer struck hands, and pooled - their differences. - </p> - <p> - Ellison, smooth-faced, high-featured, well-dressed, a Gangland cavalier, - never married. Or if he did he failed to mention it. He was not a - moll-buzzer; no one could accuse him of taking money from a woman. He - lived by the ballot and the bung-starter. In addition once a year he gave - a racket, tinder the auspices of what he called the “Biff Ellison - Association,” and as his fame increased his profits from a single racket - were known to reach $2,000. - </p> - <p> - At one time Ellison challenged fortune as part proprietor of Paresis Hall, - which sink of sin, as though for contrast, had been established within the - very shadow of Cooper Union. Terminating his connection with Paresis Hall, - he lived a life of leisure between Chick Tricker's Park Row “store” and - Nigger Mike's at Number Twelve Pell. - </p> - <p> - Occasionally he so far unbuckled as to escort some lady to or from - Sharkey's in Fourteenth Street. Not as a lobbygow; not for any ill-odored - fee of fifty cents. But as a gentleman might, and out of sheer politeness. - The law, as enforced from Mulberry Street, was prone to take a narrow view - of ladies who roamed alone the midnight streets. The gallant Ellison was - pleasantly willing to save night-bound dames of his acquaintance from this - annoyance. That was all. - </p> - <p> - Who has not heard of the celebrated Paul Kelly? Once upon a time, a good - woman reading a newspaper saw reference to Paul Kelly in some interesting - connection. She began to burn with curiosity; she wanted to meet Paul - Kelly, and said so to her husband. Since her husband had been brought up - to obey her in all things, he made no objection. - </p> - <p> - Guided by a pathfinder from the Central Office, the gentleman went forth - to find Paul Kelly, his wife on his arm. They entered Lyon's restaurant in - the Bowery; the place was crowded. Room was made for them at a table by - squeezing in three chairs. The lady looked about her. Across, stale and - fat and gone to seed, sat an ex-eminent of the prize ring. At his elbow - was a stocky person, with a visage full of wormwood and a chrysanthemum - ear. He of the ear was given to misguided volubilities, more apt to - startle than delight. - </p> - <p> - The woman who wanted to see Paul Kelly looked at the champion gone to - sulky seed, listened to the misguided conversationist with the - chrysanthemum ear, and wished she hadn't come. She might have been driven - from the field, had it not been for a small, dark personage, with black - eyes and sallow cheeks, who sat next her on the left. His voice was low - and not alarming; his manner bland but final. And he took quiet and - quieting charge of the other two. - </p> - <p> - The dark, sallow little man led those two others in the wordy way they - should go. When the talk of him of the unsatisfactory ear approached the - Elizabethan so closely as to inspire terror, he put him softly yet - sufficiently back in his hole. Also, when not thus employed, in holding - down the conversational lid, he talked French to one man, Italian to - another, English to all. Purringly polite, Chesterfield might have studied - him with advantage. - </p> - <p> - The woman who wanted to see Paul Kelly was so taken with the little dark - man's easy mastery of the situation, that she forgot the object of the - expedition. When she was again in the street, and had drawn a deep, clear - breath or two of long relief, she expressed astonishment that one - possessed of so much grace and fineness, so full of cultured elegancies, - should be discovered in such coarse surroundings. - </p> - <p> - “Surely, he doesn't belong there,” she said. “Who is he?” - </p> - <p> - “Who is he?” repeated the Central Office delegate in a discouraged tone. - “I thought your hubby wised you up. That's Paul Kelly.” - </p> - <p> - Paul Kelly owned the New Brighton in Great Jones Street. One evening, as - the orchestra was tuning its fiddles for the final <i>valse</i>, a sudden - but exhaustive bombardment then and there broke loose. In the hot midst of - it, some cool hand turned off the lights. They were never again turned on. - The guests departed through window and by way of door, and did not come - back. It was the end of the New Brighton. - </p> - <p> - Gangland, which can talk betimes, can also keep a secret. Coax, cozen, - cross-question as you will, you cannot worm from it the secret of that New - Brighton bombardment. Ask, and every one is silent. There is a silence - which is empty, there is a silence which is full. Those who will not tell - why the New Brighton was shot up that night are silent with the silence - which is full. - </p> - <p> - As usual, the Central Office is not without its theories. The Central - Office is often without the criminal, but never without the explanation. - One Mulberry Street whisper declared that it was a war over a woman, - without saying which woman. Another whisper insisted that money lay at the - roots of the business, without saying what money. Still another ran to the - effect that it was one of those hit-or-miss mix-ups, in their sort - extemporaneous, in their up-come inexplicable, the distinguishing mark of - which is an utter lack of either rhyme or reason. - </p> - <p> - One officer with whom I talked pointed to Ellison and Harrington as the - principals. Paul Kelly, he said, was drawn into it as incident to his - proprietorship of the New Brighton, while the redoubtable Razor became - part of the picture only through his friendship for Ellison. Another - officer, contradicting, argued that there had been a feud of long standing - between Razor and Paul Kelly; that Ellison was there in Razor's behalf, - and Harrington got killed because he butted in. Both officers agreed that - the rumpus had nothing to do with Eat-'em-up-Jack's run in with Chick - Tricker, then sundry months astern, or the later lead-pipe wiping out of - Jack. - </p> - <p> - The story of the taking off of Eat-'em-up-Jack has already been told. The - New Brighton missed Jack. He whom Paul Kelly brought to fill his place no - more than just rattled about in it. The new sheriff did not possess Jack's - nice knowledge of dance hall etiquette, and his blackjack lacked decision. - Some even think that had Jack been there that night, what follows might - never have occurred at all. As said one who held this view: - </p> - <p> - “If Eat-'em-up-Jack had been holdin' down th' floor, th' New Brighton - wouldn't have looked so easy to Biff an' Razor, an' they might have passed - it up.” - </p> - <p> - The dancing floor of the New Brighton was crowded with Gangland chivalry - and fashion. Out in the bar, where waiters came rushing bearing trays of - empty glasses to presently rushingly retire loaded to the beery guards, - sat Paul Kelly and a select bevy. The talk was of business mixed with - politics, for a campaign was being waged. - </p> - <p> - “After election,” said Paul, “I'm going to close up this joint. I've got - enough; I'm going to pack in.” - </p> - <p> - “What's th' row?” asked Slimmy, who had drawn up a chair. - </p> - <p> - “There's too much talking,” returned Paul. “Only the other day a bull was - telling me that I'm credited with being the first guy along the Bowery to - carry a gun.” - </p> - <p> - “He's crazy,” broke in Harrington, who with the lovely Goldie Cora had - joined the group. “There were cannisters by the ton along the Bowery - before ever you was pupped.” - </p> - <p> - The Irish Wop, whose mind ran altogether upon politics, glanced up from a - paper. - </p> - <p> - “Spakin' av th' campaign,” said he, “how comes it things is so quiet? No - one givin' th' banks a bawlin' out, no one soakin' th' railroads, no one - handin' th' hot wallops to th' trusts! Phwat's gone wrong wit' 'em? I've - found but wan man—jusht wan—bein' th' skate who's writin' in - th' pa-a-aper here,”—and the Wop held up the paper as Exhibit A—“who - acts loike he has somethin' to hand out. Lishten: After buck-dancin' a - bit, he ups and calls Willyum Jinnins Bryan th' 'modern Brutus,' says - 'Cæsarism is abroad,' an' that Willyum Jinnins is th' only laddybuck who - can put it on th' bum.” - </p> - <p> - “It's one of them hot-air students,” said Harrington. - </p> - <p> - “But about this Brutus-Cæsar thing? Are they wit' th' organization?” - </p> - <p> - “It's what a swell mouth-piece like Bourke Cock-ran calls a 'figger of - speech',” interjected Slimmy, ever happy to be heard concerning the - ancients. “Cesar an' Brutus were a couple of long-ago Dagoes. Accordin' to - th' dope they lived an' croaked two thousand years ago.” - </p> - <p> - “Only a pair av old wops, was they! An' dead an' gone at that! Sure I - thought be th' way this writin' gezebo carried on about 'em they was right - here on th' job, cuttin' ice. An' they're nothin' more'n a brace av old - dead Guineas after all!” - </p> - <p> - The Wop mused a moment over the unprofitable meanness of the discovery. - Then his curiosity began to brighten up a trifle. - </p> - <p> - “How did yez come to be so hep to 'em, Slimmy?” - </p> - <p> - “Be studyin'—how-else? An' then there's Counsellor Noonan. You ought - to hear him when he gets to goin' about Brutus and Cæsar an' th' rest of - th' Roman fleet. To hear Noonan you'd think he had been one of their - pals.” - </p> - <p> - “Th' Counsellor's from Latrim,” said the Wop; “I'm a Mayo man meself. An' - say, thim Latrim la-a-ads are th' born liars. Still, as long as the - Counsellor's talkin' about phwat happened two thousand years ago, yez can - chance a bet on him. It's only when he's repo-o-rtin' th' evints av - yisterday he'll try to hand yez a lemon.” - </p> - <p> - “I wisht I was as wise as youse, Slimmy,” said Goldie Cora, wistfully - rubbing her delicate nose. “It must be dead swell to know about Cæsar an' - th' rest of them dubs.” - </p> - <p> - “If they was to show up now,” hazarded the Wop, “thim ould fellies 'ud - feel like farmers.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, I don't know,” observed Slimmy: “they was lyin', cheatin', swindlin', - snitchin', double-crossin' an' givin' each other th' rinkey-dink in th' - old days same as now. This Cæsar, though, must have been a stiff - proposition. He certainly woke up young! When he's only nineteen, he toins - out one mornin', yawns, puts on his everyday toga, rambles down town, an' - makes a hurrah touch for five million of dollars. Think of it!—five - million!—an' him not twenty! He certainly was a producer—Cæsar - was!” - </p> - <p> - “Well, I should yell,” assented Harrington. - </p> - <p> - “An' then phwat?” asked the Wop. - </p> - <p> - “This what,” said Slimmy. “Havin' got his wad together, Cæsar starts in to - light up Rome, an' invites the push to cut in. When he's got 'em properly - keyed up, he goes into the forum an' says, 'Am I it?' An' the gang yells, - 'You're it'!” - </p> - <p> - “Cæsar could go some,” commented Goldie Cora, admiringly. - </p> - <p> - “Rome's a republic then,” Slimmy went on, “an' Cæsar has himself elected - the main squeeze. He declares for a wide-open town; his war cry is 'No - water! No gas! No police!'” - </p> - <p> - “Say, he was a live one!” broke in Harrington; “he was Rome's Big Tim!” - </p> - <p> - “Listen!” commanded Goldie Cora, shaking her yellow head at Harrington. - “Go on, Slimmy.” - </p> - <p> - “About this time Brutus commences to show in th' runnin'. Brutus is th' - head of th' Citizens' Union, an' him an' his fellow mugwumps put in their - time bluffin' an' four-flushin' 'round about reform. They had everybody - buffaloed, except Cæsar. Brutus is for closin' th' saloons, puttin' th' - smother on horse racin', an' wants every Roman kid who plays baseball - Sunday pinched.” - </p> - <p> - “He gives me a pain!” complained Goldie Cora. - </p> - <p> - “An' mind you, all th' time Brutus is graftin' with both hooks. He's in on - the Aqueduct; he manages a forty per cent, hold out on the Appian way; an' - what long green he has loose he loans to needy skates in Spain at pawn - shop rates, an' when they don't kick in he uses the legions to collect. - Brutus is down four ways from the jack on everything in sight. Nothin's - calculated to embarrass him but a pair of mittens.” - </p> - <p> - “An' at that,” remarked Harrington, who had a practical knowledge of - politics, “him an' his mugwump bunch didn't have nothin' on th' New York - reformers. Do youse guys remember when the city bought th' ferries? There - was———” - </p> - <p> - “I'd sooner hear Slimmy,” said Goldie Cora. - </p> - <p> - “Me too,” agreed the Wop. - </p> - <p> - Slimmy looked flattered. “Well, then,” he continued, “all this time Caesar - is the big screech, an' it makes Brutus so sore he gets to be a bug. So he - starts to talkin'. 'This Cæsar guy,' says Brutus, 'won't do.' - </p> - <p> - “'Right you be,' says Cassius, who's always been a kicker. 'That's what - I've been tellin' you lobsters from th' jump.' - </p> - <p> - “With this an old souse named Casca sits up, an' says he ain't seen - nothin' wrong about Cæsar. - </p> - <p> - “'Oh, roll over!' says Cassius. 'Why even the newsboys are on. You know - Cæsar's wardman—that fresh baby, Mark Antony? It's ribbed up right - now that at th' Lupercal he's to hand Cæsar a crown.' - </p> - <p> - “Casca an' th' other bone-heads turns to Brutus. - </p> - <p> - “'Yes,' says Brutus, answerin' their looks; 'Cassius has got good - information. He's givin' youse th' correct steer.'” - </p> - <p> - “An' did Cæsar cop off the crown?” asked Goldie Cora, eagerly. - </p> - <p> - Slimmy shook his head. - </p> - <p> - “Th' Lupercal comes 'round,” said he, “an' Mark Antony is there with bells - on. He makes a funny crack or two about a crown, but nothin' goes. Th' - wind-up is that Brutus, Cassius, Casca, an' th' rest of th' Citizens' - Union, gang Cæsar later in th' forum, go at him with their chives, an' cut - an' slash till his hide won't hold his principles.” - </p> - <p> - “An' wasn't there,” demanded the Wop, with heat, “so much as wan - strong-arm la-a-ad up at Cæsar's end av th' alley, wit' th' nerve to git - even?” - </p> - <p> - “Never fear!” returned Slimmy, reassuringly; “th' day they plant Cæsar, - Mark Antony goes in to make th' funeral spiel. He's th' Roman Senator - Grady, Mark Antony is, an' he burns 'em up. Brutus an' his bunch get th' - tip up at their club house, an' take it on th' run. With that, Cæsar's - gang gets to goin', an' they stand Rome on its nut from the Capitoline - Hill to the Tarpeian Rock. Brutus an' the' other mugwumps gets it where - th' baby wore th' beads, an' there ain't been a Seth Low or a Fulton - Cutting along th' Tiber from that day to this. Oh, they've got us left - standin' sideways, them Guineas have, in some things.” - </p> - <p> - About the time Slimmy began his lucid setting forth of Brutus, Cæsar and - their political differences, Ellison and Razor, down at Nigger Mike's in - Pell Street, were laying their heads together. A bottle of whiskey stood - between them, for they required inspiration. There were forty people in - the room, some dancing, some drinking, some talking. But no one came near - Ellison and Razor, for their manner showed that they did not wish to be - disturbed. As the Nailer observed, “They had a hen on,” and when gentlemen - have a hen on they prefer being quiet. - </p> - <p> - “I've no use for Paul Kelly,” whispered Razor in response to some remark - of Ellison's. “You bet he knows enough not to show his snout along Eighth - Avenue. He'd get it good if he did.” - </p> - <p> - “My notion,” said Ellison, “is to turn th' trick right now.” - </p> - <p> - “Just th' two of us?” - </p> - <p> - “Why not?” - </p> - <p> - “He'd have his guerillas; youse have got to figure on that.” - </p> - <p> - “They wouldn't stand th' gaff. It's the difference between guys who knows - what they wants, and guys who don't. Once we started, they'd tear th' side - out the Brighton in the get-away.” - </p> - <p> - “All right,” said Razor, bringing down his hand; “I'm wit' you.” - </p> - <p> - “Just a moment,” and Ellison motioned Razor back into his chair. “If - Paul's dancin', we must stall him into th' bar. I don't want to hoit any - of them skirts.” - </p> - <p> - It was the delightful habit of Slimmy, on the tail of one of his lectures, - to order beer for his hearers. That's why he was listened to with so much - interest. Were every lecturer to adopt Slimmy's plan, he would never fail - of an audience. Also, his fame would grow. - </p> - <p> - Slimmy, having finished with Cæsar and the others, had just signed up to - the waiter to go his merry rounds, when Ellison and Razor slipped in from - the street. Their hands were on their guns, their eyes on Kelly. - </p> - <p> - Harrington saw it coming. - </p> - <p> - “Your gatt, Paul, your gatt!” he shouted. - </p> - <p> - The rule in Gangland is to let every man kill his own snakes. Harrington's - conduct crowded hard upon the gross. It so disgusted Razor that, to show - Harrington what he thought of it, he half turned and laced a bullet - through his brain. - </p> - <p> - “Now you've got something of your own to occupy your mind,” quoth Razor. - </p> - <p> - Ellison was too old a practitioner to be drawn aside by the Harrington - episode. He devoted himself unswervingly to Paul Kelly. Ellison's first - bullet cut a hole through Kelly's coat and did no further harm. The lights - were switched out at this crisis, and what shooting followed came off in - the dark. There was plenty of it. The air seemed sown as thickly full of - little yellow spits of flame as an August swamp of fireflies. Even so, it - didn't last. It was as short lived as a July squall at sea. There was one - thunder and lightning moment, during which the pistols flashed and roared, - and then—stillness and utter silence! - </p> - <p> - It was fairish pistol practice when you consider conditions. Paul Kelly - had three bullets in him when four weeks later he asked the coppers to - come and get him. He had been up in Harlem somewhere lying low. And you - are not to forget Harrington. There were other casualties, also, which the - police and politicians worked hand in hand to cover up. - </p> - <p> - Five minutes went by after the shooting; ten minutes!—no one was in - a hurry. At last a policeman arrived. He might have come sooner, but the - New Brighton was a citadel of politics. Would you have had him lose his - shield? - </p> - <p> - The policeman felt his official way into the barroom:—empty as a - drum, dark as the inside of a cow! - </p> - <p> - He struck a match. By its pale and little light he made out the dead - Harrington on the floor. Not a living soul, not even Goldie Cora! - </p> - <p> - Goldie Cora? - </p> - <p> - Said that practical damsel, when the matter was put up to her by Big - Kitty, who being sentimental called Goldie Cora a quitter for leaving her - dead love lying in his blood, “What good could I do? If I'd stuck I'd have - got pinched; an' then—me in th' Tombs—I'd have stood a swell - chance, I don't chink, of bein' at Bill's funeral.” - </p> - <h3> - THE END. - </h3> - <div style="height: 6em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - - - - - - - -<pre> - - - - - -End of Project Gutenberg's The Apaches of New York, by Alfred Henry Lewis - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE APACHES OF NEW YORK *** - -***** This file should be named 51909-h.htm or 51909-h.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/1/9/0/51909/ - -Produced by David Widger from page images generously -provided by the Internet Archive - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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