My Mamie Rose: The Story of My Regeneration
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Title: My Mamie Rose: The Story of My Regeneration
Creator: Owen Kildare
Release date: May 29, 2014 [eBook #45684]
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/45684
Credits: Produced by Al Haines
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MY MAMIE ROSE: THE STORY OF MY REGENERATION ***
Produced by Al Haines.
[Illustration: Owen Kildare.]
My Mamie Rose
_The Story of My
Regeneration_
_By_ OWEN KILDARE
_An Autobiography_
New York
GROSSET & DUNLAP
PUBLISHERS
Copyright, 1903, by THE BAKER & TAYLOR COMPANY
_Published, October, 1903_
To
L. B. R.
*CONTENTS.*
Chapter
I. The Kid of the Tenement
II. A Pair of Shoes
III. A Nomad of the Streets
IV. Living by My Muscle
V. Living by My Wits
VI. At the Sign of Chicory Hall
VII. My Good Old Pal
VIII. Knights Errant
IX. A Player of Many Parts
X. Bowery Politics
XI. A Pilgrimage to Nature
XII. The Frontier of the Newer Life
XIII. The Beginning of the Miracle
XIV. The Old Doors Close
XV. A Kindergarten of One
XVI. Ambassador Bill
XVII. My Debut in Society
XVIII. The Journey Home
XIX. The Inheritance
*ILLUSTRATIONS.*
Owen Kildare . . . . . . . . . _Frontispiece_
Map of Bowery District
Mr. Kildare's Birthplace on Catharine Street
Bill
A Typical Group at Barney Flynn's Side-Door
Mike Callahan's Saloon
*THE KID OF THE TENEMENT.*
[Illustration: Map of the Bowery District]
MAP OF THE BOWERY DISTRICT.
The map on the left shows how small a fraction of Manhattan Island (only
a small part of New York City in itself) this world-famous district is.
In this small section, called by Mr. Kildare "The Highway of the
Foolish," he was born and lived, until he was thirty. Rarely did he
leave it. In fact, he states that a large percentage of the people who
are born here go through life with the very vaguest ideas of the world
beyond--many living and dying without ever having passed north of 14th
Street and West of Broadway. It is a strange world of strange people
who live only from day to day and unto their daily needs.
*MY MAMIE ROSE.*
*CHAPTER I.*
*THE KID OF THE TENEMENT.*
Many men have told the stories of their lives. I shall tell you mine.
Not because I, as they, have done great and important things, but
because of the miracle which transformed me.
If lives may be measured by progress mine may have some interest to you.
When a man at thirty cannot read or write the simplest sentence, and
then eight years later is able to earn his living by his pen, his story
may be worth the telling.
Before beginning, however, the recital of how I found my ambition
awakened, let me make my position unmistakably definite. I am not a
self-made man, having only contributed a mite in the making. A
self-made man can turn around to the road traveled by him and can point
with pride to the monuments of his achievements. I cannot do that. I
have no record of great deeds accomplished. I am a man, reborn and
remade from an unfortunate moral condition into a life in which every
atom has but the one message, "Strive, struggle and believe," and I
would be the sneakiest hypocrite were I to deny that I feel within me a
satisfaction at being able to respond to the call with all the possible
energy of soul and body. I have little use for a man who cloaks his
ability with mock modesty. A man's conscience is the best barometer of
his ability, and he who will pretend a disbelief in his ability is
either untruthful or has an ulterior motif.
In spite of having, as yet, accomplished little, I have confidence in
myself and my ability, because my aims are distinctly reasonable. I
regret that in my story the first person singular will be so much in
evidence, but it cannot be otherwise. Each fact, each incident
mentioned, has been lived by me; the disgrace and the glory, the misery
and the happiness, are all part of my life, and I cannot separate them
from myself. I know you will not disbelieve me, and I am willing to be
confronted by your criticism, which, for obvious reasons, will not be
directed against my diction, elegance of style and literary quality. I
am not an author. I only have a story to tell and all the rest remains
with you.
There was nothing remarkable about my early childhood. Most of the boys
of the tenements are having or have had the same experience.
The home which sheltered my foster parents (my own father and mother
died in my infancy, as I will tell you later) and myself consisted of
two rooms. The rental was six dollars a month. Located on the top floor
of an old-style tenement house in Catharine street, our home was lighted
and ventilated by one small window, which looked out into a network of
wash-lines running from the windows to tall poles placed in the corners
of the yard. By craning your neck out of the window you could look into
the yard, six stories below, and discover the causes of the stenches
which rose with might to your nostrils.
The "front room" was kitchen, dining-room, living room and my bedroom
all in one. Beside the cooking range in winter and beside the open
window in summer was the old soap box on its unevenly curved supports,
which, as my cradle, bumped me into childhood.
As may be surmised, both of my foster parents were Irish. My father, a
'longshoreman, enjoyed a reputation of great popularity in the Fourth
Ward, at that time an intensely Irish district of the city. Popularity
in the Fourth Ward meant a great circle of convivial companions and a
fair credit with the ginmill keepers. His earnings would have been
considerable had he been a persistent worker. But men of popularity
cannot afford to be constantly at work. It would perhaps fill their
pocketbooks, but decrease their popularity. These periods of
conviviality, hilarious intervals to my father, were most depressing to
my mother.
Life in tenements is a particularly busy one of its kind. When all
efforts are directed toward the one end of providing the wherewithal for
food and rent, each meal and each rent day is an epoch-making event.
As soon as one month's rent is paid, each succeeding day has its own
thoughts of dread "against next rent day." The thrifty housekeeper lays
aside a share of her daily allowance--increasing it during the last week
of the month--until, with a sigh of relief, she can say, "Thank God, we
got it this time."
I firmly believe that a great share of the dread is created by the
aversion to a personal meeting with the rent collector or agent. People
who have to measure the size of their meals by the length of their
purses are very apt to become a trifle unsteady in their ethics
concerning financial questions. They are willing to pay their grocer or
butcher, but lose sight of the fact that the rent money is the payment
for the most important purchase, the securing of their home. They are
friendly with the shopkeeper, are often "jollied" by him into spending
money otherwise needed, but regard the rent collector as their personal
enemy.
There are many rent collectors, and, as in all greater numbers, quite a
few are justly criticised for their manner. Many tenements are owned by
men, who, though the owners, are only on a slightly different scale
socially from their tenants. They are men, who, by great shrewdness or
some fortunate chance, accumulated enough to make a real estate
investment in their own ward. Naturally, they being familiar with the
circumstances of their tenants and having a remnant of neighborly
feeling for them, are more easily influenced.
Many blocks of tenements were then and are now owned by large estates.
The management of these buildings is entrusted to real estate agents,
who receive a commission on their collections, or to salaried
representatives, who owe their position to the faculty of keeping rents
up and keeping repairs down. These are the men who are hated by the
poor.
It is said corporations have no souls, why then should a large estate,
surely a corporation, have one? And there must be a soul to understand,
to feel the woe, the pleading that comes to it in halting, sob-broken
speech. How, then, is one whose feeling is long ago calloused by the
repetition of these tales of misery, to be stirred to more than a sneer
by another variation of the old, old wail: "Have pity on us this once,
we are so poor, so ill, so miserable."
Here the poor could be reproached for shiftlessness in household
matters, for not practising sufficiently the principles of economy. The
reproach would be perfectly justified and would touch one of the most
potent causes for the existing conditions among the poor. No one lives
more lavishly and knows less how to save than the poor. Their expense
account is not based on a sanitary or monetary basis, but shapes itself
according to temporary income.
"Plenty of money in the house" and rent day far in the distance, and
many families will absolutely gorge themselves at table with food and
drink, only to return on perhaps the very next day to tea and dry bread.
For this reason no social movements on the East Side are worthier of
hearty support than those carried on to teach children, and especially
girls, "How to keep house." Teach them how to keep house, and they will
make homes.
If rent days are the fearful anticipations of tenement house life, meals
and their preparation are the pleasurable anticipations of it. At
morning, noon and evening the smells of cooking and frying waft from the
open doors of the apartments into the halls. The doors are open for two
reasons--for ventilation and to "show" the neighbors that more than the
tea kettle is bubbling away on the range. Behind the closed doors there
is no feast, just the tea and the bread and scheming how to explain this
unwelcome fact to the neighbors.
My mother found her best hold on her husband's affections by catering to
his appetite, which was one of the marvels of the neighborhood. When
working he was very exacting in the choice and preparation of his food;
so, when idle his wife would strive still harder to cheer him into
better humor by culinary feats.
Besides this promiscuous cooking, there were mending, washing, darning
and other housework to be looked after, and little time was left for
sentiment toward me beyond an occasional affectionate pat on the head.
Now, take the mind, the heart of a child, and then consider the
influence of such a barren existence on it. A child can do without
coddling--yes, most boys do not, or pretend not to like it--but a
child's heart, sensitive as no other, hungers for a wealth of affection.
The child, a little ape, finding no outlet for his willing response to
affection, seeks a field of mental activity in imitating the adults
about him. And the models and patterns in tenement spheres are not
those a child should imitate. All conditions there are primitive. To
eat, drink, sleep and be clothed are the aims of life there, leaving but
a small margin for emotions.
The forms of expression are also primitive and accepted. The worthy
housewife, who, in a moment of anger at her husband's mellow state,
should vent her feelings in an outburst of more emphatic than polite
language, will not lose caste thereby, but will be told by sympathetic
fellow-sufferers that "She did just right."
Among the men it is considered an indication of effeminacy or dudeism to
utter one sentence without profanity. To be deemed manly one must curse
and swear. Even terms of endearment are prefaced with an
unintentionally opposite preamble.
[Illustration: Owen Kildare's Birthplace in Catharine St. The Star marks
the window of the Kildare Tenement.]
There, not yet mentioning the other detrimental defects of environment,
the child grows up, and then, when in the manhood days this foundation,
faulty and vicious, breaks and crumbles to pieces and leaves naught but
a being condemned by society and law, and seemingly by God, there is an
army ready to pelt this creature, cursed by its own existence, with law,
justice and punishment, but not with one iota of the spirit which even
now, in our matter-of-fact days, echoes the grandest message, "He is thy
brother."
Such was the setting of the stage on which the drama of my childhood
began. The part I played in it was not very interesting.
An adult man or woman can do with a minimum of space, but a child must
have much of it. To romp and play and scheme some mischief requires lots
of room, and there being not an inch of room to spare in tenement
apartments, the children in summer and winter claim the street as their
very own realm.
It is bad that it is so, for there is much in the street which is of
physical and moral danger to the child. Hardly a day passes without
having a boy or girl hurt by some passing vehicle. It is almost
impossible to guard against these accidents. The drivers are careful.
No one can make me believe that these men would wantonly drive into a
swarm of playing children, but there are so many, so many.
Convince yourself of this. You need not have to travel very far. Take
any street, east or west of the Bowery, and the young generation,
crowding before your very feet or jostling against you in innocent play,
will tell you more effectively than my pen could of what the real need
of the East Side is.
But then parks and play grounds do not bring rentals; tenement houses
do, and, further, even the child-life of those districts is dependent on
the whims of our patriotic ward politicians.
Among the very poor--and my parents were of that class--it is the custom
to send out the children to pick up wood and coal for the fire. My
mother, being constantly engaged in looking after the welfare of my
father, had not very much time to spare on me, and I grew up very much
by myself.
Even before it had become my duty to "go out for coal," I loved to take
my basket and make my way to the river front to pick up bits of coal
dropped in unloading from the canal boats or by too generously filled
carts.
Among my playmates I held a very unimportant position, being neither
very popular nor unpopular. I did not mind this much, as I felt,
instinctively, that something was wrong and that I was not on a level
footing with them. It is impossible for me to explain why I felt so at
the time, but I can distinctly remember that quite often I felt myself
entirely isolated.
No one minded me or censured me for my long absences from home, provided
my basket was fairly well filled with coal. Then spells of envy often
came to me. I envied the caresses given by mothers to their sons and,
yes, I also envied the cuffs given to them for having spent too much
time at the retail coal business.
I reasoned so then and I reason so now, that behind every whipping given
to a child a father's or mother's love and justice is hidden. But even
parental chastisement was denied me--a fact for which, according to
popular opinion, I should have been thankful.
In this way I lived the dull life of a tenement house child, made more
dull in my case by the lack of a certain inexplicable something in my
relations to my parents and in my home conditions. I missed something,
yet could not tell what it was.
It can hardly be termed a hidden sorrow, but make a boy ponder and worry
about something, for which no explanation is vouchsafed to him, and he
will get himself into a mental state not at all healthy for his years.
Close to the cooking range was an old box used as a receptacle for wood
and coal. There was my seat, and from there I watched the little
domestic comedies and tragedies played before me with my father and
mother as chief actors.
My father's popularity made our home the calling place for many
visitors. At these visits the most frequently used utensil was the
"can," or "growler," and the functions usually assumed the character of
an "ink pot." Several houses in the ward had well proven reputations as
"mixed ale camps," meaning thereby places where certain cronies could
meet nightly and "rush the growler" as long as the money lasted. If the
friends were more than usually plentiful, the whisky bottle, called
always the "bottle," besides the "can," was kept well filled, producing
a continuation of effects, sometimes running to fighting; at other times
running to maudlin sentimentality. These occasions--no one knows
why--are called "ink pots."
My father's house was in a fair way to become listed among the well
established "mixed ale camps." In those days no law had yet been passed
making the selling of "pints" of beer to minors a punishable offense,
and children of both sexes were employed until late in the night, when
the bar-rooms were crowded with drunken and boisterous men, to "rush the
growler" for their seniors at home. The children did not object to it,
as a few pennies were always given to them for the errand.
I, also, had to make these journeys to the nearest saloon, and, also,
did not mind it for the above mentioned reason. Sometimes, after
returning from my trip, a man would ask me to sing him one of the
popular songs of the day, but I would refuse with the diffidence of a
boy. My father never missed these opportunities to inform his friends
that "that brat ain't good for nothing. Don't bother with him."
I began to dislike my foster father, rather than hate him. More than
once I met his casual glance with a bitter scowl.
*A PAIR OF SHOES.*
*CHAPTER II.*
*A PAIR OF SHOES.*
It was winter, still. I was running about bare-footed. This was
preferred by me to having my feet shod with the old shoes of my mother.
She had a small foot, yet her old shoes were miles too large for me, and
furthermore, always made me the butt of the jeers and jibes of my
playmates in the street. Therefore, I never wore the cast-off shoes
unless snow or ice was on the ground.
But whether bare-footed or slouching along in my unwieldy cast-offs, the
comments became so personal that I resolved to ask my father for a pair
of real, new shoes.
The moment for presenting my petition anent the new shoes was ill
chosen.
My father was experiencing a period of idleness, and had reached that
intense state of feeling which prompted him to declare with much banging
on the table that "there wasn't an honest day's work to be got no more,
at all, by an honest, decent, laboring man." At the moment my mother
was deeply engaged in the task of mollifying her husband's irascibility
by preparing some marvelous feat of cooking, and was not at liberty to
give me her most essential moral support.
My request was received in silence. It was an ominous silence, but I
did not realize it.
I insisted.
"I want a pair of shoes all to myself, the same as other boys have."
"Oh, is it shoes you want? New shoes? Shoes that cost money, when
there ain't enough money in the house to get a man a decent meal. I'll
give you shoes; indeed I will."
Still I insisted. Then that which, perhaps, should have happened to me
long before, was inflicted upon me. I was beaten for the first time, to
be beaten often and often again afterward.
The whipping roused my temper. From a safe distance I upbraided my
father for punishing me for demanding that which all children have a
right to demand from their parents, to be properly clothed. This incited
his humor; but, after his laugh had ended, he told me in the most direct
and blunt way of my status in the family, and also informed me that if
he felt so disposed he could at any time kick me into the street, where
I, by right, belonged.
Without mincing his words he told me the story of my parentage. At
least, he told me that I was no better than an orphan, picked from the
gutter, and kept alive by the good nature of himself and his wife.
It was all true.
In the days to follow I learned more and more about my parents from the
legendary lore of neighborly gossip. And even he, my foster-father,
could say naught but good about my father and mother, if he did hate
their son.
No, I should not say he hated me. Patrick McShane had a good heart, but
permitted it too often to be poisoned by the poison of the can and
bottle.
All I know about my own father is that he was a typical son of the
Emerald Isle. Rollicking, carefree, ever ready with song or story, he
was a universal favorite during his sojourn in the ward where he had
made a home for himself and his wife for the short time from his arrival
in this country until his death.
A few years ago I had the pleasure of meeting the owner of the building
where our home had been and where I was born. In spite of his old age,
he still remembered my father.
"Do you know, my boy, your father was a fine man? The same as any man,
who lets nice apartments to tenants, I had to see that rents were
regularly paid, and I always did that without being any too hard on
them. But it was all different with your father. There were a few
times when his rent was either short a few dollars or not there at all,
but before I had the chance to get angry he'd tell me a story or sing me
a ditty, and instead o' being mad I'd leave and forget all about my
rent. Ah, indeed, Owney, boy, a fine man was your father."
Not much of an eulogy, but much, very much, to me, the son. I have
nothing, no likeness, no photograph, to help my mind's eye see my
parents; and, therefore, any tribute, no matter how trifling, paid to
the memory of my father and mother goes toward perfecting the picture of
them, fashioning in my soul.
My mother was a French woman, who married my father shortly before
departing for this country from France, where he had gone to study art.
They knew very little of her in the district. All her life seemed to be
centered in her husband, and she was rarely seen out of her own rooms.
The only breathing spells she ever enjoyed were had on the roof--quite
convenient to the top floor, where the home was--and there she would get
a whiff of fresh air, to the accompaniment of one of my dad's songs.
Why could I not know them?
Not being amply provided with funds, my parents, shortly after their
arrival in this country, were compelled to take apartments on the top
floor of the tenement house in Catharine street, where I was born.
My mother died at my birth; my father had preceded her by three months.
Sad is the fate of a baby orphaned in a tenement house. Each family has
little, and many to subsist on it.
But I, the orphaned babe, was singularly fortunate.
Even the lives of the poor are not devoid of romance, and, owing to one,
I found a home.
Not so very long before my parents made their domicile in the Fourth
Ward, Patrick McShane, one of the most popular and finest looking young
men of the neighborhood, had "gone to the bad." He had neglected his
work to share in the many social festivities--otherwise, "mixed ale
camps"--until his sober moments were very few and far between.
As soon as his status of confirmed drunkard was established, he was not
as welcome as formerly at the many gatherings. The reason for it was
his irascible temper while under the influence of drink.
Finding himself partly ostracized, he kept to the water front, spending
his days and nights down there.
Facing the river is South street. At one of the corners was the gin
mill and legislative annex of a true American patriot and assemblyman.
Always anxious to pose before his constituents as a man whose charity
knew no bounds, this diplomat, this statesman, had given a home to his
niece, the daughter of his deceased brother. Perhaps it was just a
coincidence that, on the same day, on which his niece became a member of
the household the servant girl was discharged.
At any rate, Mary McNulty found little time to walk the sidewalks of
Catharine street, as was the wont of the belles of the ward. Even would
she have had the time for it, she would not have availed herself of it,
for one very good reason. Mary McNulty was not beautiful.
During her first few weeks in the neighborhood she had been quickly
christened "wart-face" by the boys on her appearance in the street, and,
while not supersensitive, she determined to forego the pleasure of being
a target for these personal comments.
Thereafter, she only left the house at nightfall to walk down to the end
of the pier opposite to the gin mill of her uncle. During one of these
nocturnal rambles she met Patrick McShane. He was lying in drunken
stupor on the very edge of the dock, and in danger of losing his
balance. Mary woke him up, lectured him and then gave him money.
Before sending him away, she told him to be there on the following
evening.
Regular meetings were soon in order, and it was not long before Mary
conceived the idea of reforming Patrick McShane.
McShane was willing, and, one day the entire ward was startled into
unusual surprise by hearing of the marriage of Patrick McShane and Mary
McNulty.
To give credit where credit is due, it must be recorded that McShane,
for quite a while, inspired by the devotion of his wife, improved
wonderfully in his habits and walked along the narrow road of sobriety
with nary a stumble. But, after about a year of wedded life, he
permitted himself occasional relapses into the old ways, multiplying
them in time. It is hard to tell if all the hope of his ultimate
reformation died out in the heart of his wife. She became very quiet,
catering more carefully to his creature comforts and never offering any
remonstrance.
But there must have been a void, a yearning to receive and to give a
little affection, and when "the lady in front"--my mother--died and left
her orphan, Mary McShane would not let it go to the "institution," but
took it into her own humble home.
And for this dear little woman, whose entire life was one of
self-sacrifice, devotion and humiliation, a prayer goes from me at every
thought of her.
It can hardly be expected that I, a boy of seven years of age, grasped
the full significance of the information imparted by my foster father.
Only two points appeared very grave to me. Should the fact become known
to my playmates that I was an orphan--not distinguished from a foundling
by them--and that I had sailed, so to speak, under false colors, my fate
would have been one full of persecution and sneering contempt. I
silently prayed and then beseeched my foster mother to keep the matter a
profound secret.
The other point of importance was that the street, "where I, by right,
belonged," assumed a new aspect. Having had plenty of evidence of the
impulsive spirit which ruled our household, something seemed to tell me
that it was not improbable that the threat of my expulsion would be
fulfilled, and I began to consider my ultimate fate from all sides.
The bootblacks and newsboys and other young chaps, who were making their
precarious living in the streets, became personages of great interest to
me. I watched their ways, and even found myself calculating their
receipts. It was quite clear to me that, should my foster father drive
me from the house, I should have to resort to some makeshift living in
the streets.
All this put me in a preoccupied state of mind, which does not sit
naturally on a child. I became more quiet than ever, and, in the
evening, from the wood box behind the cooking range, watched our home
proceedings. Most times they were very noisy, and my quietness seemed
to grate on the ears of him whom I had ceased to call "father," and was
then addressing more formally as "Mr. McShane," which also annoyed him.
Can you not read here between the lines and understand how a certain
something became more and more stifled within me? Perhaps I was
unreasonable or lacking in gratitude, but I was a child and still
hungered and hungered and longed for that which, as yet, had not come
into my share.
But if Mr. McShane would not listen to my plea for shoes, my good, dear
"mum" had heard my request and understood the motive of my insistence.
Happily, children's shoes do not involve enormous expenditure, and so,
on a certain eventful day, "mum" went to her savings bank, the
proverbial stocking, took the larger part of it and made me the proud
possessor of a pair of real, new shoes, the first of my life.
Bitterness, sulking and wailing were all forgotten and wiped away as if
by magic, and my feet, in their new casings, seemed to step on golden
rays of sunshine. If I add to this that I had never had a toy of any
kind you will be able to measure my sensation.
The real, new shoes were not an altogether free gift. It had been
agreed between "mum" and me that I was to pay the equivalent for them by
increased collectibility in the retail coal business.
The following day saw me starting out for the coal docks with the very
best of intentions. I began to fear that we would not be able to find
room for all the coal I meant to carry home that day. Tons of coal began
to heap themselves in my vision, until, perchance, my eyes fell on the
real, new shoes.
It became my unavoidable duty to let my footgear be seen.
Many detours were made, and so much time was wasted in exhibiting my
shoes to the thrilling envy of my comrades that the accumulation of coal
suffered in consequence. The awakening from my dream of glory came with
the end of the day, when it required all my remaining buoyant spirits to
nerve me for my reception at home.
The coal basket was dreadfully light.
My home coming was very ill-timed. Mr. McShane was in the throes of
another idle period, which did not preclude credit at the neighboring
saloons. Had there been "company" I might have been able to escape his
wrath, but, having sat there all alone--that is, without male
companionship--and his wife never daring to reply to his sarcastic
flings, I was just the red rag for the bull.
"Ah, and so you're home at last? Mary, have you no hot supper ready for
this young gentleman, after him being hungry from working so hard at
getting about ten pieces of coal? Oh, and new shoes are we wearing now,
ain't that nice!" Then, with a quick change of tone and manner, "Come
here, you brat, come here to me!"
"Leave the boy alone, Pat!" interposed "mum," but I knew, as she did,
that it was futile.
I have no difficulty in remembering it all. In a dull, heavy way I felt
that the crisis had come.
At the ending of the scene, my shoes, my real, new shoes, were torn from
my feet. Everything within me rebelled against that. Life without
those shoes was not worth living, and I stormed myself into a frenzy,
which did not leave me until I found myself, propelled by a swift leg
movement, on the floor of the dark hallway--minus my shoes.
The long expected had come. I had thought myself prepared for this
moment, yet found myself stunned and bewildered. What was I to do? The
street "where I belonged" now seemed to belong to me, but I did not look
quite as stoically as before at the prospect before me.
"Besides, how can I go out without shoes?" I reasoned, forgetting the
fact that, only quite recently, shoes had become necessities to me.
But the truth was--and will you blame me?--that from the crack at the
bottom of the door came a tiny streak of light, which told a vivid tale
of all I was in danger of forfeiting. How often I had growled at my
fate; now, behind that door, lay a paradise.
I crouched there in the dark corner of the stairs leading to the roof.
How long I shivered there I do not know. All my senses were alert and
ready for the slightest alarm. Once I heard pleading and emphatic
denial within, and then all was still--still for a long while.
My gaze was fixed on the door. It seemed hours--perhaps it was--before
I heard a slight creaking and saw the reflection of more light on the
hallway floor. It disappeared as quickly as it had appeared, and then
it was dark and quiet again.
But why was that door opened? Something must have happened. I dragged
myself to the threshold of my lost home, felt around and found--my
shoes, my real, new shoes. And then I tried hard to cry, but could not.
The crust had become too hardened.
The crisis had come, was passed, and the curtain fell on my childhood.
Ages cannot be measured by years.
*A NOMAD OF THE STREETS.*
*CHAPTER III.*
*A NOMAD OF THE STREETS.*
Seven years old, I stepped into the street, where, by right, I belonged,
no longer a child, to begin the journey, which, through many years in
the valley, led me to the heights.
It was a bleak December night.
Can you not draw yourself the picture of the boy starting on his
way--whither?
I stood for some time in the doorway. A policeman loomed in the
distance. Boys cannot bear them in day time, how much less at night.
To be "collared" by a "cop" at this hour meant a stay in the station
house and a visit to the police court. I put myself in motion.
With cap pulled over my ears and hands pushed into my pockets, I started
in the direction of the Bowery and Chatham Street, now called Park Row.
I halted under a lamp-post to determine on my course.
"Uptown" was an entirely unknown region to me. "Downtown" was not much
more familiar, but, somehow, I knew that that was the place where all
the newsboys came from.
I turned to the left and walked and ran--the night was bitterly
cold--down Chatham street until I came within view of the City Hall. So
far I had been once or twice before on some adventurous trip, but not
beyond that. Though I did not realize it at the time, I stood on my
jumping-off place, ready to jump into the unknown.
I paused for a while, looking into the darkness before me. In those
days, before the completion of the Brooklyn Bridge, City Hall Square was
not as brilliantly lighted as now. I stood there until the biting cold
made me move on.
My eyes were watery from the meeting blasts, and, stumbling on, I almost
fell on top of a layer of diminutive humanity. Before I had time to
draw my stiffened hands from the pockets to wipe my eyes, I felt a
welcome sensation of warmth, thick, intense, damp, ink-permeated warmth.
The warm current came from the grating over the pressroom of a
newspaper. This open-air radiator only measured a few feet, yet, at
least, fifteen boys were hugging it as closely as their mothers'
breasts. The iron frame was entirely invisible, and my share of warmth
coming from it was very trifling. But, even so, only a few minutes of
this straggling cheer was afforded to me.
Just as some of the numbness began to thaw out of my limbs, the
cry--ever and ever familiar to the newsboy--"Cheese it, the cop!" rang
out, and, like a horde of frightened sprites, the boys scampered away, I
bringing up the rear.
We raced around the corner into Frankfort street and stopped in a dark
hallway, which seemed to be the headquarters of this particular crowd.
It was not warm in there, but, at any rate, it was a shelter against the
cutting gusts of night winds, playing their stormy games of
"hide-and-seek" around the blocks facing Park Row.
Following the example of the others, I cuddled up in a corner, and tried
to forget my troubles in sleep. Just dozing, preliminary to falling
into sounder sleep, I was suddenly and swiftly aroused by a grasp and a
kick, and informed that I had usurped a corner "beeslonging" to a
habitue of this dismal hostelry.
I had yet to learn that a newsboy will claim everything in sight, to
relinquish it only by defeat in fight, and meekly submitted to my
dispossession. The late comer took a bundle of newspapers from under his
arm and carefully proceeded to prepare his bed. First, he spread a
number of sheets on the floor; then built a pillow from the major part,
and, at last, proceeded to cover himself with the remaining papers.
The light was dim, still, it was enough to show him my discomfiture.
"Say," he addressed me, "what's the matter, ain't you got no place to
sleep? I'll tell you what I'll do. If you don't kick in your sleep,
I'll let you lie down longside o' me." Then, as an afterthought, "It'll
keep me warmer, anyhow."
Most emphatically and impressively did I assure him that my sleep was
absolutely motionless, and from that night dated a partnership and
friendship which lasted for many years.
In later years I have often wondered why I and all the other boys who
comprised the newspaper-selling fraternity of that day always landed in
Park Row, and in the midst of the future colleagues? It seemed to be a
well defined destiny. Behind the coming of each new recruit was the
little tragedy, which had made the leading actor therein a stray waif of
the streets. And, no matter where the tragedy had happened, whether in
Harlem or in the First Ward, the district along and above the Battery,
they all found their way to Park Row.
The life of the newsboy is full of action. His personal struggle and
business is so absorbing that he has no time for useless speculation.
The advent of a newcomer is not signalized by a very warm reception. He
is neither hampered by professional jealousy or suffered by tolerance.
The field is open to all, and it rests with the boy how he will fare.
However, in spite of this almost essential selfishness, impulsive
outbursts of good nature are a characteristic of this most emotional
creature, the newsboy. My apprenticeship in the fraternity owed its
beginning to one of these spontaneous outbursts.
It was quite early when, chilled to the marrow, I awoke in the drafty
hallway. My new and independent existence was begun with my first great
sorrow. Here the temptation is very strong upon me to tell you that
remorse, anguish and despair were racking my soul; that it was
homesickness or a great longing for all I had left behind me. But
putting this temptation behind me, I must confess that my sorrow was of
the most material kind. I missed my coffee.
Across the street was Hitchcock's coffee and cake saloon. Through the
shivery morning air, every time a patron entered or left the place, a
cloud of greasy, spicy aromas came wafting to the frozen little troupe
leaving their dreary abiding place. My future colleagues had so often
had this torture inflicted on them that, now, with just an envious
sniff, they could bear it with stoical fortitude. I, still a weakling,
stopped, as if transfixed, inhaled the perfumed currents and most
solemnly swore that, with my very first money, I would buy the entire
stock; yes, even the entire coffee and cake saloon.
Alas, Hitchcock's is still doing business.
The next question presenting itself was, how was I to get the "first"
money?
Newsboys work and play in cliques. The particular gang, with which I
had thrown my lot, had its rendezvous in Theatre Alley. It was the
assembling and meeting place for all the members, those who had slept in
"regular" beds and those who had "carried the banner"[#] in the
Frankfort street hallway. This distinction did by no means establish
two different social strata among us. Fate was so uncertain that the
aristocrat of the night before, who had rested his weary limbs on a
"regular" bed, was very apt to fight on the following night for the
possession of the corner in the hallway, which "beeslonged" to him.
[#] To spend the night without a bed.
Beyond giving me a scrutinizing look, none of the boys took heed of me,
and did not object to my following them. Arrived in Theatre Alley, we
met the leader of the gang, who had the proud distinction of being about
the only one who had a "home to go to" whenever he felt like doing so.
The same qualities, which, since then, have made him a leader in
politics and have led him to membership in legislative bodies, were even
in that day in evidence.
In parenthesis let me say that I am not blessed with personal beauty.
Add to this that my appearance presented itself rather grotesquely and
disheveled on that eventful morning, and you will understand why the
leader's searching eye singled me out from the rest.
"Are you a new one?" he asked me.
I answered in the affirmative.
"Going to sell papers?"
Again the affirmative.
"Got any money?"
Now a convincing negative.
Then, as now, our leader was sparing in the use of words. At the end of
our brief interview, I was "staked" to a nickel to buy my first stock of
papers, and those who know Tim Sullivan will also know that I was not
the first or the last to get "staked" by the Bowery statesman.
He not only furnished my working capital, but also taught me a few
tricks of the trade and advised me to invest my five pennies in just
one, the best selling paper of the period.
So, in less than twelve hours after leaving what had been for several
years my home, I was fully installed as a vendor of newspapers.
Then began the usual existence of "newsies," eating and "sleeping" when
lucky, and "pulling through somehow" when unlucky. I stuck to that
business for over ten years.
The life of the streets did not at all disagree with me. My childhood
had been full of bitterness, childish bitterness, and I had a dull
longing to make the world at large feel my revenge for having dealt so
unkindly with me. Whatever good traits there had been in me were
quickly and willingly transformed into viciousness. This helped me to
become a leading member of our gang of boys.
Among us there was none so absolutely orphaned as myself. Those who
were orphans had, at least, their memories. I did not even have them.
In odd, emotional moments, one or another would let his thoughts stray
back to some still loved and revered father or mother, or would confess
to having crept up to his former home, at some safe time, to have a peep
at forfeited comforts. I welcomed these references and day dreams of my
colleagues, but solely because they were utilized by me as pretenses for
inflicting my brutality on those who had uttered them.
There is a question, a number of questions, to be asked here. Why did I
do this? Was it because I was naturally vicious, or because I wanted to
stifle a certain gnawing in my heart by my ferociousness? A strange
reasoning, the last, perhaps; but in years I was still a child, and if a
child has but little in his life to love, and that little is taken out
of his life, that child can turn into a veritable little demon. Those,
whom I had believed my parents, turned out to be nothing more than
charitably inclined strangers; that what I had believed to be my home,
proved but a refuge, and my boyish logic saw in this sufficient cause to
envy those, who had all this behind them and to give vent to this envy
in the most ferocious manner.
That was the tenor of my life as a newsboy. I had enough callousness to
bear all the hardships without a murmur. One ambition took possession
of me. I wanted to be a power among newsboys. I wanted to be respected
or feared. As I did not care which, I succeeded in the latter at the
expense of the former. The heroes of newsboys are always men who owe
their prominence to physical prowess. I chose as my models the best
known fighters of the day.
As with all other "business men," there is keen rivalry and competition
among newsboys. The only difference is that, among the boys, the most
primitive and direct way is the most frequent one employed to settle
disputes. Some men, after great sorrows or disappointments, seek
forgetfulness in battle, being entirely indifferent to their ultimate
fate, and they always make good fighters. My position was not
altogether dissimilar from theirs. What little I had known of comfort
and affection was behind me; my mode of life at that time had no
particular attraction for me, and my only ambition was to conquer by
fight, and, therefore, I made a good fighter.
In all those long years I cannot recall more than one incident which
stirred the softer emotions of my heart.
A newcomer, a blue-eyed, light-haired little fellow, had come among us,
and was immediately chosen by me as my favorite victim. Certain traces
of refinement were discernible in him and this gave me many
opportunities to hold him up to the ridicule of our choice gang of young
ruffians. I hated him without knowing why.
One day I saw him standing at the corner of "the Row," offering his
wares with the unprofessional cry: "Please, won't you buy a paper?"
It was a glorious chance to "plant" a kick on one of his shins, and
thereby to relieve myself of some of my hatred. Stealthily I crept up
behind him, and was on the point of sending my foot on its mission, when
two motherly-looking women stopped to buy a paper from "the cherub."
Wits are quickly sharpened in a life on the streets, and I realized at
once that my intended assault, if witnessed by the two ladies, would
evoke a storm of indignation.
I immediately changed front, and endeavored to create the impression
that my hasty approach had been occasioned by my desire to sell a paper.
"Poipers, ladies, poipers," I cried, but was barely noticed.
The "cherub" claimed all their attention.
"What a pretty boy!" exclaimed one. "Have you no home, no parents? Too
bad, too bad!"
All this was noted and registered by me for a future reckoning with the
recipient of so much kindness.
My heart was shivering with acid bitterness.
"Never me, never me!" and the misery of many loveless years rang as a
wail in my soul.
Just as the woman, who had spoken, was about to hand a dime to my
intended scapegoat, her companion happened to turn and see me.
"Oh, just look at the other poor fellow."
The exclamation was justified. I was a sight. However, my dilapidated
clothes and scratched face owed their pitiful condition to much
"scrapping" and not to deprivations.
Again she spoke.
"Here, poor boy, here is a penny for you."
With a light pat on my grimy cheek and one of the sunniest smiles ever
shed on me, she was gone before I could realize what had happened.
There, penny in hand, I stood, dreaming and stroking the cheek she had
touched, and asking myself why she had done so.
Somehow, I felt that, were she to come back, I could just have said to
her: "Say, lady, I ain't got much to give, but I'll give you all me
poipers, and me pennies, and me knife, if you'll only say and do that
over again."
The "cherub" also was a gainer by this little touch of nature. I forgot
to kick and abuse him that night.
There was nothing dwarfish about me, and my temperament made me enjoy
the many "scraps" which belong to a street arab's routine.
Park Row was and is frequented by the lesser lights of the sporting
world. Our boyish fights were not fought in seclusion, but anywhere.
Being a constant participant in these "goes," as I was almost daily
called upon to defend my sounding title of "Newsboy Champion of Park
Row" against new aspirants for the honor, myself and my fighting "work"
soon became familiar to the "sports," who were the most interested of
the spectators.
I was of large frame, my face was of the bulldog type, my muscles were
strong, my constitution hardened by my outdoor existence in all sorts of
weather, and, without knowing it, my advance in the art of fisticuffs
was eagerly watched, with the hope of discovering in me a new "dark
horse" for the prize ring.
Among the men who had followed my progress in boxing were such renowned
sports as Steve Brodie, Warren Lewis, "Fatty" Flynn, "Pop" Kaiser and
others of equal prominence. In due time overtures were made to me. I
was properly "tried out" on several third-rate boxers, and said good-by
to the newsboy life to blossom out as a full-fledged pugilist.
Before long I began to have _higher_ ambitions. It was the day of
smaller purses and more fighting, and I determined to fight often so as
to accumulate money quickly. I had no definite idea why I wanted to
accumulate money with such feverish haste. I had some dim desire _to
wanting_ to have a lot of it, to having the sensation of being the
possessor of a roll of bills, and, this being the only road open to me
toward that goal, I was eager to travel it.
That was my ambition at the age of seventeen, the age when boys prepare
themselves to be men in the fullest and only sense of the word. My
boyhood, dreary as my childhood, closed behind me without a pang of
regret on my part. I was aspiring according to my lights and my
aspirations spelled nothing more or less than degradation.
*LIVING BY MY MUSCLE.*
*CHAPTER IV.*
*LIVING BY MY MUSCLE.*
The manly art of self-defense, as practised then, was unhampered by much
law or refinement. Still, with all this license, I was too brutish to
make a successful prizefighter. My sponsor in this sporting life soon
learned that I had a violent temper.
Time and time again I was matched to fight men who were not physically
my equals, only to be defeated by them. It was useless to endeavor to
impress me with the argument that these fighting matches were merely
business engagements, in the same way as the playing of a part by an
actor.
I fully understood all that was pointed out to me; would adhere to my
instructions for two, perhaps three, rounds of fighting, then would
forget all, rules, time limits and all else, to "sail in" with most
deadly determination to "do" my opponent at all hazards.
During my brief career as pugilist I only met one man who was of the
same brutish temperament as myself--Tommy Gibbons, of Pittsburg--and we
fought four encounters.
Of the same age as myself, Gibbons had earned for himself a well-founded
reputation for viciousness. He had never been defeated in his own state,
and the promoters of this "manly" form of sport were anxious to find a
more vicious brute than he to vanquish him.
I was chosen for this mission.
A paper manufacturer, still doing business in New York City, after
seeing me "perform" in trial bouts, was induced to "put up" the
necessary money for my side of the purse, and we were matched to fight
in Pittsburg.
We "weighed in" at one hundred and forty pounds.
This, our first encounter, lasted twenty-seven rounds. The "humanity"
of our seconds and backers prevented us from going any further. Our
physical condition was the cause for stirring that "humanity."
We were smeared with blood, but that alone would not have been
sufficient to terminate the fight. A broken arm, a torn ear, a gash
from eye to lower part of cheek, constituted Tommy Gibbons' principal
injuries. I was damaged to the extent of two broken thumbs and a broken
nose, not mentioning minor disfigurements. But, what of that? Had not
the noble cause of sport derived a new impetus from our performance?
Had not the hearts and aspirations of the "select" crowd of spectators
been moved to higher emotions?
We had behaved so right manfully, that, at the ringside, we were matched
again for another meeting. In that, after seventeen rounds, I was
declared the winner on a "foul" of Gibbons.
Again we were matched, this time to fight according to London prize ring
rules--they permitting more latitude for our brutish instincts. It
resulted in a "draw," but not until we had entertained the very flower
of the sporting world for forty-three rounds.
Not yet satisfied as to which one of us was the greater brute, another
meeting was arranged, and I had the proud distinction of being the
victor in this fight of eleven rounds.
Poor Tommy Gibbons took his defeat very much to heart. His fistic
prestige was gone, and he went speedily to "the bad." He ended his busy
life at the hands of the hangman, paying therewith the penalty for one
of the most horrible murders ever committed.
Too bad that such a promising light in the sporting world should meet
with such ignoble end!
My backer, the paper manufacturer, who did so much, by effort and
expenditure, for the cause of sport, is still on my list of
acquaintances. He is eminently respectable, the father of an adoring
family, the model for striving young men, a pillar of his church, a
power in commercial life, and, withal, an enthusiastic follower of the
Manly Art of Self-Defense, provided the specimen of it is not too tame.
Apropos of the manly art of self-defense I want to record my individual
opinion that it is a lost art, if it really has ever been an art. In
the knightly art of fencing, skill, artful skill, is necessary and
acquired. Not so in boxing; at least not in that branch of boxing which
is only practised for money. Men who step into the ring for a "finish
fight" are not prompted by the desire of giving a clever exhibition of
boxing. Their only desire--if the fight "is on the level"--is to "put
out" their man somehow, as quickly as possible, and to collect their end
of the purse as promptly as possible. I have seen my quota of fights in
my life time, but never one in which claims of "fouls" were not made.
Is it not logical to suppose that leading exponents of their art should
be able to give a demonstration of it without resorting to foul means?
Although I have given "physical culture lessons" of a certain kind I
have but little knowledge of how boxing lessons are conducted in
academies and reputable gymnasiums. The popularity of this branch of
athletics indicates that the lessons are conducive to corporal
perfection, and teach men how to use their strength to best advantage
when driven to the point of defense.
This principle is not observed by "scrappers." They pay less, if any
attention to boxing than to learning tricks of their trade. It is all
very well for sporting writers to speak about Fitzsimmons' and
Sullivan's art, but I am quite sure that one or more efficient tricks is
the real mainspring of many pugilistic reputations.
The rules of the prize ring are fair and formed to protect men from foul
methods. For that very reason, all the tricks learned--and they are
many and efficient--are, if not absolutely fouls, so near the dividing
line that the margin of distinction is almost nil.
Through the press of the country we are informed that prizefighters
now-a-days make considerable fortunes. Then they did not, and having a
surprisingly healthy appetite in a healthy body, the fighting profession
sadly delayed the perfect development of my _embonpoint_.
*LIVING BY MY WITS.*
*CHAPTER V.*
*LIVING BY MY WITS.*
True, my fights with Tommy Gibbons and others had brought me some money,
but the social obligations were so many and the celebrations so frequent
that, after a short time of plenty, I always found myself "dead broke"
and compelled to resort to my "wits" for making a living.
All Chatham street--now Park Row--and the Bowery teemed with "sporting
houses," which offered opportunities to men of my class. In many of
these places boxing was the real or pretended attraction.
On an elevated stage from three to six pairs of boxers and wrestlers
furnished nightly entertainment for a roomful of foolish men,
and--more's the pity!--women. The real purpose of these gatherings must
remain nameless here, but this fact we must note, that all of these
"sporting-houses," these hells of blackest iniquity, were run by
so-called statesmen, patriots, politicians, many of them lawmakers, or
else by their figureheads.
The figureheads were chosen with great carefulness. To become a proxy
owner of a "sporting-house" one had to have a reputation, sufficient to
attract that particularly silly and morbid crowd of _habitues_. Some of
the reputations were made in the prize ring, viz: Frank White, manager
of the Champion's Rest, on the Bowery, two doors north of Houston
street; Billy Madden, Mike Cleary and other "prominent" prizefighters.
A few of them, as Billy Madden and Frank Stevenson, later branched out
as backers of pugilists, policy shops and gambling houses.
Reputations made in prisons were also accepted as qualifications, and
"Fatty" Flynn, Billy McGlory, Tommy Stevenson, Jimmy Nugent, of
Manhattan Bank robbery fame, and other ex-inmates of jails owed their
wide popularity and money-making capacity to their terms spent behind
the bars. An isolated position of especially luminous glamor was
acceptably filled by the famous Mr. Steve Brodie, the bridge-jumper, and
greatest "fake" and fraud of the period.
In places where boxing was not the attraction, the vilest passions of
human nature were vainly incited by painted sirens, who, by experience
and compulsion of their employers, had become perfect in their shrewd
wickedness. In front of these "joints"--frequently called "bilking
houses"--glaring posters, picturing the pleasures within, were displayed
in most garish array.
In addition to these places described, a number of dance-halls, notably
Billy McGlory's Armory Hall, and "Fatty" Flynn's place in Bond street,
completed the boast of the day that New York City was a "wide-open
town," and the "only place in the world fit to live in."
It was not very difficult for one, accustomed to the environment, to
"make a living" in it by his "wits."
Any one, not minding a short spell of strenuousness, could always get
from a dollar and a half to two dollars for "donning the mitts" in the
"sporting-houses," where boxing was the special feature. Others, having
neither the training or inclinations to take part in these "set-to's,"
officiated as waiters--"beer-slingers"--and found it more remunerative,
if more tedious work.
It seems to be a distinct trait of people who visit these "dives" and
"joints" to leave their small allowance of intelligence at the door.
Men, who, in their daily occupation, are fairly alert and awake to their
interests, permit themselves to be cheated by the most transparent
devices of the "beer-slingers."
To give these fellows a bill in payment of drinks is simply inviting
them to experiment on you. Over charging, "palming"--retaining a coin in
the palm of the hand between ball of thumb and fleshy
part--"flim-flamming"--doubling a bill in a number of them, and counting
each end of it as one separate bill--are the most common means of
cheating employed. Whenever any of these tricks failed, the money was
either withheld or taken away by force, and the victim--the
"sucker"--bodily thrown into the streets as a "disorderly person."
Such were the glories of the "open town."
Although a recognized factor in the world pugilistic, I was not above
seeking occasional employment in these resorts, and it helped me to
create for myself another reputation. I did not work in these places
for the purpose of study or observation, yet, every night my contempt
for the patrons of these "joints" increased.
Men, whose names I had heard and mentioned with awe; men, whose
positions and station should have been guarantees of every sterling
quality, came there, not once, but night after night, to enjoy that
seemingly harmless pastime known as "slumming"--to have a "good time."
A "good time" in the midst of moral and physical filth; a "good time" in
the company of jailbirds, fallen men and women; a "good time" of
grossest selfishness, for, over and over again, I have seen men there
for whose education I would have gladly given years of my life, and who,
by one word of sympathy or encouragement, could have rekindled the dying
flame of hope, of self-respect, in some fellow-being, but that word was
never spoken, because it would have brought discord into the "good
time," and would have jangled the croaking melody chanted by that chorus
of human scum in praise of their host--the "sightseer"--of the evening!
A glorious sport this "sightseeing," these "good times," when men of
"respectability" and position feast with gloating eyes on all that is
vile and look on the unfortunates of a great city as if they were some
strange beasts, some freaks in human shape. That almost every creature
in these "dives" and "joints" has left behind a niche in the world's
usefulness, or a home, to which his or her daily thoughts stray back, is
not considered by the "sightseer." One does not like unpleasant
reflections when at a circus.
Vile, very vile, are the men and women who constitute the population of
divedom, but how about the representatives of respectability, who come
among them to spend their "good time" with them?
Were I at liberty to give the names of men whom I have seen hobnobbing
with the most fearful riff-raff, you would shrug your shoulders and say:
"I cannot believe it of them." Yet, I do not lie.
There is no need for lying, and there is much corroboration, not the
least being the conscience of those men.
We want you--you men and women of respectability--to come to these
"dives," but we want you to come for another purpose. Even at this very
moment there is a scope for your efforts in spite of all change of
administration and Christian endeavor has done for that part of the
city. The stamping out of vice is carried on vigorously, but vice is a
proverbially obstinate disease.
Only a few nights ago I saw a scene in a widely known pest hole, reeking
with stench beyond its very doors, which I can only hint at in
describing it.
At one of the tables sat a youth, a mere boy, who had been coaxed into
the dirty hole by the persuasion of the wily "barker" at the side door.
The boy seemed from the country, his ruddy complexion and "store
clothes" indicated it. The drink, which he had been forced to buy, was
standing untasted before him. Without being afraid, he kept wide awake
and resented all overtures made to him. But he looked too much like an
easy victim to escape the usual procedure.
Before he was aware of it, a woman had dropped into the chair on the
other side of the table. At least more than fifty years of age, the
toothless wretch assumed the coquetry of a young girl.
The gray hair, devoid of comb or ribbon, hung in straggling strands to
her shoulders. The front of her dress was unbuttoned. Still, this
witch of lowest depravity, lulled her Lorelei song, hoping to transfix
the gaze of the boy--young enough perhaps to be her grandson--by the
leer of her bleary eyes.
I do not dare, and if I dared, could not tell you the horridness of this
scene, yet it was only a detail in the grander spectacle, the "good
time," seen and enjoyed nightly by thousands of the "better" class.
Forerunners of the eventually coming overthrow of "open" vice made
themselves felt during some of the more important elections and for a
few weeks preceding election day the ukase was sent out by the
mysterious hidden powers: "Lie low for a while."
These periods of restriction, while not welcome, did not involve great
hardships for us, the "sports" of the Bowery. If the blare of the
wheezy cornet and the thumping of the piano had to be silenced for the
time being, there were other channels in which the services of the men,
who did not care, could be utilized.
One of the most flourishing industries carried on was the confidence
game in its many guises.
"Ah, all the 'easy marks' go up to the Tenderloin now," is the cry of
the few remaining Bowery grafters. Then it was different.
The Bowery was famed from Atlantic to Pacific for what it offered.
Every day a new consignment of lambs unloaded itself on this highway of
the foolish and miserable, to be devoured by the expectant wolves. The
recognized headquarters of the wolves was at the corner of Pell street.
A few among them were men of some education and refinement, but the most
of them were beetle-browed ruffians, who seemed ill at ease in their
fine raiment, the emblem of their calling.
To get the stranger's money many means were used.
Sailors, immigrants, farmers and out-of-town merchants were approached
in most suitable manner, generally by a claim of former
acquaintanceship. To celebrate the renewal of their old friendship it
was necessary to adjoin to the nearby gin-mill. Here, the stranger, the
"refound old friend," would not be permitted to spend one cent of his
money--"dear, no, you're my guest."
Next move: The two reunited friends--the wolf and the lamb--are joined
by a third--"an old friend o' mine," says the wolf.
The newcomer sings one of the many variations of the old, old theme. He
has just won a lot of money at a game where no one can lose; or has a
telegram promising beyond a doubt that a certain horse was to win that
day; or has a hundred dollar bill, which he wants to change; or is
broke, and offers his entire outlay of jewelry, watch, studs and rings,
each one flashing with fire-spitting jewels, for a mere bagatelle of
fifty dollars; or offers to bet on some mechanical trick toy in his
possession, trick pocketbook or snuff box, and loses every bet to the
wolf--but not to the lamb; or offers to take both, wolf and lamb, to a
"regular hot joint," hinting at the beautiful sights to be beheld there,
which, in reality, is a "never-lose" gambling device.
Should the lamb prove impervious to all these temptations, the pleasing
concoction called "knock-out drops" is introduced as most effective
tonic.
Sometimes there is a slip in the proceedings, and the lamb "tumbles to
the game" before he is shorn. This is entirely against the rules of the
industry, and cannot be permitted without being rebuked. Therefore, the
confidence industry was always willing to draw its apprentices from the
class in which muscularity and brutality were the only qualifications.
Other industries, now much retrograded, were the "sawdust," "green
goods" and "gold brick" games. All these games were vastly entertaining
to all, and vastly profitable to some. Besides, in their lower stages,
and technically inside of the law, they gave employment to many young
men, who, like me, were unwilling to use their strength in more
honorable occupation, preferring to be the slaves of crooked masters and
schemes.
Those were not all the ways in which a well-known tough could earn an
honest dollar. To our "hang out," sheltering always a large number of
choice spirits, frequently came messengers calling for a quota for some
expedient mission. We were the "landsknechts" of the day, willing to
serve any master, without inquiring into the ethics of the cause, for
pay.
Electoral campaigns in this and other cities furnished much employment.
Capt B----, of Hoboken, a notorious "guerrilla" chief, was a frequent
employer. During a heated contest in a small town near Baltimore, he
shipped fifty of us to the scene of strife to "help elect" his patron.
Five "Bowery gents," in rough and ready trim, were stationed near each
doubtful polling place, and, somehow, induced voters, unfriendly to
their master of the moment, to keep away from the ballot boxes.
Local primaries and conventions, regardless of politics, could never
afford to do without us. To-day we would fight the men, who, to-morrow,
would pay us to turn the tables on our masters of yesterday.
Still, we were loyal to our temporary bosses. We offered our strength
and brutality in open market. We asked a price, and, if it was paid, we
did our "work" with a faithfulness worthier of a better cause. That
this was so is proven by the fact that not only John Y. McKane, the
"Czar of Coney Island," recruited his police force from among us, but
even reputable concerns, like the Iron Steamboat Company, and others,
engaged men of our class to preserve order and peace at designated
posts.
A number of railroad companies and detective bureaus, in times of
strikes, invited us to aid them in protecting property and temporary
employees, but, for some reason or other, these offers were never
greedily accepted.
Among the rest of these unlisted occupations must be mentioned playing
pool and cards. I do not mean the out-and-out experts of these games
hung around to win money from unwary strangers. Quite a number of the
more "straight" saloons on the Bowery did not object to having about the
place a crowd of fellows who were fair players of pool or the games of
cards in vogue. If, by any chance they lost a game, the proprietor
would stand the loss, and, if they proved exceedingly lucky, he would
give them a percentage of the receipts of the game.
It is rather difficult to enumerate all the different ways in which a
man, who had to live by his "wits," could make a living on the Bowery.
They were many and variegated in their nature. It was a saying of the
day that all a man had to do then was to leave his "hang-out" for an
hour to return with enough money to pay his expenses for the day.
*AT THE SIGN OF CHICORY HALL.*
*CHAPTER VI.*
*AT THE SIGN OF CHICORY HALL.*
I have several times mentioned "hang-out." Most of these "hang-outs"
were ginmills (saloons) of the better class, but the real Bowery
Bohemian chose odd spots for his haunts. The most unique resort in this
Bohemia of the nether world was at Chicory Hall, where my particular
gang had established itself.
It was a basement at the corner of Fourth street and Bowery. Originally
a bakeshop, it had been unoccupied for some time, until a coffee
merchant rented it to prepare his chicory there. One man constituted
the entire working force of the plant, and it so happened that Tom
Noseley, the chicory baker, was imbued with sporting proclivities.
Do not let us forget that, at the time, the prize-fighter was a man of
consequence to the youths of the East Side. To know a pugilist, to have
spoken to him, to have shaken his hand, was an event never to be
forgotten.
Tom Noseley was a very young man. In the immediate neighborhood of his
basement were many "sporting-houses." Tom Noseley was earning eighteen
dollars a week. What is more natural than that one of sporting
proclivities should become an enthusiastic patron of "sporting-houses"?
Tom Noseley wanted to number some well-known pugilists among his
acquaintances. Several well-known pugilists, I among the number, did
not resent his many invitations to drink with him, and, ere long, the
dream of Noseley seemed fully realized, for we consented, after much
coaxing, to call at his basement for the pleasant task of "rushing the
growler."
Our first call at the cellar convinced us of its many attractions. It
seemed just the place for an ideal "hang-out." Then, also, there was
Tom Noseley's weekly stipend of eighteen dollars a week, which he was
willing to spend to the last cent for the "furthering of sport."
Tom Noseley was a hunter of Bowery lions. I have been told that in
higher social strata different lions are hunted by different hunters.
Still, the species do not differ very much from each other.
Men who had "done" a long term in prison; men who had a reputation for
crookedness; men who were known to make their living without having to
descend to the ignoble manner of working for it, all these had been fads
of Noseley. Then, the sporting spirit of the Bowery flared up with
great spluttering, and Noseley, for the nonce, took the poor, shiftless
boxers to his heart of hearts.
We named the cellar "Chicory Hall," and quickly succeeded in making it
known.
The cellar consisted of two large rooms. Descending from Fourth street,
about a dozen steps led to the bakeshop. Four small windows, grimed
with impenetrable dirt, suggested the presence of light. The sunlight
or cloudy sky found no token there. At night one dim flame of gas gave
a sort of humorous weirdness to the filthy hole.
Adjoining the bakeshop was a dark apartment of the same size as the
first room, used as storing place for the bags of bran, which were used
in the manufactory of chicory. Shortly after establishing our
headquarters at Chicory Hall, we chose the storage room as our sleeping
chamber, making unwieldy couches from the heavy, unclean bags.
Certainly we had conveniences, a "front room" and a "bedroom," what more
could we desire? And we appreciated it. Did not I, myself, spend ten
entire days and nights in Chicory Hall without ever leaving it?
But while Tom Noseley's eighteen dollars a week, earned by his
intermittent labors in baking chicory, were not to be despised as the
substantial nucleus of our treasury, they were not enough to provide a
little food and much drink for about six able-bodied prizefighters out
of work. The regular staff included Jerry Slattery, the Limerick
Terror; Mike Ryan, the Montana Giant; Tom Green and his brother, Patsy
Green; Charlie Carroll and myself.
On Saturday, Tom Noseley's pay day, two or three of the staff appointed
themselves a committee to accompany our host to the office and to
prevent him from falling into other hands. His return was celebrated by
feasting on many pounds of raw chopped meat and drinking many gallons of
beer. Sunday morning found the exchequer very much depleted, containing,
perhaps, just enough to reflicker our drooping and aching spirits by
purchasing several pints of the vilest fusel oil, parading under the
name of whiskey, ever manufactured.
Sabbath day, the day of rest, as appointed by the Master, was spent by
us in quiet peace. That the peace was a consequence of the turbulent
hilarity of the night before, and not a desire to live according to
divine dictates is a mere detail.
At the beginning of our sojourn at Chicory Hall our feast of Saturday
was generally followed by a famine until the next week's end. This was
somewhat palliated by a happy inspiration of "Lamby," a character of the
locality.
"Lamby"--no one knew him by any other name--had some mysterious hiding
and sleeping place, but was infatuated with our Subterranean Bohemia and
spent all his spare time--which practically was all his time, excepting
the hours dedicated to sleep--with the Knights of Chicory Hall. He was
a boy of about seventeen years of age, over six foot tall, of piping
voice and full of most unexpected opinions and ideas.
There was good stuff in "Lamby," as in many of the East Side boys, who
are, by environment and circumstances, led into evil, or, at least,
useless lives. "Lamby's" heart was bigger than all his carcass. To be
his friend, meant that "Lamby" thought it his duty to give three-fourths
of all his temporary possessions to the cementing of this friendship.
I made "Lamby's" acquaintance under inconvenient conditions. He was not
yet entitled to vote. This did not prevent him from formulating the
strongest opinions on political personages and principles. During the
election which made me acquainted with him, "Lamby" for some unknown
reason, was doing the most enthusiastic individual "stumping" for the
candidate of one of the labor parties. It was conceded by the
supporters of the labor ticket that the candidate in question stood
absolutely no chance of being elected and that their entire list of
nominees was only in the field as a means of making propaganda, of
paving the way for future possibilities. All this did not deter "Lamby"
from sounding the labor-man's praises on all and every occasion.
In one of his many eulogies "Lamby" was opposed by a ward-heeler of the
local organization, who laughing offered to bet any amount that the much
praised candidate would not poll fifty votes. This roused the ire of the
champion of labor.
"Say," cried "Lamby" at his adversary, "you know I ain't got no money to
bet and that's why you're so anxious to bet me. If you're on the level
in this, I'll tell you what I'll do. You put up your money and if
Kaltwasser don't get elected I won't speak to no human being for a
month."
The politician accepted this odd bet and, a few weeks later, "Lamby," by
his own decree, found himself sentenced to one month's silence.
And "Lamby" loved to talk!
It was a fearful dilemma, but leave it to a Bowery boy to wriggle out of
a scrape.
In one of his rambles, "Lamby" had met Rags, and, impressed by some
similarity in their appearance and disposition, had appointed him
forthwith his chum and inseparable companion.
Rags was a cur of nondescript origin and breed. His long, wobbly and
ungainly legs barely balanced a long and shaggy body, draped with a
frowsy, kaleidoscopic mass of wiry hair. The color of Rags' eyes could
not be determined, bangs of matted locks wholly screening them from
view.
For some obscure reason, "Lamby" conceived the idea that the use of the
lower extremities would prove injurious to Rags, and the mongrel--surely
weighing at least fifty pounds--spent most of his time in the loving
arms of his adoring friend.
The opportunity to return some of his friend's devotion, by making
himself useful to him, came to Rags during the period in which "Lamby's"
tongue was restrained from its favorite function for a month of silence.
"Lamby's" pledge not to speak to a human being for a month was never
broken, but he found a way of expressing himself to Rags in such loud
and distinct tones that no one had any difficulty in following the train
of conversation.
There was so much ingenuity in the plan that the ward politician
declared the bet off and presented "Lamby" with a part of the stake
money.
On a Monday, when the feast of Saturday was but a sweet memory and the
famine of the week had set in with convincing force, Tom Noseley and his
staff of friends--including "Lamby" and Rags, who hugged the shadowy
recess of a corner--sat disconsolately in the dingy dimness of Chicory
Hall.
"Ain't none of you fellows got any money at all?" queried Jerry Slattery
against hope.
The question was too absurd to deserve an answer.
"Well, what are we going to do?" pursued the Limerick Terror; "I'm
hungry as blazes and can't stand this any longer. Nothing to eat and
nothing to drink; this is worse than being on the bum in the country
among the hayseeds. If I don't get something here pretty soon, I'll go
out into the Bowery and see if I can't pick up something."
The harangue passed our ears without comment. More deep and dark
silence. Then everybody turned to where "Lamby's" preambling cough
heralded a monologistic dialogue.
"Rags," began the silent sage of Chicory Hall, "what would you and me
do, if we was hungry and wasn't as delicate as we are? Wouldn't you and
me go up to Lafayette alley and look them chickens over that don't seem
to belong to nobody? Couldn't you and me use them in the shape of one o'
them nice chicken stews with plenty of potatoes and onions in it? Ain't
it too bad that you and me is too delicate to be chasing round after
them chickens and that we aren't allowed to speak so's we could tell
other people how to get a meal that'll tickle them to death?"
Bully "Lamby."
In less than five minutes a small, but determined gang of marauders made
their stealthy way through Lafayette alley. Every one of the husky
pilferers endeavored to shrink his big body into the smallest compass.
The alley ended in a hamlet of ramshackle stables in the rear of a
famous bathing establishment. The place was deserted in day time as all
men and animal occupants were in the streets pursuing the energetic
calling of peddling. As said, the place was deserted, save for those
chickens. Dating from our first call, the chickens, young and old, began
to disappear.
For over a week we feasted on chicken. We had them in all known styles
of cooking. Our bill of fare included fried, baked, stewed, broiled and
fricasseed chicken. But a day came when naught was left of the flock of
chicks excepting one big, black rooster.
I shall never forget him, because it was my fate to be his captor.
He surely was a general of no mean order. We had often hunted him, but
he had always succeeded in eluding us by some cleverly executed
movement.
This survivor of his race irritated my determination and, supported and
flanked by my cohorts, I set out to exterminate the last of the clan.
Sounding his defy in many cackles and muffled crows the black hero raced
up and down the yard, dodging, whenever possible, under some of the
unused wagons and trucks standing about. But escape was impossible.
Driven into a corner he faced me and my bag with splendid heroism. He
met the lowering deathtrap by an angry leap, and, when I and bag fell on
top of him, we were greeted by a shower of furious picking and clawing.
Oh, brave descendant of a brave ancestry, nobly did you meet the
inevitable fate! You were never born to be eaten; you were the tough
son of a tough father! First, you fought right splendidly against being
captured, then, you resisted most stubbornly against being devoured!
Boiled, stewed, fried, hashed, you remained tough, and, even in death,
you defied us! You escaped the destiny of your weaker brethren, for you
were never eaten!
Chicken coops are not many on the Bowery. Having found and demolished
the feathered oasis, we were again reduced to dire straits.
Again "Lamby" proved our rescuer.
He and Rags, with the story of the extraordinary bet, were discovered by
a reporter and given due fame in the press. "Lamby" and Rags became
celebrities and deigned to receive their many callers in the attractive
reception room of Chicory Hall. A trifle of the glamor reflected on us,
the minor characters in the comedy, and visitors became quite frequent
to behold the "truly charming, typical Bohemia of the nether world."
But visitors will not call again unless you make their first visit
entertaining. How could we entertain them? Not one of us was as yet of
a literary turn of mind, and were not prepared to offer readings or
selections from Shakespeare, Lowell or Browning. Some of us were quite
renowned as comedians, but it is very doubtful if our humor would have
appealed to the class of people honoring us with their visits. There
was nothing left to do but to offer entertainment in the only line in
which we all were proficient. The reception room of Chicory Hall became
an impromptu arena and fights were fought down there which, for
ferociousness and bloody stubbornness have never been beaten.
It would be quite logical to suppose here that our visitors were of the
rowdy element, and all of the male sex. I wish I could tell you
differently, but the truth of the matter is that the "very best
families" were represented at our nocturnal seances by younger members
of both sexes.
In the course of time Chicory Hall became quite a "sight place," and it
was nothing unusual to see a string of carriages and coaches in front of
the humble entrance to the subterranean Bohemia. Would I were a Balzac
to describe to you an evening at Chicory Hall.
At the foot of the stairs was a circle marked on the floor with chalk.
No one save the regular members of the staff were permitted to enter the
sacred precincts without depositing a "voluntary" contribution in the
circle. Corresponding to the amount gathered by the circle was the
degree of entertainment.
On a row of boxes, crippled chairs, upturned pails and other makeshift
seats, the guests were served with drinks at their own expense pending
the preliminaries. Above their heads, traced with white paint on grimy
walls, was this legend in straggling letters:
"WELCOME TO CHICORY HALL!"
With our increasing prosperity came needed improvements, and the
solitary gas light was reinforced by a murky smelling kerosene lamp,
which I can never remember having seen topped by an uncracked chimney.
The door, on account of the lively proceedings within, had to be kept
shut, and you can easily imagine the atmosphere in the cellar, there
being no ventilation.
Still our guests kept coming and truly enjoyed themselves because "it
was all so charmingly realistic and odd."
Being the most steady member of Chicory and rarely absent from the hall,
it was quite natural that I took part in most of the "goes" in the
cellar. I felt myself in my element. Neither the Marquis of
Queensberry or the London prize ring rules were rigidly enforced, and my
viciousness had full scope, our guests--men and women of the "better"
class--liking nothing so well as a "knockout finish."
Mainly through my savageness the last vestige of regulated fighting
disappeared from our "set-tos," and our performances fell to the level
of "go-as-you-please" scrimmages. My reputation as a precious brute
increased rapidly, and again a certain set of men saw a probability in
me.
I was asked if I would fight anything and anybody under any conditions.
An easy question to answer for a man, who, in the fullest possession of
all his strength, had no knowledge of any other controlling influence
than his brutal instinct.
Not knowing or caring who my opponent was to be, I left all arrangements
to the enthusiasts, and in due time was introduced to Mr. Mickey Davis,
who had the great honor of being the champion rough and tumble fighter
of New York.
These were the conditions of our meeting: We were to be locked in a
room, with the privilege of using any means of defeating each other. Of
course, weapons were excluded, but any other pleasantries like biting,
clawing, choking, gouging, were not only allowed, but really essential.
He who first begged to have the door unlocked and to be taken from the
room was the loser.
I held the championship for some time. In fact, I relinquished it
voluntarily not long afterward on account of several changes which
occurred in my life.
I should not blame you in the least were you to feel disgust and
contempt for me for writing of it and for seemingly to glory in it.
Your disgust is justified, your contempt is not. I myself am disgusted
with my past and its several stages of degradation, but I have pledged
myself to tell you the truth, and I am doing and will do it.
Perhaps you may despise me for it, but put yourself in my place and you
will be less severe. There was something brewing and fermenting within
me which wanted to assert itself. I wanted to be somebody; to be
successful. It is a frank confession.
Will you blame a blind man for choosing the wrong path at the
crossroads? Will you not, instead, lead him in the right direction?
Was I not blind when I stood on life's highway and could not see the
pointed finger which read: "To Decency, Usefulness and Manhood"?
And there was no one to lead me.
Yes, criticise, sneer, if you will, but do not forget that in my life
there had been no parental love or guidance and no moral influence.
The attaining of my championship revived the interest of the "sporting
set" of the Bowery in me, and several flattering offers were made to me
by certain dive-keepers. I changed from place to place and left such a
trail of noble deeds behind me that ere long I found myself a real,
genuine celebrity and a man with a name.
I never had any difficulty in getting work at my calling--that of a
"bouncer," called, for the sake of politeness, "floor manager," as my
connection with any place meant additional customers. I was splendidly
equipped for the position, and my fame kept steadily increasing until I
thought myself on the sure road to success.
I reasoned the case with myself and drew the following deductions: I was
feared because of my brutality; I was respected because of my
"squareness," which had never been severely tempted; I had more money
than ever before; I was wearing well-made, if flashy, clothes; the
grumbling envy of my less fortunate fellows and chums sang like a sweet
refrain in my ears; I was strong, vicious and healthy. Why, why
shouldn't I consider myself successful?
*MY GOOD OLD PAL.*
*CHAPTER VII.*
*MY GOOD OLD PAL.*
Here we have reached a stage in my story where I must introduce to you
the dearest friend of all, my good old pal, my Bill.
Bill is only a dog, but when the doors of my past banged shut behind me
he was the only one able to squeeze through them into my better life.
He is the only relic of my other days and a living witness of
remembrance.
And, who can tell, but he, too, may have gone through a transformation,
if that was necessary in his case. He was always faithful, true and
loyal, and what would you think of me were I to repudiate him now?
Those who know me do believe and you will believe that I have not the
shadow of desire to detract one iota from the work accomplished by my
little martyr, but I would be grossly unjust were I to deprive Bill of
the credit due him for his share in the making of me.
I am a man; I feel it. My soul and conscience tell me so, and to all
the forces and factors that combined in my transformation I owe a debt
of gratitude which deeds only--not words--can repay. If this mentioning
of Bill shall demonstrate to you that he was of importance in my
regeneration, then I shall have paid part of my debt to him.
Not very long ago the rector of a fashionable church in New York City
came forward with the blunt claim that dogs have more than intelligence;
that they have souls. Of course, this assertion caused a storm of
indignation and a flood of discussion in many circles. Dogs were rated
very low after that in the list of intellectual values by the
representatives of those circles.
It is fortunate that I am not sufficiently learned or educated to have
an authoritative or deciding voice in the matter, for it will save me
from criticism when I become too enthusiastic about my good dumb,
soulless brute.
Yet, I wish, pray and hope that he has a soul.
* * * * *
Between First and Houston street, on the Bowery, was a saloon which was
known throughout the land as the "hang-out" of the most notorious toughs
and crooks in the country. Still, the place was nightly visited by
persons called "ladies and gentlemen," representatives, specimens, of
the "best" classes of society.
I was employed there as "bouncer." My nightly duty was to suppress
trouble of any kind and at all hazards.
The business staff of my employer included a number of gentlemen who
were renowned for their deftness of touch, and who, at various and
frequent times, had had their photographs taken free of charge at a
certain sombre-looking building in Mulberry street.
Their code of ethics--never adopted by the public at large--was most
elastic. Still, there were times when they did overreach the limits of
Bowery etiquette and then it became my painful duty to rise in righteous
indignation and smite them into seeing the error of their ways.
One night a middle-aged man of respectable appearance, evidently the
host of a party of "sightseers," got into a quarrel with a member of the
mentioned gentry. There was a rumpus of sufficient volume to distract
the attention of the other patrons from their most important duty, that
of spending their money, and I was forced to take a hand in it.
I quickly ascertained that the "sightseer" and his friends were lavish
"spenders," and, with a great display of dramatic effect, I ejected the
loafer, who had already become decidedly threatening. That, a few
minutes later he found his way back again via the little, ever-handy
side door, was a fact not made public.
My stylish "sightseer" had been somewhat sobered by the occurrence and
was most effusive in thanking me for having so gallantly rescued him. A
lingering sense of shame and realization of his position made him turn
homeward, but before leaving he insisted that I should call at his home
on the following day to be properly rewarded for having prevented him
from falling further into the contumely of contempt.
Greed was then one of my many besetting sins, and without losing any
time I called at the address given to me. It was a rather pretentious
dwelling in one of New York's thoroughfares of ease and good living, and
I could not help speculating on the moral make-up of a man who could
leave this abode of comfort and home cheer behind to spend his leisure
hours in a "good time" at a Bowery dive. Even though I could not read or
write at that time, and was not sensible to the world's finer motives,
such an act on the part of a man who had all that life could give,
seemed to be beyond the ken of human intelligence and my humble
understanding.
The reception accorded to me was none too cordial. He seemed to regard
me as a blackmailer, and, alas! he was very nearly correct in his
estimate. After entreating me not to breathe a word to any living soul
about his nightly adventure, he invited me to follow him to the stable
in the rear of the house, where I was to receive the reward for my
righteous conduct.
My hopes fell at this.
Stables are the lodging places of horses, and I began to wonder if he
could imagine the consequences were I to attempt to lead a gift horse
through the streets down to the Bowery. The police, if in nothing else,
are very careful in looking after strayed horses and delight in finding,
by accident, a pretended owner at the other end of the halter rope.
I mentioned all this to him, but he only laughed and bade me wait. He
took me to a stall, and there pointed with pride at a litter of
pure-bred bull pups who were taking a nap at the breast of their mother.
He stooped and, one by one, lifted them up by the scruff of their necks
for my inspection.
I felt disappointed, saw my dream of reward evaporate, and could not
screw up any interest in the canine exhibition.
My aversion for all dogs dated from my years as newsboy in Park Row.
One homeless little cur, a mongrel looking for a bit of sympathy in his
miserable existence, once made friendly overtures to me. I was still a
brute--bestial, cruel--and sent the poor thing yelping with a kick. As
soon as he had regained his footing he waited for his chance and then
bit me in the leg.
Therefore I hated dogs, and reveled in the execution of my hatred.
I watched the pups with ill-concealed disgust. The little fat fellows
hung limp and listless until dropped back into their nest. Just as I
was priming myself to propose a compromise on a cash basis, a little
rogue, different from his brothers, was elevated for examination.
Instead of hanging quietly like the rest of the younger generation of
the family, he twisted and wriggled, while his eyes, one of them
becomingly framed in black, shone with play, appeal and good nature.
The shadow of a smile must have been on my lips, for the owner placed
the pup in my arms and presented me with it.
My first impulse was to drop the pup and kick it back into the stall,
but the little fellow seemed to consider his welcome as an understood
thing, and with a sigh of content snuggled into the hollow of my arm.
He was on my left side, and his warmth must have been infective, for I
felt a peculiar if dull glow creep into my heart.
[Illustration: Bill.]
Without exactly knowing what I was doing, I tucked my new property under
my coat and made my way to my room. It is a question whether the pup
gained by the exchange of quarters. My room was on the top floor of an
old-fashioned tenement. The ceiling was slanting and not able to cope
efficiently with the rain. Of the original four panes of glass in the
window, only two remained, paper having been substituted for the others.
There was a cot, a three-legged chair, and a washstand with a cracked
basin, and a pitcher.
I dropped the pup on the cot, and intended to note how he would take to
his new surroundings. He failed to notice them. First, he squatted
down and looked at me intently. I must have passed inspection, for, not
seeing me draw closer, he came to the edge of the bed and gave a little
whine. I meant to grab him by the neck and throw him to the floor, but
when my hand touched him he felt so soft and warm, and--well, I patted
him. Of course, I had no intention of allowing a pup to change the
tenor of my life. That night I went to the saloon at the accustomed
time and did my "duty" as well as before. However, at odd moments, I
would think of the little fellow up in the room.
It had been our custom to spend the major part of the night drinking and
carousing after the close of business. But on the morning succeeding
the pup's arrival, I thought it best to go to my room at once, as he
might have upset things or caused other damage. That is what I tried to
make myself believe--a rather difficult feat in view of the pup's
enormous bulk and ferocity--not caring to interpret my feelings. I
opened the door of my attic room and peeped in. The little fellow was
curled upon the blanket and did not wake until I stood beside him. Then
he lifted his little nose, recognized me, and went off again into the
land of canine dreams.
As I was burdened with the dog, I could not let him starve. Therefore,
my neighbors had the wonderful, daily spectacle before them of seeing
me, the champion rough and tumble fighter of the city, go to the grocery
store on the corner and buy three cents' worth of milk and sundry other
delicacies suitable to my room-mate. Had they taken it good-naturedly,
I would have felt ashamed and the pup would have fared badly in his
nursing, but my neighbors sneered and smiled at my unusual proceeding
which did seem rather incongruous, and, mainly to spite them and give
them a chance to break their amused silence, did I persist in playing my
new part, that of care-taker and nurse to his royal highness, the dog.
I became used to him, after a fashion, and, though showering very little
affection on the pup, he seemed to be supremely happy in my company. We
had been together for some time before I was sure of our relative
positions. Always finding him asleep on my return from the saloon, I
was surprised to hear him move about, one morning, as I was inserting
the key in the lock. I opened the door, and before me danced the pup in
a veritable frenzy of delight at beholding me. This not being a
psychological essay, only a plain, true story, I shall not attempt to
analyze, but will tell you straight facts in a straight way.
It was a new, a bewildering sensation to me to perceive a living being
to be so pleased at my appearance. It was a new, a strange welcome,
perhaps not entirely unselfish, because milk and good things to eat
generally came with me, but, still, much purer and more sincere than,
the greeting "hello" or loud-mouthed invitation to drink vouchsafed me
by ribald companions.
I had not yet softened, at least, did not realize it, or would not admit
it, but in occasional, unobserved moments, a sporadic, spontaneous
dropping of the hard outer shell would come to me and I would not deny
it until my "manhood" whispered to me: "Why, what is the matter with
you? Are you not ashamed of giving way to your feelings? You are a
man, a great, big, tough man, and not supposed to have any softer
emotions. Get yourself together and be again a worthy member of your
class!"
I must have been in one of these softer moods on the morning when the
pup gave his first outspoken recognition. Why I did it, I do not know,
but I lifted the little fellow to my arms and sat down on the bed. To
us two a critical moment had come and it was best to make the most of
it.
"Do you like me, pup?" I asked in all seriousness.
Bless me, if that little thing did not try to bark an emphatic "Yes!"
Oh, it was no deep-toned growl or snarl. It was the pup's first effort
in the barking line, and it sounded very much like a compound of whine
and grunt. But I understood and we settled down to talk the matter
over.
I realized that the pup was entitled to be named, and that matter was
first in order.
"See here, pup; you and I are very plain and ordinary people, and it
wouldn't do to give you a 'high-toned' name. Now, what do you say to
'Bill'?--just plain 'Bill'?"
The motion was speedily passed, and then Bill and I went to discuss
other questions.
"Bill, you and I aren't overburdened with friends. If you and I were to
die at the same moment, not even a cock or crow would croak a requiem
for us. Now, I am going to make you a proposition. You're friendless,
and so am I; you're ugly and so am I; you belong to the most
unintelligent class of your kind and so do I; why not establish a
partnership between us?"
Bill had sat, watching my lips and looking as wise as a sphinx, until I
asked the question. He answered in the affirmative, without a moment's
hesitation.
"I'm glad you like my proposition, Bill. Now you and I are going to
live our own life, without regard for others. We're going to stick to
each other, Bill; we're going to be loyal to each other, and, though we
do not amount to much in the world, to each other we must be the best of
our class. We're going to be true friends."
I took Bill's paw, and, there and then, we sealed the compact, which was
never broken.
Our relationship being founded on this basis, I spent a good deal of my
spare time in the room, which until Bill's arrival, had been nothing but
my sleeping place. Soon the bare walls and the dilapidated condition of
the furniture began to grate on me and, slowly, I improved our _home_.
I bought a few pictures from a peddler, purchased two plaster casts from
an Italian, and even employed a glazier to put our window in good shape.
Bill and I took pride in our home, and thought it the very acme of
coziness. You see, neither one of us had ever known a real home.
But dogs, as well as men, need exercise, and, in the afternoon, attired
in our best--Bill with his glittering collar, on which the proceeds of a
whole night had been expended--we took our walk along the avenue. He
was beautifully ugly, and the usual pleasant witticisms, such as, "Which
is the dog?" were often inflicted upon us. But we didn't mind, being a
well-established firm of partners, who could afford to overlook the
comments of mere outsiders.
In the midst of our prosperity came an unexpected break. A reform wave
swept over the city and closed most of the "resorts." The loss of my
position left us in a badly crippled financial condition.
Bill and I had lived in a style befitting two celebrities. Porterhouse
steaks, fine chops, and cutlets had been frequent items on our bills of
fare. The drop was sudden and emphatic. Stews, fried liver, and hash
took the place of the former substantial meals, and our constitutions
did not thrive very well. It did not even stop at that, for, ere long,
we were regular _habitues_ of the free-lunch counters. It often almost
broke my heart to see my Bill, well bred and blooded, feed on the scraps
thrown to him from a lunch counter. But there was a dog for you!
Instead of turning his nose up at it, or eating it with growl and
disgust, Bill would devour the pickled tripe or corned beef with a
well-feigned relish. Between the mouthfuls his glance would seek mine
and he would say, quite plainly: "Don't worry on my account. I'm
getting along very nicely on sour tripe. In fact, it is a favorite dish
of mine."
You poor, soulless Bill, of whom many men; with souls, could learn a
lesson in grit and pluck!
During that spell of idleness our hours in the room were less cheerful
than before. I must confess that my "blues" were inspired by material
cares, and not by any regrets or self-reproaches; but, whatever the
cause, they were sitting oppressively on me, and I often found myself in
an atmosphere of the most ultra indigo. It did not take Bill very long
to understand these moods, and, by right of his partnership, he took a
hand in dispelling them.
He would place himself directly in front of me, and stare at me with
unflinching gaze. Not noticing any effect of his hypnotic suggestions,
he would go further, and place his paw on my knee, with a little
pleading whine. Having awakened my attention, he would put himself into
proper oratorical pose and loosen the flood-gates of his rhetoric.
"Say, Kil, I gave you credit for more sense and courage. Here you are,
sitting with your hands in your lap, and bemoaning a fate which is
largely of your own making. Besides--excuse me for being so brutally
frank--you ought to be ashamed of yourself. Big and strong, you live in
idleness, and now you kick because you are down and out and deprived of
your despicable means of livelihood. Owen Kildare, brace up and be a
man. You are not friendless. I am here. True, I'm only a dog, a
soulless brute, but I'm your Bill, and we're going to stick until we
both win out!"
You will not offend me by calling me a silly fool for putting these
words into Bill's mouth. Perhaps I err greatly in believing that Bill
was not without influence over me, or that I could understand him;
perhaps it was all imagination, but, if it was--and I doubt it--it was
good, because, no matter what it may be, whether imagination,
inspiration or aspiration, if it leads up and not down, it cannot be too
highly appreciated.
There were times when Bill's speech was either less convincing or my
period of blues more pronounced than usual, and then he would resort to
more drastic measures. He undertook to prove by the most vivid object
lesson that a buoyancy of spirits is the first essential. Dogs, when
gay and playful, run and romp. Bill made believe he was gay, and romped
and raced and ran. If you will take note of the fact that the exact
measurements of the room were fifteen by twelve feet, you can easily
imagine the difficulties opposing Bill's exercise. Snorting and
puffing, he would cavort about the narrow precincts, now running into a
bedpost, now bumping against the shaky washstand. But he always
accomplished his object, because, before his collapse from his
exertions, he never failed to put me into a paroxysm of laughter. No
"blues" could ever withstand Bill's method.
Still, he was but a brute--a poor, dumb brute.
*KNIGHTS ERRANT.*
*CHAPTER VIII.*
*KNIGHTS ERRANT.*
An episode, which occurred about this time, took me into latitudes and
scenes never before dreamed of by me.
As near as I can figure it, the event happened in March, 1893. I admit
that in view of the seriousness of the incident my indefiniteness seems
strange, but it is typical of my class.
Since I have moved in different spheres I have often wondered at this
and tried to explain it to myself. No other explanation seems to be at
hand except that this disregard of dates, of time and place is a
characteristic of the world Bohemian, whether on the Bowery or in the
Tenderloin. Recently I had an illustration of this.
In preparing a story, treating of a certain phase of Bowery life for a
newspaper, I bethought myself of a man, who had been closely connected
with the very occurrence I intended to mention. I sent for him and he
came to my house, willing to tell me all he could remember. He recalled
it all and graphically described every detail.
At last I asked him to tell me the year and month in which it had
happened. That caused an immediate halt in the narrative and many
minutes were spent in serious reflection. It was of no avail. We fixed
the date of it to be in "about" such and such a year, and such and such
a month, but it was impossible to accurately settle the year and month.
And this in view of the fact that the occurrence had been a cold-blooded
murder, that my informant had been an eye-witness of it and had spent
several months in the House of Detention.
Why others are so careless of dates I do not know and it is not to the
point here, but I do know that in the life of the East Side, every
existence is so crammed full of reality that even the most important
occurrences are only of temporary moment. There, events are dated by
events.
Ask a fellow of the Bowery when he had lost his father or mother, and he
will very likely answer:
"Oh, about five or six years ago."
If you insist on a more precise answer, he will scratch his head, ponder
for a while, and then: "Let's see! Yes, the old man died about two
months after I came from the penitentiary on my last bit, and that was
somewhere in 1891."
I was playing my now familiar role of bouncer at "Fatty Flynn's," an
ex-convict, who was running a dance hall and dive at 34 Bond street. It
was only a few doors from the Bowery and enjoyed a great vogue among the
transient sightseers, traversing the Bowery in search of "good times."
On the night in question, two Princeton students, arrayed in yellow and
black mufflers and wearing the insignia of their fraternity, visited the
dance hall in the course of their lark. It was rather early for that
sort of thing, the place was half-empty, and I, to do the honors of the
establishment and also to speed their "buying," stepped over to the two
young men for a "jollying" chat.
They were very young, had a considerable amount of money, and seemed
flattered by my mark of distinction.
We spoke about "sporting" life in general and they asked me concerning
several dives which were the most notorious of the day. As I had worked
in every dive of notoriety, it was not a difficult matter for me to give
all desired information. This seemed to invite their hunger for
knowledge and they invited me to make the third in their party and to
spend the night in going from dive to dive. This, by the way, this
unofficial guide-business is another way in which the man, who has to
live by his wits, turns many an "honest" dollar.
I could not accept the invitation as they held out no financial
inducement and, that not forthcoming, I felt myself in duty bound to
stick to my post and employer. However, it was a rainy night, business
was slow and my chances for making any "extra" money very slim, and I
entrusted one of my favorite waiters with the diplomatic mission of
"boosting my game" with the two students. Moved by their curiosity and
the skillful strategy of my emissary they made me an offer which was far
more than I had expected, but which was nevertheless declined by me,
until my persistent refusal to utilize my services in their behalf
screwed their bid up to a figure, which I could not conscientiously
decline.
I made my excuses to "Fatty" Flynn, and, that done, we started out on
our expedition of studying social conditions and evil. Measured by dive
time-standards, we had started out too early. It was only nine o'clock
and the "fun" in the dives hardly ever began before midnight. Still,
thanks to my knowing guidance, we found quite a number of dance halls
where we could spend the intervening hours to the profit of the
respective proprietors.
One thing, which soon disgusted me with my two charges, was that they
were unable to stand much drink. I warned them against too much
indulgence, as that would incapacitate them for the pleasures to come,
but youth is proverbially obstinate and they went their whooping way
rejoicing.
After having left the "Golden Horn," a well-known dance hall in East
Thirteenth street, we walked down Third avenue as far as Twelfth street,
where they insisted on going into a gin-mill, which shed its garish
radiance across our path. It was not a regulation dive and only known
as the rendezvous of a gang of tough fellows, who made that part of the
thoroughfare none too safe for passing strangers. From this it should
not be supposed that they were unkempt in appearance. Quite the
reverse, they were rather well-dressed.
We happened to drop into the place at a most inopportune moment. A
crowd of these fellows were at the bar spending lavishly the proceeds of
some successfully worked "trick." They were very hilarious; so were my
proteges, and I was kept constantly on the alert to prevent friction
between the hilarious majority and minority. It was not my policy to
become embroiled in any useless rows and I entreated the students to
continue on our way downtown. But they were not in a condition to
listen to reasoning and, attracted by several unclean stories told by
members of the other faction, began to treat the "house" and intermingle
with them.
There seemed to be no immediate prospect of any disturbance, and I
permitted myself to leave the room for a few minutes. On my return the
scene had completely changed. The crowd had closed around the students
and were threatening them. I learned afterward that one of the students
had taken umbrage at the rough familiarity of one of the gang and had
attempted to hit him. The situation seemed critical, but not dangerous,
and I was about to smooth matters, when my eye caught the reflection of
some suspiciously glittering object. It was a knife in the hand of the
tough offended and only partly concealed by the sleeve of the coat.
He was sneaking around the crowd to get beside his intended prey and had
almost reached him when I decided to interfere. I had not measured my
distance well, for just as I jumped between the two men, the knife was
on its downward path and found the fulfillment of its mission in my
neck.
A three-inch cut, a tenth part of an inch from the jugular vein, is not
exactly the sort of souvenir one cares to take with him from an evening
dedicated to "fun" and "good times." And when it confines one to the
hospital for several weeks, it becomes a decided bore. All this was
recognized by my new found friend, the student, who had been the
indirect cause of my disfigurement, and having in the meantime, been
expelled from his college for some wild escapade, he decided to show his
gratitude to me, for what he was pleased to call "having saved his
life," by taking me abroad.
"You are not educated. Travel is the greatest educator, therefore, I
will show you the world."
It did not require much coaxing to accept the proposition, and after
arranging for a boarding-place for my good, old Bill, we started out to
see the world.
The next six months were and are like a dream to me. I was perfectly
willing to have the world shown to me, but am inclined to believe that I
had a rather imperfect demonstrator. To be quite candid, I doubted if
my fellow-traveler was any more familiar with the world at large than I
was.
At any rate, after a hurried and zig-zagged jaunt through Europe, we
landed in Algiers with a fearfully shrunken cost capital. The cafes of
that African Paris certainly broadened my education.
An expected remittance from home failed to arrive and my partner fell
into a trance of deep and pondering thought. The conclusion of it was
that we, by decree of my "college chum," were forthwith appointed
adventurers, soldiers of fortunes, dare-devils and anything else that
could make us believe our miserable, stranded condition was the stepping
stone to great, chivalrous deeds to come. We enlisted in the Legion of
Strangers.
But chivalry loses half of its charm when it comes in red trousers, blue
jacket and on the back of a bony Rosinante, carrying you through
stretches and stretches of glowing, burning sand. In short, the life of
an African trooper, banished into the interior and subsisting on food as
foreign to a Bowery stomach as the jargon spoken by his messmates, had
absolutely no charm for me.
I am not very good at disguising my moods and emotions, and that I was
homesick, that my heart, in spite of the excitement of the occasional
skirmishes, yearned for my old Bowery, became apparent to my brother in
misery. Then, a stranger coincidence, it also cropped out that my
partner would much prefer to be on Broadway or Fifth avenue than in the
dreary stockade of Degh-del-ker.
Alas, then, the railroad system of that part of Africa was hardly in
existence, and even if it had been, it would not have been advisable for
us to take berths of civilization, as the government foolishly wanted to
retain our valuable service. History informs me that, shortly after our
departure the garrison of Degh-del-ker had several disastrous encounters
with some of the rebellious tribes, which would have probably resulted
differently had we two lent our arms and strength to the cause of the
tri-colored flag.
I mention this merely for the purpose of explaining the delicacy with
which I have related this experience. Neither my friend nor myself have
the slightest intention of becoming the unfortunate causes for
international complications between our own country and France, for
having bereft the latter of two such valiant warriors as ourselves.
We of the Bowery love colors and I had often had a potent wish that I
could show myself in all the glory of my gaudy raiment to the gang of my
old, beloved street. A Bowery boy in blue coat and red trousers, with
clanking sabre by his side, I would have made the hit of my life if
appearing thus attired in my favorite haunts. However, this pleasure
was denied to me.
We managed to procure less stunning costumes and successfully besting
the sentinels, started on our march for the coast.
It was a fearful trip. For six long weeks we plodded on through
blinding sand and blistering heat, carefully avoiding all native
villages and, yet, often saved from perishing just in the nick of time
by tribesmen, who found us in helpless state in hiding places.
From the coast we shovelled our way across the Mediterranean in the
boiler-room of the good ship St. Helene. It was suffocating work, and
time and again, we were hauled up from the regions of below, thrown on
the deck, and revived by streams of cold water.
At last, we steamed into the harbor of Marseilles, where we expected to
find a letter of credit. It was there and we both fell on our knees in
the most sincere thanksgiving ever offered.
Nothing more can be told in relation to this episode, excepting that we
both felt we had been sufficiently educated by seeing the world and that
we were urgently needed at home.
We lost no time in getting there.
*A PLAYER OF MANY PARTS.*
*CHAPTER IX.*
*A PLAYER OF MANY PARTS.*
You will easily believe me when I tell you that my very first task on
coming home was to look up my good, old pal, my Bill.
His temporary home was a stable. The owner of it was an old
acquaintance of mine and I was satisfied that Bill had been well treated
during my absence. But how I had longed for him!
In Europe and Africa I had seen dogs of purest breed and best pedigree,
but, to me, they were only as mongrels when compared to my Bill, my
loyal boy. There had not been a day in our travels, when I had not
asked myself the question: "I wonder what Bill is doing just now?"
And here I was home and rushing up to meet my pal.
The owner of the stable met me at the door and congratulated me on my
safe return. Then he grew serious and began: "See, here, Kil, whatever
we could do for Bill, we did, but there's something the matter with him.
He's off his feed and not half the lively dog he used to be."
I did not wait to hear any more, but went to look for Bill. Up in the
hayloft I caught a glimpse of him. On a bale, nearest to the
dilapidated window, there lay my Bill, the picture of loneliness. He
looked right straight in front of him and never shifted his eyes.
I stood and watched him for a few minutes, then, stepping behind a post,
whispered: "Bill."
One ear went up, the eyes blinked once or twice, but otherwise he
remained unchanged. He was afraid to trust his sense.
Again I whispered: "Bill, Oh Bill," and then hid myself.
I did not hear him move, but when I peeped out from my hiding place I
found the gaze of his true eyes upon me and, with a whine and cry, my
Bill and I were partners once again.
What a meeting that was I cannot describe to you, and, were I to attempt
it, you would laugh at our silliness. Still, I think that some of you
would not laugh and you will need no description of the scene.
That night saw Bill and me back in our ramshackle attic, and we sat up
late into the morning exchanging experiences.
Divedom was still flourishing. The reform movement had subsided after
the election, and things grew livelier every day. In spite of my ocean
voyage and change of scene, my health was not very good, and it took
considerable time to eliminate all traces of my African adventure.
There is an old German saw, which reads that any one that goes
travelling can tell a good many tales afterward. Not being strong
enough to take up my former calling of "bouncer," I hung around the back
room of Steve Brodie's place on the Bowery, and became a raconteur par
excellence. It was not my rhetoric or elocution which made me the lion
of the hour. It was solely the recapitulation of my trip, and,
particularly my African experience. This should not astonish you, for,
I beg to assure you, Bowery boys are not in the habit of extending their
tours to the Dark Continent, confining their excursions mainly to
Hoboken and other convenient picnic grounds along the Hudson or East
River.
I cannot mention the name of Steve Brodie without relating to you a
curious phase of fraud, which is not entirely without humor. In saying
this, I do not refer to Mr. Steve Brodie's accomplishments in the bridge
jumping line. Whether he really did jump from the Brooklyn and other
bridges is a question, which will never disturb the equanimity of the
world's history. I may have my opinion and a foundation for it, but
have neither the inclination or time to air it.
It was not very long before the stories of my travels had been told and
told again, until every one of the _habitues_ of the Brodian emporium
was surfeited with them. This largely curtailed the number of drinks
bought for me by admiring listeners, and I was sorely puzzled how to
fill this aching void. I was not yet fully able to "hustle" very much,
and still stuck to the sheltering shadow of Steve Brodie's back room.
It was the veriest chance that put me in the way of a new "graft" and
again brought me the surety of food and drink. I became a splendid
exemplification of the saying that life is but a stage and we players of
many parts.
The scheme developed finally owing to prevalent hero-worship. Take the
greatest celebrity of the day, push him into a crowd which is not aware
of his identity, and he will pass unnoticed. But only properly label
him and the multitude will kneel before the erstwhile nonentity.
Now, while we always have the inclination for hero-worship, heroes are
rather scarce and not always handy for the occasion. This is especially
the case on the Bowery, where quantities of heroes are always supposed
to be waiting around, "but ain't." Their supposed presence draws the
usual attendance of worshippers, and it was solely for the purpose of
not wishing to disappoint these worthy people that Steve Brodie, with my
co-operation, decided upon a plan, which proved satisfactory from the
start, and was the means of conveying many pleasant recollections into
the houses of many uptown people and into the rural homes of our land.
The plan itself was very simple, and was originated by John Mulvihill,
at the time the dispenser of liquids of the Brodie establishment.
The Horton Boxing Law had not yet been thought of, and the fistic cult
had more followers than ever before. A few of the lesser lights of
pugilism had their permanent headquarters at Brodie's, while some
aspirants for champion honors and even real champions dropped in
whenever happening to be in the neighborhood.
Brodie's well engineered fame and the many odd decorations and pictures
in the place did not fail to draw the many, and they, after inspecting
Brodie and the other oddities, invariably inquired if "some prominent
fighters" were not present. As a rule, Johnnie Mulvihill was able to
produce some celebrity to satisfy this craving of the curious, but there
were times when the stock of stars was very low; then the mentioned plan
was resorted to. It was the inspiration born of emergency.
On a certain evening I happened to be quietly sitting in the desolated
back-room. Business was dreadfully slow. My quiet was suddenly
disturbed by Mulvihill, who came tearing through the swinging doors.
"Say, Kil, you got to do me a favor. Steve is out, and there ain't a
single solitary man in the place whom I can introduce to the bunch I got
up against the bar. They just came in and are fine spenders, but I'll
lose them if you don't do this for me."
Mulvihill's request was not fully understood by me, yet, owing him many
debts of gratitude for having given me a drink on the sly and for having
often shared his corned beef and cabbage with me, I was quite willing to
do him the favor desired, which, I thought, would be nothing else than
to "jolly" the men at the bar into the buying of more drinks.
"No, no," interjected Mulvihill, "that ain't what I want you to do."
He immediately unfolded his scheme, which was nothing more or less than
that I should face the expectant as a pretended Jack Dempsey, famous
throughout the land as one of the best and squarest fighters that ever
entered a ring.
Naturally, I rebelled, not wishing to expose myself to an easy discovery
of the palpable fraud, but Mulvihill pleaded with his most persuasive
voice.
"Don't you see, those fellows don't know Jack Dempsey from Adam. Any
old thing at all would convince them they are in the presence of the
real man, and you know enough about Jack Dempsey and his history not to
be tripped up by those fellows, who never saw a prize fight in their
lives."
Who could resist such gentle pleading? I could not, and followed my
mentor in the path of deception.
Assuming the proper pose, I stepped into the barroom and was
ceremoniously introduced by Mulvihill to the "easies," who had traveled
quite a distance to bask in the radiance of a real fighter.
"Gentlemen, permit me to introduce you to the famous champion of the
world, Mr. Jack Dempsey," quoted the artful Mulvihill, and, thereby,
started me in a repertoire, which, in the number of different roles
cannot be surpassed by the most versatile actor.
The visitors pumped my hands and arms with fervid enthusiasm and showed
their appreciation of the honor afforded them by copious buying of many
rounds of drinks.
Well, the ball had been set rolling and it was a long time before it
stopped.
The plan proved surprisingly profitable, at least for Steve Brodie, and
although Mulvihill and I had to be satisfied with the crumbs from the
feast, we had a lot of fun out of it and that was no mean recompense.
You can imagine some of it, when I tell you that rather often some of
the "sightseers" would bring themselves to my remembrance (?) by
recalling to me something, which had happened to me (?) in their own
town, or how they had seen me defeat Tom, Dick or Harry by one mighty
swing from my tremendous left.
If there was fun in it, there was also some embarrassment attached to
it. The male sex is not the only one which admires physical prowess,
and ladies, escorted by gentlemen, appeared quite frequently at this
newly founded shrine of pugilistic worship.
I cannot recollect having ever been so confused as I was on a certain
night when I was cast for the role of Jake Kilrain, the man who tried to
wrest the heavyweight championship from the redoubtable John L.
Sullivan. In my limited but appreciative audience were several ladies.
A short while after my introduction I noticed a lot of whispering among
the ladies. One, the spokeswoman, stepped over to me and presented the
guest of the others.
"Oh, Mr. Kilrain, you must have a perfectly developed arm and chest.
They are necessary in your profession, are they not? And may we not
have the privilege of testing your strength?"
Before I fully realized what they intended to do they had gathered
around me and with many "oh's" and "oh, my's" they began to feel my
biceps and to prod me in the chest.
Of course, this was only an odd occurrence, and did not happen every
night, but it did not help me to respect my "betters."
It was also very embarrassing when, at the same time, I had to "double"
and even "treble." As an illustration, just let me tell you that in one
evening, and at the same time, I represented Jack McAuliffe at the head
of the bar, Mike Boden at the end of it, and Johnny Reagan in the
back-room--all well-known pugilists and champions in their class. My
audiences were especially annoying that night, holding me down to dates
and details and keeping me on the edge of apprehension lest I should mix
my identities.
Also, on a certain auspicious occasion, while portraying a certain
renowned pugilist with admirable accuracy, the said pugilist happened to
appear on the scene in person and it was only his true friendship for me
which prevented the imitation ending in a fizzle, if not worse.
Now, when all that lies behind me and belongs to a different world and
personality, I cannot fail to see the wrongness of it, but, at the time
of its happening, I cannot deny having often laughed heartily at the
silliness of those gaping curiosity-seekers.
Later, when on account of a disagreement with Steve Brodie, I
transferred my headquarters to the palace of the king--Barney Flynn, the
King of the Bowery--at the corner of Pell street and the Bowery, we
instituted another fraudulent scheme intended to interest and entertain
our many friends and provide drink and small change for us.
The palace of the King of the Bowery is not a very imposing building.
On the ground floor a saloon, overhead a lodging house, it serves the
two purposes of refreshing and resting the subjects of his majesty. For
two weighty reasons the saloon has always been the Mecca of the curious.
It is, so to speak, the entrance-gate to Chinatown and, also, the
official address of Chuck Connors.
Besides the transient crowds of nightly visitors to Chinatown, the
saloon is often honored by calls from literary personages. For some
time, it seemed to be the proper thing for writers of a certain genre to
come there to study types.
[Illustration: Jackey Doodles. Barney Flynn. Jumbo. "Chuck" Connors. A
typical group at Barney Flynn's side door.]
Right here let me say, that, without wishing to discredit any writer of
dialect stories, I have yet to find the story which presents the idiom
of the Bowery as it is spoken. I have taken the trouble to compare
different stories--each one guaranteed to be a true and realistic study
of the underworld--written by different writers and the discrepancies in
the dialect are flagrant.
One, throughout his entire tale, puts "youse" in the mouth of his most
important character. The other only uses "ye." One spells the
question: "Do you?"; the other phrases it: "D'you?"
Perhaps this also applies to other stories written in New England or
Southern dialect, but whether it does or not, it seems to be a case of
"you pays your money and you takes your choice."
I have yet to see the "low life" story which is not studded with "cul"
and "covey." Take my advice and do not use this form of address on the
Bowery. They would not understand it and, therefore, would feel
insulted.
Also, the men of the East Side are not so lacking in gallantry as to
call their lady loves "bundles" and other similar names.
Then, in the matter of emphatic language the writers are far from
hitting the target. The favorite phrase is "Wot'ell," which is a
hundred leagues removed from the distinct utterance with which this
dainty bit of conversation is used by a Bowery boy in a moment of
rhetorical flight.
So I might cite hundreds of instances.
The same carelessness of detail is manifested in other things, when
writing about us. They are not all important errors or serious
mistakes, but are grave enough to prove the unreliability of those "true
East Side studies."
A writer, who for a considerable time, has been accepted as an authority
on conditions in the underworld, is the most profligate in calling
beings and things of the sphere he describes by their wrong name. He
persists in claiming that thieves are called "guns" by police and
fellows. Every man, who has lived all his life on the Bowery, as I
have, knows that "gun" means an important personage. A millionaire is a
"gun," so is a prominent lawyer, or a politician, or a famous crook; in
short, anybody who is foremost in his profession or calling, be he
statesmen or thief, is a "gun."
The Bowery is not hard to reach and, if so inclined, you can easily test
my assertion. Take a page from one of the many East Side stories extant
and read it to a typical Bowery boy and he will ask you to interpret it
for him.
The East Side dialect does not abound in slang. Whatever of it there is
in it has been absorbed from the Tenderloin and other sources. To coin
a funny slang phrase one must have time to invent and try it. They have
no time for this on the East Side, where even time for schooling cannot
always be spared. And that accounts for ungrammatical expressions and
whimsically twisted sentences, but not for the idiotic gibberish and
forced coinages of words slipped onto the tongues of my people.
The courtiers of the King of the Bowery, being a good-natured set of
fellows, did not wish to curb the fervency of the literary "gents," and
did their best to supply the ever-increasing demand for types.
The inner sanctum of the royal palace was divided from the outer room by
the usual glass and wood partition. As Barney Flynn, the King of the
Bowery, was a genial and jovial monarch, the more secluded chamber did
not resemble a throne-room so much as a rendezvous of kindred spirits.
It was a specimen of another strata of nether world Bohemia.
Tables and chairs were about the place in picturesque disorder. On the
walls were three gigantic oil paintings, "done" by a wandering Bowery
artist for his board and lodging, including frequent libations. In one
corner was the voluntary orchestra, consisting of Kelly, the "rake," the
fiddler, and Mickey Doolan, the flute-player. Their day's work
over--they were both "roustabouts" along the river front--the two court
musicians would take their accustomed seats, and, without paying much
attention to those present, would fiddle and flute themselves back again
to their own green shores of old Erin.
They are pathetic figures, these men of the Bowery, who live their
evenly shiftless lives in dreams of days passed, but not forgotten.
Being directly in the path to and from Chinatown, Barney Flynn's saloon
was, at odd times, visited by the sociological pilgrims to this centre
of celestial colonization. One night, a writer happened to stumble into
the place. Whether his impressions were perceived in normal or abnormal
condition is not known. The "gang" was engaged in a little celebration
of its own, were observed by the writer, and, forthwith, Barney Flynn's
and the royal staff became a mine for authors of low-life stories.
With the acumen acquired in my dive training, I saw very soon that those
coming to study us were most willing to pay for grotesquely striking
types. The "real thing" had very little interest for them. What were we
to do? To get the money we had to be types, therefore, whenever the
word was passed that a searcher for realism--with funds--had arrived, we
put on our masks, lingual and otherwise, to help along the glorious
cause of literature.
No good purpose would be accomplished were I to mention the names of
authors, who portrayed us so correctly. They are now celebrities with
more paying aims. Their stories of us are still remembered, but only
because of their "beautiful and pure sentiment," and not because of
their "true realism." The latter differs with every writer and has
bewildered the casual reader.
I am strongly tempted to call by name one, whose glory as demonstrator
was dimmed in an unexpected manner. The writer in question had come
here from Philadelphia, preceded by a reputation for his sympathy with
those in the slums. Several of his "low down" stories had been hailed
as the models for all the other writers of that tribe.
With his usual aggressiveness, not devoid of a touch of almost medieval
dash and chivalry, this young man threw himself into the study of New
York slums with wonted ardor, and, naturally, mastered the subject
almost immediately. Being socially well-connected, or, rather, being
well-taken up by society, he had no trouble in interesting his friends
in his hobby. He was not niggardly in the spending of his money and
quite popular on that account with my friends in Barney Flynn's. As a
matter of fact, this promising young writer--a promise since then
fulfilled--was a favorite of the highest and lowest; verily, an enviable
position.
With note-book in hand, this young man sat among us for hours, jotting
down phrases and slang expressions, manufactured most laboriously and
carefully for the occasion. The interest of his friends increased, and
one night we were honored by a visit of a large party of ladies and
gentlemen, piloted by the aforesaid author.
Before the precious cargo had been unloaded from the cabs and hansoms,
word had been taken to the back-room. As actors respond to the call of
the stage-manager, so did we prepare ourselves to play our parts with
our well-known finesse and correctness of detail. By that I mean, that
we knew what was expected of us and that we emphasized our
"characteristics" as we had seen them burlesqued on the stage.
The promising young writer was in his glory. With irrepressible glee, he
introduced us, one by one, to his admirers, watching the effects of our
"quaint" salutations. The chorus of enthusiastic approval was
unanimous. We were "absolutely charming," "perfectly thrilling," and
"too droll for anything." Encouraged by this warm reception of our
feeble efforts, we surpassed ourselves and assault, battery, murder was
committed on the English language in most wilful frenzy. Taking it all
in all, it was a gem of slum mosaic, and is still remembered by most of
the offenders.
Having given our performance and exhausted our programme, we were told
by our friends how "very glad, charmed and delighted" they had been at
meeting us.
The doors had barely closed behind the last of the promising young
author's friends, before all the performers rushed up to the bar to
spend the money given to them for their instructive entertainment. The
comments on the visitors were many and very much to the point, but were
not uttered in the manufactured dialect. There was much laughter and
many imitations of our late audience, and none of us had noticed that
the promising young author, accompanied by a few of the party, had
returned to look for a pair of gloves forgotten by one of the ladies.
Part of our conversation was overheard and the laugh was at the writer's
expense.
Of course, we instantly endeavored to rectify our mistake and fell back
to addressing each other as "cull" and "covey," but, somehow, the effect
was not convincing.
One of his friends turned to the promising young author on leaving:
"Old man, you certainly deserve another medal for this, but this time,
it should be a leather one."
I did not know then to what the above remark referred.
*BOWERY POLITICS.*
*CHAPTER X.*
*BOWERY POLITICS.*
The death-knell of divedom had been sounded by the legislature. Albeit,
it had been sounded before, without stopping the dives from resurrecting
themselves. But vice had become so rampant, so nauseating that the
righteous of the city braced their backbones a trifle stiffer than usual
and insisted on having a committee of investigation appointed.
All the daily papers heralded the coming of the inquisitors in big head
lines, and the inhabitants of divedom began to quake in their shoes like
fallen angels on the eve of judgment day.
Shortly before the beginning of the upheaval, I had overcome one of my
many spells of lassitude and gentlemanly idleness and had accepted the
position of bouncer in the "Slide," the most notorious dive which ever
disgraced a community.
When a body is covered with a cancerous growth, the most dangerous ulcer
is the first to receive the surgeon's attention. For that reason, the
"Slide" was the first to be put under the prying probe. The
investigation was thorough. The investigators and prosecuting
officials, stimulated by fear of public censure and thoughts of
political advancement, were merciless, and, as a consequence, the
"Slide" was closed forever and the nominal proprietor sent to jail.
Without waiting for further developments, the other dive-keepers retired
from business and a general cleansing process struck all quarters of the
city.
The immediate effect of this was that a shifting of quarters of the
vicious began. The harlots, bereft of their known places of business,
hid themselves in the obscurity of virtuous surroundings, and the male
element of the lowest dives congregated on the Bowery, ever the
dumping-ground of human scum and offal. In a short time, the Bowery was
full of a muttering crowd of able-bodied men, each one cheating the
world out of an honest day's labor, all proclaiming loudly at the
injustice which deprived them of their "living." Even the recollection
is loathsome.
In company with a number of fellows who, like me, were "thrown out of
work" by this "uncalled-for interference," we established headquarters
in a ginmill owned by a legislator. As a matter of course, the
"back-room," seemingly a legislative annex, was very much in evidence,
and by no means subdued in its proceedings. If anything, the business
behind the "partition" had increased in volume since the other dives,
operated by less influential citizens, had been obliged to close. So we
have here another of the many paradoxes of our political conditions.
While his fellow-legislators were scouring the city with really
commendable zeal to rend the evil-doer limb from limb, this being of
their kin could be seen daily in front of his hall, sunning himself in
the radiance of his increased prosperity and influence, and looking with
self-satisfied smile across Chatham Square at the closed windows of
minor dives.
Yes, as the Romans clothed the men of wisdom and love of country in the
flowing robes of dignity and called them patriots, statesmen and
senators, so do we take--take by the will of the people--the men fat of
jowl and fat of paunch from beneath us and place them above us in the
seats of the mighty and give them power over us. And if you would growl
at my saying "from beneath us to above us," and would wrathfully
confront me with the slogan of political and other equality, I would not
wish to stand in your way of being their equal, but would have trifling
respect for your integrity. As I tell the stars by seeing them and find
but small difference in their lustre, so do I tell the rascals by their
rascality, and there is small difference in the degrees of rascality.
Senators! Rome and Albany! Would the difference of time, of centuries,
were the only one between them!
In all governments by and for the people, the making of the nation lies
with the common people; that great mass, which you would call "rabble"
were it not for the continental sound of the word and the danger of
being quoted. An ever-watchful press keeps its eye on you, and would
readily pillorize you as an offender against the most sacred of our
possessions and privileges; our sacred freedom; our sacred equality; our
sacred franchise, and, by no means lastly, our sacred screaming eagle,
screaming ofttimes from veriest agony. The buncombe of press and
loud-mouthed gabbers has decreed it to be treason to see the truth and
to speak it, and you must, to be above suspicion of being a traitor to
the land you love, on the Fourth of July let off in sissing streams of
pyrotechnics your patriotism, which, after its one gala day, is
forgotten for the rest of the year in the strenuous pursuit of getting
all you can out of "what's in it."
The common people of the fields and meadows plow, sow and reap their
harvest. They pluck the weeds from out among the useful growth and
stamp them under foot. The common people of our cities live
"downtown"--that vague and indefinite region--in tenement and barracks.
(Notice how "down" and "common" always run together).
They have no knowledge of agriculture, and, with their seldom sight of
plant or flower, even the stink-weed, for it is leafed and green, finds
a welcome and place among them through their ignorance. Yes, more, it
is cared for and nurtured until, as all ill-weeds, it grows to
tremendous proportions, overshadowing and dwarfing those who have spared
its life instead of plucking it out by the roots and pressing the heel
upon it.
Who plants the weeds? Who is their sower? They care not.
Does not the same blessed sunshine and dew of heaven fall upon them as
on the corn and roses? And do they not get more of it than the flower
and the fruit-bearing plant? For they are greedy and strive for that
which is not theirs according to merit.
Not most, but all the men, who played their part in our history so well
as to be immortalized forever were self-made from the field and farm.
Remember that there they destroy the weeds!
Not most, but all the men, who have made it a risk to a fair name and
reputation to become actively engaged in the affairs of one's own
country and state were self-made from the slums and gutters, with their
only chance of immortalization via Rogues' Gallery. We of the city do
not destroy the weeds!
They of the gutter, who have been forced upon and above the multitude,
if not caught or not too notoriously prominent, keep the data of their
success and formulative period secret. If, however, they run foul of
the calcium, which often strikes, unexpectedly, dark places, they become
arrogantly defiant in their ill-gotten might. Even against the scorn of
the decent and to the awe of their own kind, they swing themselves onto
the pedestal of the self-made man and strike their pose. All that is
intended as a parallel to several rail-splitting and canal-boating men
in our little history, who, as a "patriot" remarked, deserve a whole lot
of credit "even if they was farmers."
Then, when forced into the public focus from their disturbed obscurity,
is theirs the cry of repentance? Do they sob and cry: "Peccavi! Yes, I
have sinned! I have wronged you and my country! Have mercy and
forgive!"
If it were that it would be the cry of a tortured soul, rotten and
distorted, yet still a soul and worthy of the chance of atonement. No;
what reaches us from the usurped pedestal is the self-satisfied grunt of
the swine: "Look and behold! You know or can surmise what I have been!
Look now and wonder at what I am and how I got there!"
Surely this affront is resented and the daring knave pulled from his
lofty perch to be punished for his insults and ill deeds? Some are
foolish and un-American enough to suggest such a course of proceeding.
But what really does happen is a taking up of that refrain of
self-adulation by the admiring throng. There in almost worshipping
attitude, we find that the chicaning game of politics makes mates of all
sorts and conditions of men, and pickpocket and tax-paying citizen,
cut-throat and that very peculiar animal, the intelligent workingman,
all kneel in equal humility before the rum-soaked idol of their own
creation.
A subject for deep guesswork is where the workingman keeps his well
advertised intelligence. To claim to be one thing and then prove
yourself the opposite, which, in this case means a fool, is a rather
absurd proceeding. Presumably a good part of that intelligence is
occupied in defending their rights, which nobody assails. Howling and
haranguing do not require much intelligence, and of both the
"intelligent" workingman does more than enough and to no purpose. When
the time of his usefulness approaches--although it should be the time
for him to assert himself--he stops his howling and listens to the
strongly flavored persuasion of the wily politician--the weed he
permitted to grow and to prosper--and becomes the gently led sheep, to
awaken after election and find himself the twin brother of the donkey.
They will not recognize that far better, by virtue of his sincerity,
would be the sincere demagogue as leader than the dishonest politician
of the gutter breed.
No man can choose his birthplace. Mansion and tenement have each
furnished their quota of honest and dishonest men. If he of the gutter
gets above it and gets there by means which are those of a man and an
American, he will not lack the respect and esteem of those whose ranks
he has fought to join. That is what proves this the land of
opportunities and therein lies true equality.
There is another way to get out of the gutter, and that was the way
employed by statesmen of the stamp of the Hon. Michael Callahan, of the
State Legislature.
Mike Callahan's place in horticulture was most decidedly among the
rankest weeds. "Lucky" Callahan, as he was sometimes called, had
escaped the inconvenient calcium of public opinion, and, on that
account, little was known about his origin, except by his intimates.
Perhaps bootblack, perhaps newsboy, he had early learned to make himself
subservient to his superiors, genial to his equals and condescending to
his inferiors. Of course, these social lines were drawn by him
according to his viewpoint.
Mike's striving for political recognition was aggressive from the start,
and, having no other aim or ambition, he threw himself into the game of
intrigue and wire-pulling with all his energetic intensity. Never
questioning, always obeying, he became the ideal plastic mass to be
molded by the enterprising chiefs of the organization. His promotion
from ward heeler to captain, and from captain to the leadership of the
district was his logical reward.
Yet, even in spite of his usefulness, his ascendancy to the leadership
was not accomplished in a day. He did not mind this much, his bulldog
tenacity keeping him alive to his ultimate purpose. His manhood and
individuality, whatever they might have been, had long been sacrificed.
To strengthen his own power in the district it was necessary to weaken
the influence of the incumbent leader, and, to effect this, knowing
nothing of diplomacy, Callahan resorted to plain treachery. The fact
that the leader to be deposed had been his benefactor and stanch friend
was of small moment. Certainly Mike was sorry, but what could he do?
Take a back seat and beat himself out of his chances? "Not much," said
he, and invented the useful and often quoted phrase, "Friendship in
poker and politics don't go."
Mike's assumption of the leadership was worked by decisive methods.
There was no vagueness about him. The great leaders in the history of
nations were endowed with attributes and traits of the highest and
noblest order. Mike's most pronounced attribute in his functions as
leader was directness. It was this that enabled some of the brilliant
young men of the party press to apostrophize him as "rugged, bluff,
stalwart, frank and straightforward."
The district contained a population in which the intelligent workingman
was not greatly represented. The few of them who lived in the many
lodging houses had very little belief left in the dignity of labor and
toiled only enough to "square" themselves with their landlords and
liquor dealers. Still, they were of use. They could talk beautifully
about the rights of labor, and were encouraged--before election day--to
spout grandiosely about the tyrannical oppression of the American
workingman by the opposing faction.
The great majority of the voters in the district belonged to the class
of grafters, and for that reason if no other, the Hon. Michael Callahan
of the State Legislature was their born leader.
Callahan was at his best shortly before election. Then no man or
woman--unfortunately the ladies of the district would indulge too
strongly--had to linger in the throes of the law. It was the sacred
duty of the leader to call daily at the police court to save his
constituents and their "lady friends" from their impending fate.
On the eve of election no time had to be wasted in speculating on how
much the free and independent voter could expect to receive for the
exercise of his sacred franchise. According to the amount sent down
from the headquarters of the organization, Mike's ultimatum would settle
the market price of votes. One or one and a half, or two dollars were
the rates paid, although the last named rate was only given to liquidate
the voter's claim at the most critical periods. In this way the voter
could figure with certainty, and with very little interruption resume
his dissertation on the betterment of municipal and national politics.
The most important events in our history were conceived amidst
surroundings of severest simplicity. No marble hall, no lofty council
chamber, just the Common with its green sward and sturdy oak was the
favorite meeting place of our forefathers. In the shadow of the mighty
tree they spoke of liberty, of the rights of man and of the welfare of
our country, and we reap to-day the benefit of their integrity, in spite
of the machinations of politicians, whose very thoughts are a pollution
of patriotism.
A careful and thoughtful student of American history, the Honorable Mike
tried to live up to tradition as much as possible. Customs have
changed, civilization has progressed, real estate has risen in price,
and the political leader of to-day has felt himself obliged to
substitute the gin-mill and the dive for the Common of old. Besides,
"there is not much in Commons," excepting when the city fathers, in the
goodness of their charitable hearts, decide to create another breathing
place and playground for the poor children of the East Side, and,
thereby can get a "chance at" the property owners of the site.
When one is a leader, one must do as leaders do. Mike could not swerve
from the accustomed practice, and, nolens volens, found himself the
proprietor of a dive. But, forced into this, he had at least the
satisfaction of opening this adjunct to his legislative office on the
Common, or Square, as it is now called. True, there was no sturdy oak
and no green sward, but there were elevated railway pillars and their
shadows were quite sufficient for the practice of side issues in
politics. The oak bears only acorns. The pillars and their shadows
bore better fruit of silvery and golden sheen, and their sturdiness was
often welcome to the backs of the many weary pilgrims who had traveled
far to imbibe the pure draught of American patriotism as dispensed by
the Hon. Michael Callahan of the State Legislature.
With the characteristic modesty of great men, Mike refrained from making
the exterior of his place too showy. This superficial attraction to his
resort was absolutely needless, as his more lasting fame--some
detractors called it "disgraceful notoriety"--was firmly established.
Did he not have several fist-fights with "officious" police officers to
his credit, and, did he not openly dare and defy all known authorities
to "monkey" with him. He feared no man but one, and that one only,
because he was a more successful thug than himself and the Great Leader
and Chieftain.
Dives of a certain kind make no effort to attract transient trade by
bright, or, at least, neat and clean exteriors. Their business is not
supplied by the honest man, who is looking for an honest place to have
an honest drink. They depend on that flotsam and jetsam that can find a
dive blindfolded. Callahan's place was more suggestive than attractive
in its front and the interior was fairly dazzling in its austere
plainness. Sawdust and traces of former expectorations were the most
evident features in the bar-room, which only ran the length of the bar.
At the end of it a partition jealously claimed the rest of the space for
the back-room. There, and not in front, was the real business
transacted. The front, a pretense of respectability; the back, without
any pretense whatsoever.
I cannot tell you what furnished the real attraction of the back-room.
A minimum clearance of space in the centre of the room was reserved for
dancing and surrounded by tables and chairs which were nightly occupied
by young men and women, many of whom had been born and brought up in the
immediate neighborhood, under the very eyes of the legislating
dive-keeper. But that fact made no difference to this vile thing,
empowered by our sanction to make laws which were to safeguard homes,
property and life.
[Illustration: Mike Callahan's Saloon in Chatham Square. The entrance to
Chinatown on the right.]
And there, safe in the protecting radius of our friend and statesman, we
found a resting-place; for our enforced retirement from dive activity,
and there, in all my uncleanness, there came to me the sweet messenger
of a newer, better life, and took me from it by the all-powerful
persuasion of an unquenchable love.
Before telling you how this miracle transformed me in a way, which will
tax my power of description to the utmost, I must relate to you the one
and only attempt we, myself and two cronies, made to get away from a
life which was the only one we knew.
*A PILGRIMAGE TO NATURE.*
*CHAPTER XI.*
*A PILGRIMAGE TO NATURE.*
It was in May. The side-walk in front of Mike Callahan's dive was wide,
and we, the gang of discharged dive employees, were in the habit of
lounging on the empty beer barrels along the curb or sticking ourselves
up against the swinging doors of the place. People, whom we knew from
having met them in the "better" days, when we were still working, often
passed by and were eagerly hailed by us in the hope that they might buy
a drink for our thirsty throats.
Corner loafers are despised by all people who lead useful lives, and
justly so. Still, there is something very moving in thinking about the
dreary existence of these fellows. With brains as empty as their
pockets, they assemble with praiseworthy regularity at their open-air
clubs, and waste their days in pessimistic conjectures. The loafer is a
born pessimist and cynic. No matter what subject or event you may
mention to him, he will sneer at it and promptly proceed to pick it to
pieces. His criticisms are as acidly sarcastic as his excuses are
ingenious. Ask him his opinion about the work done by some skilled
mechanic, and he will find a multitude of faults and then expound how
the job ought to have been done. Surprised at his technical knowledge
you ask in a mild way why he does not put his evident ability to
practical use, and are forthwith shocked by suggesting such a thing to a
man, who has such a wealth of haughty and convincing reasons for
remaining a loafer.
Loafers are forever hovering in the ante-room of crime. If his Satanic
Majesty bethinks himself of his own and calls them, they willingly and
without compunction, do any crooked commission provided it does not
require too much physical courage. After due time, crime seems easy,
they have not yet been caught, and from their familiarity with
evil-doing, and not because of any lately awakened courage, they commit
deeds which are called "desperate" by every conscientious reporter.
Jack Dempsey, Frank Casey and myself formed a sort of inner circle in
the larger gang. We often philosophized together, exchanged ideas and
commented on things in general. At one of our confabs, Frank Casey
seemed to be entirely out of humor.
"What's the matter with you, Frank?" I asked.
"What do you think there is? There's nothing the matter with me,
excepting that I'm dead sick o' this game." We could see he was deeply
moved by some unsuspected emotion and were deeply interested in its
development.
"I tell you what I'd like to do," he resumed. "I'd like to cut this all
out and go to work some place. There's nothing in this kind o' life and
it's the same every day. See, it's years and years since I done what
you may call an honest day's work."
"Ah, you're only kidding!"
"Kidding?" he echoed, indignantly. "Say, Kil, and you, too, Dempsey, I
was never more serious in me life. What are we getting out o' this?
It's hanging round here all day, looking for graft and the few pennies
to go to bed with or to buy a beef-stew; and when a fellow does make a
piece o' money, does it do him any good? Not on your life! If you
flash it, you got to blow it in for booze, and if you don't they think
you're no good, and the whole gang gets sore on you. A fellow that's
working and making his dollar and a half or two dollars a day, is better
off than the whole bunch of us taken together."
"For the love of heaven, you ain't thinking about going to work?"
"That's just what I'm doing, and the sooner I can start in the better,"
attested Casey with emphasis.
A warm discussion followed. It is hard to tell if it was the novelty of
the proposition or Casey's evident sincerity, but Dempsey and I began to
consider it very seriously.
"Say Casey," I asked, "supposing the three of us really wanted to go to
work, where could we get it? They don't take men like us in shops or
factories, where there are a whole lot of trained help looking for work
every day. So, even if we wanted work, we couldn't get it."
"Is that so? You're talking as if New York City is the whole thing.
What's the matter with the country? That's where we ought to go,
because we'll never amount to anything here. In the first place, even
if we was to get jobs here, the three of us would be going on a drunk on
the first pay day and stay on it until we're broke. But in the country
you ain't got no chance to spend your money, and it's healthy and it's
better anyway."
The surety of Casey amused me.
"Will you tell me where you have ever been in the country to know so
much about it, and where you got your information from?"
"That don't make no difference," insisted Casey stubbornly, "I know
there's lots o' fellows going over to Philadelphia or Jersey or some
place over there every year about this time, and they come back like new
and with money from picking strawberries and whatever else there's
growing out there."
We put our heads together, discussed the matter, came to the conclusion
that, surely, we would not be in worse circumstances in the country than
we were in the city, and resolved to try our luck at strawberry picking.
To financier our expedition was our first duty. We skirmished round and
raised about six dollars as our joint capital. Casey went on a secret
errand to make inquiries of some well-known "hobo" authority where to
go, and how to get there, and then undertook to personally conduct the
tour into the unknown land.
Baggage did not encumber us. I had thought of taking my good old pal,
my Bill, along with us, but did not wish to expose him to the dangers,
which, no doubt, were lurking for us.
At the ferry, Casey flew his flag and read us the last orders. To save
our small capital, we were to walk or "jump" freight trains. Also, for
reasons of economy and sagacity, we were not to indulge in one solitary
drop of anything intoxicating.
The first hitch occurred in Hoboken. To get a freight train was
impossible. Dempsey and I never knew why we were unable to make
connections, as Casey's plausibility drove the question from our minds
and made us follow him blindly.
We walked from Hoboken to Newark. It was a scorching afternoon, the
sand was hot and heavy under foot, and our mouths became parched at an
uncomfortable rate. A few wells and pumps were passed by us, but Casey
would not permit us to slake our thirst, as "Newark is only a step or so
further on, and it's dangerous to monkey with them country people. They
got dogs and are kind of suspicious of fellows like us, who come from
New York."
Ah, really and truly, it would have been the most confiding and
unsophisticating nature that would not have been suspicious of us, no
matter where we hailed from. Three tough specimens of humanity, indeed,
we were!
No stop was made until we reached the railroad station at Newark. Quite
a crowd was assembled to wait for either an incoming or outgoing train,
but we, without paying the slightest attention to the many mistrustful
glances given in our direction, raced for the ice-water tank, prepared
to gorge ourselves with the cooling drink.
Casey was the last to have his turn at the chained tin cup. He started
off splendidly, but paused after, his first gulp and smacked his lips in
a most critical manner.
"Taste anything funny in that water?"
We replied in the negative.
"There's something wrong with it, just the same," Casey persisted. "And
do you know, the worst thing a man can do this time o' the year is to
drink bad water."
"But we got to drink something. We ain't going to drink any beer, and I
hate to spend money for soda and ginger-ale and stuff like that,"
remarked Dempsey.
"That's true enough," admitted Casey, "but, I'll tell you what we'll do.
The same fellow who gave me points on how to get to the strawberries,
also, told me that the biggest glass of beer in the country was sold
right here in Newark. Now, we ain't going to get full or anything like
that, but, being as the water ain't fit to drink, I guess we might have
one, just one o' those biggest schooners, which I never seen and which,
besides quenching our thirst, are surely worth looking at, the same as
any curiosities."
Without the aid of a Baedeker, we found our way to Newark's most
interesting spot. We entered the hospitable tavern at about seven
o'clock, and, at ten o'clock, were still tarrying there admiring the
size and beauty of the biggest beers in the world.
Regardless of the size of the drink, the beer alone,--never a product of
malt and hops--a vile concoction of injurious chemicals, is sufficient
to put the indulger far above the most worrying troubles. Late that
night, the quiet streets of Newark were profaned by three unsteady
musketeers, who, with song and laughter, were making their way to the
"meadows."
Only one more resolution made and broken. It was not the first and was
not the last.
Out in the "meadows," the train-yard, where the freight trains were made
up, we succeeded, after many mishaps, including Casey's tumble from a
moving train into a ditch, in catching a train at about midnight. We
had only traveled about a mile, when a trainman, stepping from car to
car with lighted lantern, saw us huddled between the bumpers.
"Where are you fellows going?"
"Philadelphia," came the answer in sleepy, drowsy tones.
"You're on a wrong train. This train goes to the 'branch.'"
At the time we did not know that this was only a common ruse to make
"hoboes" leave the train and accepted it at its face value.
"Where did he say we were going?" asked Casey.
"To the 'branch,' wherever that may be," I answered.
"I guess we better get off, then. This train ain't going to
Philadelphia," suggested Dempsey.
"What we'll get off for? This train goes somewhere, don't it? And it
don't make much difference where it goes to, as long as it goes
somewhere into the country and away from New York," said Casey, with the
evident intention of ending further argument.
The heavy, damp night air and the drink partaken by us lulled us into
deep slumber, forgetful of our precarious attitude. We had journeyed
for hours without waking and were not aroused until the coldness in our
limbs became actually painful. Without speaking a word and merely
staring at each other we jolted on and on into the unknown, and the
dawning morning.
Suddenly a brilliant spectacle caught our eyes. Coming out from wooded
land, the train sped along a level stretch and we fed our looks on the
Fata Morgana of a large city. The size, brilliancy of illumination and
distance from New York left no doubt in our minds that we were not far
from Philadelphia, and had we known how to pray, we would surely have
done so. I have never regretted the experience, still have no wild
desire to repeat it. There are more easily obtainable joys in life than
the riding on the bumpers of a freight train on a chilly May morning.
It was not long before we were slinking along Market street in
Philadelphia. After fortifying ourselves against the bad consequences
of our benumbing voyage by sampling some "speak-easy" whiskey, we
visited "Dirty Mag's" famous all-night restaurant on Sixth street and
feasted on steak-pie and coffee, with crullers included. The bill
amounted to ten cents.
We were so tired out by our traveling that it was out of the question to
continue our journey. Down on Calomel street we found a resting-place
for our weary and frozen bones at fifteen cents per couch. It was
almost noon before we woke from our sleep and held a conference. At its
termination we hied ourselves to the nearby grocery store and spent
almost the entire remainder of our depleted treasury in buying
provisions for our trip into the wilds of Pennsylvania. After that,
with a last parting drink, we turned our backs on Philadelphia and set
boldly out to win our fortunes.
Just as the suburbs had been reached by us we were reminded by our
stomachs that we had forgotten to breakfast. An inviting tree stood
nearby, a brook, as clear as crystal, was rippling past our feet, and
the place seemed to be made for a picnic ground. The enjoyment of the
meal was marred by the thought that now we would have no lunch or
dinner.
"What's the use of worrying about that now? Besides, we won't have to
carry so much," was Casey's way of consoling us.
We rose and began our tramp in earnest. For hours we walked, giving
little attention to the things about us and only holding desultory
conversation. Not one of us knew the route to the "strawberry country,"
and we were often obliged to ask people whom we met for directions. We
had little luck in this. Most of the people addressed by us would
quickly button their coats and hurry on without heeding us. Others
would barely stop and throw us such a small scrap of information that,
instead of enlightening us, they only bewildered us the more. At last,
Casey got tired of this way of securing information and burst upon us
with his latest and brightest inspiration.
"It's no use of asking any o' these men. Most o' them are hayseeds and
been to New York and have been buncoed. They can see in a minute that
we're from New York and ain't going to take no chances with us. It's
different with women. They're always nice and gentle and, especially,
when they get spoken to the way I know how to talk to them. Leave this
to me. Don't ask any more men. Wait till we meet some women, and then
I'll ask them, and then you'll be surprised in the difference."
Casey, who had given voice to this speech with properly inflated chest,
proved himself to be a true prophet. We found there was a difference in
the way in which men and women received our approach.
Before long, we saw two women with baskets coming our way.
"Now, you fellows want to keep a little behind, and watch me how I do
this," was Casey's final instruction.
Giving his clothes a quick brushing with his hands and setting his hat
jauntily over his ear, Casey went toward his fate with a grace all his
own.
Dempsey and I could not hear the first passage of words, but it was
hardly necessary, as the effects of it were immediately visible.
One woman proceeded to pummel Casey with her umbrella, while the other
was trying to fit her market-basket on his head. When they saw Dempsey
and me come running to the rescue, they left Casey and took it on a run
across the fields, but they took good care to shout back to us that they
would have the sheriff or constable after us.
"For heaven's sake, what did you say to those women?" I asked Casey,
after I had pulled the basket from his head.
"What did I say to them? They ain't civilized, and it don't make no
difference what a fellow says to them kind o' people. I spoke to them
like a regular dude. This is what I said: 'Ain't this a fine morning,
girls. We're strangers here and didn't like this country very much
until it was our good fortune to see you, who are sweeter than any
sugar, and now we'd like to stay here if you will tell us the road to
where the strawberries grow and where there are as many girls as
beautiful as yourselves!' And the minute I said that they soaked me."
We consoled Casey and resumed our tramp.
It was now late in the afternoon and I determined that we should know
something about our whereabouts. I stopped the very next man we met in
such a way that he could not get away from us.
After assuring him that we had no intention of robbing him, I insisted
on getting correct information.
Can you imagine our feelings when he told us that we had spent our time
and energy in describing circles around Philadelphia, without getting
away from it?
Dempsey and Casey made no attempt to hide their chagrin. The blow was
too crushing. I, also, felt fearfully discouraged, but did not want to
give in.
"There is no use in going back. We're here now, and must go on. If we
go back to Philadelphia, we might as well go back to New York. We're in
the country now, and we might as well stay here. I don't care what you
fellows do, I'm going to go ahead."
The last sentence was a fearful bluff. Had Dempsey and Casey decided to
return to New York, I would have joined them on the spot. Fortunately,
they adopted my way of looking at it, and we once more pursued our sorry
pilgrimage.
Now, we were sure of penetrating right into the heart of the country and
evidences of it were not lacking. Suburban villas grew fewer and fewer
and we had to walk for a considerable distance before we passed another
farmhouse. With our inborn stubbornness we kept plodding on, until our
legs almost refused to obey.
It was the hour in which evening unwittingly yields supremacy to night.
We felt it, as was proven by Casey in answer to Dempsey's question in
regard to the time.
"Well, when it looks like this they always begin to light up in
Callahan's, and that's about seven o'clock."
Again we were silent and tramped and tramped. Dempsey was the next to
speak.
"Say, fellows, I ain't seen any strawberries yet. And even if we were to
see any now, we couldn't go to work at them this evening, it being so
late now, and I think the best thing we can do is to sit down some place
and take a rest."
Only a few more steps and we saw a spot, which by you, would have been
called a dell. We called it nothing, just saw the soft grass and, with
one accord, sank down on it.
The tone of evening now rang unmistakably clear. Evening and its
partner, the gloaming, were at the last and best moment of their
supremacy. Too short, by far, are evenings in the country, those short
brief hours of nature's neutral state, before retiring to its
well-earned rest. But that I only feel now, and did not then.
Remember! this was my first night in God's country. Like thousands of
others who live and die in the southeast corner of Manhattan--along the
Bowery--I had never had a sight of nature. I could not have told a daisy
from a rose; or a crow from a robin. All that I write here are the
impressions that linger in my mind of this, my first night with nature.
It was one grand moment in our lives, yet we did not feel it. Hold, I
am wrong! We did feel it, perhaps subconsciously, but feel it we did.
Our kind is not given to much talking while doing anything of import.
Then our energies are in our task, no matter how dirty that may be. As
soon as we rest, we change, and the silent drudge becomes a veritable
magpie. We three were resting as, like three daisies in the wilderness,
we sat in our dell, but there was something all about and around us that
stopped our flow of talk from loosening itself.
We sat and stared, and the most insignificant changes in the tranquil
scene before us left their unrecognized, yet deep impressions on us.
And looking back through all the years passed since then, I see it all
still before me, though I cannot attempt to picture it to you.
From where we sat it looked before us like the setting for a glorious
play. On both sides, small sketches of woodland interjected just far
enough to serve as the wings on the stage. Back of it, there was a
grand, majestic last drop, a range of hills, running unbrokenly from
where to where we could see. The cast, the actors of the play were
supplied by all the many living things about us and, above it all, like
the last curtain, hung the forerunners of the coming night.
It was no tumultuous melodrama, no rollicking farce, it was a pastoral
play so successful, so wisely composed and staged that from its first
night it has been enacted every night through all the ages. No wonder
that with so many rehearsals the scene, as we saw it, was played with
perfection.
Out from a loophole in the sky, a bird came flying toward us with
unfaltering swing. Night after night it had flown the same course,
night after night it had the same role, that of bringing their share to
the young striplings in the nest above our heads. Along the road came a
creaking, lumbering farm-wagon. The farmer looked at us with suspicion,
still, gave us a "good evening, boys." I do not know if we returned his
greeting or not.
It was quiet, so quiet, that the many little noises, made by unseen
beings, pealed like tornadoes of sound. The snatch of laughter, coming
from the tree-encircled farm-house behind us, was as the laughter of a
multitude; the chirrup of that homeward bound bird was as a lofty, airy
chorus; the croaking of the frog was as a grunting wail from many, many,
who never get above the very ground. While we had sat staring holes into
the air before us, evening had flown, and night, a gallant victor, had
unrolled the standard of the stars. I know I cannot tell you my
impressions, but even had I the gift and genius of a hundred of our
greatest writers, I could not convey to you what a picture that night,
my first night in God's country, left with me. It seemed to me that all
and everything, before becoming wrapped in slumber, gave one
praise-offering to Above. The corn of the field and the poor lowly
flower by the roadside and even the tiny blade of grass, they all were
straightened by one last, upward tremor before relaxing to their
drooping doze. The birds of the air and the beasts of the ground, all
sounded their evening song. With some it was a thrill of sweetest
divine melody, with others it was but a grunt, but it all seemed like a
thanksgiving for having lived and worked a day made by the Creator of
all.
And from beneath all this, the silent attitude of prayer and the intoned
evening hymn of creatures rose onward, upward, like an anthem to the
sky, where brilliant orbs and shining, milky veils were interwoven in a
web of glory, and peeping over the tops of hours into the birthing
cradle of another day. It is a witching hour, this hour, when stars and
nature in unison sing their evening song.
Where nature is grandest, man most likes to profane it.
The sublime, sweet spell held us enthralled. Not a word had been spoken
by us. How long we had sat there we did not know. How much longer we
would have sat there is a matter of unprofitable conjecture. As if
turned loose from the regions of the arch-fiend, with howling screech,
with snorting, rumbling, rattling, a train, looking like a string of
toy-cars in the distance, clattered along the range of hills, the last
drop of our scene. Spitting fire before it, leaving white streamers
behind it, the iron disrespecter of nature's sanctity rushed into the
very heart of the hills and took the haze of idealism with it.
The spell was broken, and we were not long in getting back to terra
firma.
"Say," remarked Casey very pensively, "ain't it very quiet here?"
"Well, I should say so," hastened Dempsey to corroborate him. "It's so
quiet you couldn't sleep here if you wanted to. This ain't no place for
us. Let's go."
We started ahead and tumbled along the country road. All directions, as
to our route, were, for the present, forgotten. We only had one purpose
now, to get away from the haunting quiet. With every step our nerves
became more unstrung. A rabbit scooted across the road and made us
grasp each other's arms. The faint rustle of the leaves sent shivers
down our backs.
Out in the open, we felt the hazy, vapory night air enshroud us, which
showed every object in ghost-like mold. A dog barked far away, then it
howled, and I can swear to it, we trembled.
It was not physical fear. It was the weirdness of the unaccustomed that
played havoc with our reasoning powers. Some may doubt all this and
mention as proof the "hoboing" tramps, who spend their most pleasing and
profitable period of vagrancy in their country. I am not prepared to
discuss this at all, but am quite sure that every tramp, at the
beginning of his career as such, was similarly impressed on his first
night in the country, provided he had not found shelter in a barn or
haystack or had not been born and lived in the country before.
We, we were city bred to the bone, and noise was essential to us as
ozone is to the country lad. He cannot sleep with noise,--we could not
sleep without it.
Our musings--we had not spoken for a long time--were interrupted by
Dempsey, who had fallen over a rail, which he had not noticed in the
shadowy Darkness. Yes, it was a full-fledged railroad track and, for
some obscure reason, it seemed to possess a great deal of fascination
for us. We were apparently not able to get away from it. We stood and
looked at it as if we had never seen a railroad track before.
This lasted until the ever-ready Casey interpreted our feelings.
"I wonder if this is the Pennsylvania railroad?"
That started a chorus of "wonders."
"I wonder which end of this runs into New York;" "I wonder how far we
are from New York;" "I wonder if we could get to New York from here;" "I
wonder how long it takes to get to New York from here;" "I wonder if
there is a station near here."
How it happened, whether any one proposed it, or how we got there I do
not know, but I do know that, quite unexpectedly, we found ourselves at
a little wayside station, with a lot of milk cans on its platform.
There is no mistaking the fact that we were entirely unbalanced
mentally, and it was a good thing for the crew of the freight train,
which rolled in to unload and load milk cans, that they were an
easy-going crowd of men. We made no pretense of hiding ourselves, but
climbed boldly on to the cars and would have committed murder had they
attempted to put us off. The spectre of the stillness had taken
possession of our brains, and we wanted to flee from it as from a
plague.
Again the long, cold journey, and, then, at last, a great white sheen of
shining lustre in the heavens told us that we were home once more to the
city of our birth, of which we were so proud.
But could she be proud of us?
The rest of the night, or rather the beginning of the day, was spent in
chairs in Callahan's back-room, which seemed like paradise to us after
our "fierce" experience in the country. After a nap, I went to look for
my Bill, who greeted me as if I had left him alone as long as I did on
our previous separation, and then again settled down to grace Callahan's
dive with my presence.
In a day our country trip was forgotten, and I felt quite resigned at
taking up my career where I had dropped it. There was little hope of
things in divedom brightening up for some time to come and I was
perfectly willing to resume playing the gentleman of leisure, who makes
his fluctuating living at the expense of his fellow men.
But the days in the old life were numbered. Only a short space of time
more, and I was to be taken from the cesspool by one whom God must have
sent solely for this end. Why this was and why I was chosen, neither
you or I can answer, but it is enough for me to know that, even were
every miracle of old found to be a fraud or sacrilege, the existence of
one great, mighty, living God would be proven to me beyond the slimmest
shadow of doubt by the miracle he performed on me by His sweetest
prophet.
Lord my master, here I thank Thee, not only for having permitted me to
live the life of purity and cleanliness, but also for having had me come
from out and through the life of the most miserable and sinful.
Mysterious are Your ways and Your purposes are not for us to know, but I
have suffered, learned and prayed, and I know You will not let it be
without avail. And if naught else I can do, give that for her sake, I
shall always live in the way she wanted me to live and that was in Your
way, God.
*THE FRONTIER OF THE NEWER LIFE.*
*CHAPTER XII.*
*THE FRONTIER OF THE NEWER LIFE.*
Returned to New York from my Philadelphia trip, I immediately fell back
into my old ways, which meant for the time being I established myself
again as an ornament in and in front of Mike Callahan's dive in Chatham
Square. Things in our line of business were growing quieter every day
and no one seemed to know when this drought in the former land of plenty
would cease.
Our temporary occupation during this lull was to "lay for" easy things
and suckers. But even they seemed to grow fewer and, at last, we were
reduced to a state of desperation. Then, when hunger and an
unquenchable thirst were less and less satisfied, some of the gang
overcame their inborn cowardice and turned "crooked." One, two and
three would go on secret expeditions and return either with money or
easily disposable goods, or would not return at all, at least, not for a
long time. The gang could well afford to stand these occasional
vacancies in the membership, as more than fifty constituted it and more
and more were constantly joining it.
I am not making an untruthful statement and do not wish to tax your
belief unduly when I tell you that I did not take active part in these
"crooked" doings. My list of misdeeds is so full that one more or less
would make but small difference therein, and I have no cause to tell you
a lie.
Had it been necessary for me to turn "crooked" I would have surely done
so, but it was not necessary.
I was the recognized leader of our gang, and leaders of or in anything
always have certain prerogatives. Out of every expedition I received a
small share. I was "staked" is the proper expression. The return I
made for the "stake" was small enough.
In case one or more of the men were locked up in the city prison, I, not
officially known to the police, had to visit them and act as go-between
to lawyers and their "outside" friends. Were any barroom growls between
one of the men and outsiders started I had to throw myself--regardless
of the merits of the fight--into the mixup to end it quickly in favor of
my brother in loaferdom.
Not having to go on any of the mentioned expeditions, I had all my time
to myself and hardly ever left Callahan's. In truth, I was in a fair
way of becoming one of the monarchs of the Bowery, having, so far, been
only one of the knight errants of that locality. It was the beginning
of Summer, and excepting when business of a liquid or financial nature
called me inside, I could have always been seen on my keg at the curb,
flanked and surrounded by a galaxy, whose very faces made men,
respectable men, clasp their hands over their watches and pocketbooks.
I remember, how once a "sport" hung up a prize for the "homeliest mug"
in Callahan's, and a hurried ballot awarded me the prize. However,
there were extenuating circumstances, which I do not care to recite, the
whole matter being one not very interesting to me.
Hanging around the dives all day we "regulars" often found the time hang
heavy on our hands. To help us over these periods of ennui we invented
a gentle form of sport. The sidewalk was very wide, the traffic was
heavy, the police, for reasons of policy, absolutely blind to our
doings, what more did we need? From our kegs we looked, like the
gallery of the play, at the passing show, and frequently became so
interested in the ever-playing drama that we took part in it ourselves.
Is there more manly, noble sport than for the many, with stamping horses
and yelping, snarling dogs, to throw themselves on to the death-scared,
fright-unwitted fox and tear him to his end, after having him partly
finished by hoof beat and dog bite? Of course not. Were it unmanly,
unwomanly, ignoble sport, our "better, upper" classes, our social
leaders, would not enjoy it. We, of Chatham Square, aped our models in
the higher circles, and, not having a fox in our collection of rare
animals, chose the passing pedestrians as the objects of our sport.
Our imitation of our "betters" was fairly correct. If only one or two
were on the kegs passers-by would not be molested; but when the gang was
there in force, then woe to the unoffending man or woman, whose way led
by us.
To be exact, our "sport" consisted of insults of various kinds to
pedestrians. Old people--and especially old women--received the most of
our playful attention. They were our favorite victims, as they were
less likely to resent our brutishness. It brings a flush to my face when
I think of our beastly cowardice. There is more manliness in one
mongrel cur than there was in that whole gang of ours!
And in that sport I was the acknowledged leader.
There were many variations to our game. We would quickly put our feet
between those of men and women passing by, would "trip them up" and send
them sprawling to the pavement; we would throw rotten fruit and decayed
vegetables at them; would deliberately run into them and upset their
balance and, besides all this, would shower avalanches of filthy
expressions on them. Why didn't they resent it? Because people who
were obliged to pass there did not do it from choice, but because they
were obliged to do so, and knew the calibre of our tribe. They knew
that, like the rooster taken away from his dung-heap, singly and on
different ground from our own, we were crawling, cowardly caricatures of
men, and only brave when we could throw ourselves on One in mass.
Yet, withal, even loafers can be saved from their mockery of an
existence, but different means from the stereotyped ones of the present
day must be employed. Where is the harvest of the many millions sown on
the East Side? The time, the day, the hour is ripe for a Messiah to the
slums who will have much piety, more manhood and, most of all, common
sense. Bring less talk and more muscle; less hymns and more work, and
there will be an echo to your labor in every lane and alley.
My loaferish career ran along so evenly that I could not imagine such a
thing as a break in it. Without a moment's warning, in the most ordinary
way, the message from across the frontier of decency was brought to me
by one whom I cannot call otherwise than one of God's own angels.
It had been a most quiet day. In the early forenoon "Skinny" McCarthy,
one of my intimate pals, had informed me that "something would be doing"
that day. I gave him my rogue's blessing and sped him on his way.
"Skinny" belonged to the class of meanest grafters. His graft consisted
in walking miles and miles looking for trucks and wagons left
temporarily without the driver's protection. To whip something from the
vehicle and then to accelerate his steps, at the same time holding the
stolen article before him, was only a moment's effort. Naturally, the
proceeds of "Skinny's" expeditions were never very large, but he kept at
it so constantly and spent his few dollars so quickly that he was a
rather handy acquaintance for me.
It was about two o'clock in the afternoon of June the second when
"Skinny" returned to Callahan's and, pulling me aside, whispered that he
had done better than usual. I praised him for his zeal and luck,
encouraged him to greater efforts, and then suggested that our thirst
should find an immediate end. Forthwith, at a signal from me, several
other birds of our feather joined us and we celebrated "Skinny's" safe
and welcome return in the customary way.
The only serious fault I had to find with "Skinny" McCarthy was that he
could not stand very much drink. Just when the others would begin to
feel the mellowing influences of the drink "Skinny" was always so
intoxicated as to lose all control over his speech and actions. He was
a bit of a hero-worshipper, and I--mind you, I--was his hero. As soon
as the fumes of the stuff consumed would befuddle his brains he would
declare with howling, roaring emphasis that he was a thief and proud of
it, that he didn't care for what anybody thought of him as long as I was
his friend, and that he was always willing to share with me, because he
knew that I would stick to him if he should happen to get into "stir."
All this was very flattering to me and sounded sweet to my ears, yet,
being of limitless capacity, I never found myself sufficiently drunk to
enjoy this too public endorsement.
On this occasion--June the second--"Skinny," elated over his markedly
successful expedition, bought drinks so fast that, in a little over an
hour, he was near a state of coma. I, as leader of the gang, was more
or less responsible for the individual safety of my fellows, and, not
caring to see "Skinny" utterly helpless so early in the afternoon,
ordered a cessation of drinking and proposed an adjournment to the kegs
at the curb, hoping the air would partly revive my ailing follower.
My suggestion was accepted, and I led the way to the sidewalk, closely
followed by "Skinny."
Just as I had reached the curb and was about to seat myself on my keg I
heard a slight commotion, followed by a muffled scream, behind me.
Leisurely turning I saw what I had expected to see.
It was one of our customary frolics. "Skinny" McCarthy had wilfully and
fiercely collided with a frail young girl. Although I could not see her
face, her figure and general appearance denoted youth. But what did
youth, age, sex or size matter to us?
They all stood about her in a circle, grinning and leering at her. I,
too, meant to join in the general enjoyment. But before my facial
muscles had time to shapen themselves into a brutish laugh the girl
wheeled around, looked at McCarthy, at me, at all of us and, quite
distinctly could I read there the sentence: "And you are MEN!"
Possibly there was a psychic or physical reason for it, but whatever it
was I could almost feel when her look fell on me the bodily sensation of
something snapping or becoming released within me. It was as if a
spring, holding back a certain force, had been suddenly freed from its
catch and had, catapult-like, sent a new power into action.
I had neither the inclination or intelligence to explain it all to
myself. Instead, I rushed into the crowd, tore through it, until I
stood in front of McCarthy, who, without a word from me, received a blow
from me under his ear, felling him to the ground.
This decisive and unexpected action on my part amazed the members of the
gang so that they stood motionless for several seconds before paying any
attention to McCarthy, who was lying motionless on the sidewalk. They
did not know what to make of it. Was I more drunk than they had judged
me to be? Was there a private grudge between McCarthy and myself?
That I had acted solely to save the young lady, from further insult
would have been--had they surmised it--as inexplicable to them as it was
to me.
I took no heed of their wondering attitude, but, in gruff tones, asked
the young lady to come with me. She was completely bewildered and
followed me mechanically.
Poor "Skinny" in his stunned condition was still on the ground, and
this, as always, furnished an interesting spectacle to the many idle
gapers, who had joined the rank of spectators. I, holding the girl by
her arm, made my way through them without any trouble and then addressed
my companion.
"Say, sis, I guess I better walk a block or two with you, because I
think it's better. That push there won't do you nothing, but they're
all drunk and might get fresh to you again."
Surely, it was not a very cavalierly speech, but, somehow, it was
understood and remembered. Often in the future, we--she and I--had our
laugh at this offer of my protectorate, which was word for word
remembered by her.
The crowd through which I had roughly forced a passage for the girl and
myself closed again behind us, and, with that, the doors of my old life
creakingly began to move on their rusty hinges and slowly started to
close themselves entirely. They did not close themselves with a bang
and a slam--if they had done that I might have been aware of their
maneuver and would, most likely, have offered resistance--and, even
their slow move was not known to me then, but only recognized by me in
the years to come. This happens to many of us. We are successful or
unfortunate, rich or poor, and can in our acquired state clearly trace
back the line to an event which was the parting of the ways.
*THE BEGINNING OF THE MIRACLE.*
*CHAPTER XIII.*
*THE BEGINNING OF THE MIRACLE.*
For the first time in my life I found myself playing the part of a
chivalric knight, and, let me assure you, the poorest actor could not
have played it worse. Part of my existence had been to watch others.
Not to learn from them by observation, but to find their weaknesses.
While engaged in the most potent part of my observations, I was never so
concentrated in them that I entirely overlooked the minor details. So I
had seen gentlemen help ladies to and from carriages, had seen them
assist their women friends across gutters and crossings, and open doors
for them. Walking beside the young lady I knew something was expected
from me in the line of politeness, but I who had always been accustomed
to go up "against the hardest games and unfavorable odds," felt most
uncomfortable at not being sure what to do in a case like this. Perhaps
this was the reason, why I, instead of seeing her along for a block or
two, kept on walking beside her, because I did not know how to take
leave without giving serious offense by my way of expressing my
leavetaking. The truth of the matter was I was afraid.
This confession of mine will lead you to think that there was something
about her inspiring awe or fear. But you are wrong, very wrong.
She was not tall, not statuesque. She was not a "queenly looking" girl
judged by external appearance. Her queenliness was within, so potent,
so convincing, that neither man nor beast could refrain from bowing to
it. I was in the dilemma of wanting to be a gentleman, a courtier to my
queen, and not knowing how to be one.
Somehow impelled, I kept on walking beside her. She was not wanting in
expressions of gratitude, but I did no better than to acknowledge them
with deep-toned grunts.
To explain ma
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