THE HONORABLE HINKY DINK
Has it ever struck you that our mental attitude toward famous men varies
in this respect: that while we think of some of them as human beings
with whom we might conceivably shake hands and have a chat, we think of
others as legendary creatures, strange and remote--beings hardly to be
looked upon by human eyes?
Some years since, in the courtyard of a hotel in Paris, I met a friend
of mine. He was hurrying in the direction of the bar.
"Come on," he beckoned. "There are some people here you'll want to
meet."
I followed him in and to a table at which two men were seated. One
proved to be Alfred Sutro; the other Maurice Maeterlinck.
To meet Mr. Sutro was delightful, but it was conceivable. Not so
Maeterlinck. To shake hands with him, to sit at the same table, to see
that he wore a black coat, a stiff collar (it was too large for him), a
black string tie, a square-crowned derby hat; to see him seated in a bar
sipping beer like any man--that was not conceivable.
I sat there speechless, trying to convince myself of what I saw.
"That man over there is actually Maeterlinck!" I kept assuring myself.
"I am looking at Maeterlinck! Now he nods the head in which 'The
Bluebird' was conceived. Now he lifts his beer glass in the hand which
indited 'Monna Vanna!'"
Nor was my amazement due entirely to the surprise of meeting a
much-admired man. It was due, most of all, to a feeling which I must
have had--although I was never before conscious of it--a feeling that no
such man as Maeterlinck existed in reality; that he was a purely
legendary being; a figure in white robes and sandals, harping and
singing in some Elysian temple.
* * * * *
I experienced a somewhat similar emotion in Chicago on being introduced
to Hinky Dink. In saying that, I do not mean to be irreverent. I only
mean that I had always thought of Hinky Dink as a fictitious personage.
He and his colleague, Bathhouse John, have figured in my mind as a pair
of absurd, imaginary figures, such as might have been invented by some
whimsical son of a comic supplement like Winsor McCay.
Now, as I soon discovered, the Hinky Dink of the newspapers is, as a
matter of fact, to a large extent fictitious. He is a legend, built up
out of countless comic stories and newspaper cartoons. The real Hinky
Dink--otherwise Alderman Michael Kenna--is a very different person, for
whatever may be said against him--and much is--he is a very real human
being.
I clip this brief summary of his life from the Chicago "Record-Herald."
Born on the West Side, August 18, 1858.
Started life as a newsboy.
"Crowned" as Alderman of the First Ward in 1897.
Reelected biennially ever since.
Owner in fief of various privileges in the First Ward.
Lord of the Workingmen's Exchange.
Overlord of floaters, voters, and other liege subjects.
The Workingmen's Exchange, referred to above, is one of two saloons
operated by the Alderman, on South Clark Street, and it is a show place
for those who wish to look upon the darker side of things. It is a very
large saloon, having one of the longest bars I ever saw; also one of the
busiest. Hardly anything but beer is served there; beer in schooners
little smaller than a man's head. These are known locally as "babies,"
and, by a curious custom, the man who removes his fingers from his glass
forfeits it to any one who takes it up. Nor are takers lacking.
"I'll tell you a funny thing about this place," said my friend the
veteran police reporter, who was somewhat apologetically doing the
honors. (Police reporters are always apologetic when they show you over
a town that has been "cleaned up.")
"What?" I asked.
"No one has ever been killed in here," he said.
I had to admit that it was a funny thing. After looking at the faces
lined up at the bar I should not have imagined it possible. Presently
we crossed the street to the Alderman's other saloon; a very different
sort of place, shining with mirrors, mahogany, and brass, and frequented
by a better class of men. Here we met Hinky Dink.
He is a slight man, so short of stature that when he leans a little,
resting his elbow on the bar, his arm runs out horizontally from the
shoulder. He wore an extremely neat brown suit (there was even a white
collarette inside the vest!) a round black felt hat, and a heavy watch
chain, from which hung a large circular charm with a star and crescent
set in diamonds. Though it was late at night, he looked as if he had
just been washed and brushed.
His face is exceedingly interesting. His lips are thin; his nose is
sharp, coming to a rather pronounced point, and his eyes are remarkable
for what they see and what they do not tell. They are poker
eyes--gray-blue, cold, penetrating, unrevealing. My companion and I felt
that while we were "getting" Hinky Dink, he was not failing to "get" us.
Far from being tough or vicious in his manner or conversation, the
little Alderman is very quiet. There is, indeed, a kind of gentleness
about him. His English is, I should say, quite as good as that of the
average man, while his thinking is much above the average as to
quickness and clearness. As between himself and Bathhouse John, the
other First Ward fixture on the Board of Aldermen, it is generally
conceded that Hinky Dink is the more able and intelligent. On this
point, however, I was unable to draw my own conclusions. The Bathhouse
was ill when I was in Chicago.
[Illustration: Two rabbis, old bearded men, performed the rites with
long, slim, shiny blades]
In the ordinary conversation of the Honorable Hinky Dink there is no
trace of brogue, but a faint touch of brogue manifests itself when he
speaks with unwonted vehemence--as, for example, when he told us about
the injustices which he alleged were perpetrated upon the poor voters
who live in lodging houses in his ward.
The little Alderman is famous for his reticence.
"Small wonder!" said my friend the police reporter. "Look at what the
papers have handed him! I'll tell you what happens: some city editor
sends a kid reporter to get a story about Hinky Dink. The kid comes and
sees Kenna, and doesn't get anything out of him but monosyllables. He
goes back to the office without any story, but that doesn't make any
difference. Hinky Dink is fair game. The kid sits down to his typewriter
and fakes a story, making out that the Alderman didn't only talk, but
that he talked a kind of tough-guy dialect--'deze-here tings'--'doze
dere tings'--all that kind of stuff. Can you blame the little fellow for
not talking?"
I could not.
But he talked to us, and freely. The police reporter told him we were
"right." That was enough.
As the "red-light district" of Chicago used to be largely in the First
Ward before it was broken up, I asked the Alderman for his views on the
segregation of vice versus the other thing, whatever it may be. (Is it
dissemination?)
"I'll tell you what I think about it," he replied, "but you can't print
it."
"Why not?" I asked, disappointed.
"Well," he returned, "I believe in a segregated district, but if I'm
quoted as saying so, why the woman reformers and everybody on the other
side will take it up and say I'm for it just because I want vice back in
the First Ward again. I don't. It doesn't make any difference to me
where you have it. Put it out by the Drainage Canal or anywheres you
like. But I believe you can't stamp vice out; not the way people are
made to-day. They never have been able to stamp it out in all these
thousands of years. And, as long as they can't, it looks to me like it
was better to get it together all in one bunch than to scatter it all
over town.
"Now I know there's a whole lot of good people that think segregation is
a bad thing. Well, it _is_ a bad thing. _Vice_ is a bad thing. But there
it is, all the same. A lot of these good people don't understand
conditions. They don't understand what lots of other men and women are
really like. You got to take people as they are and do what you can.
"One thing that shocks a lot of these high-minded folks that live in
comfortable homes and never have any trouble except when they have to
get a new cook, is the idea of commercialized vice that goes with
segregation. Of course it shocks them. But show me some way to stop it.
Napoleon believed in segregation and regulation, and a lot of other wise
people have, too.
"Here's the way I think they ought to handle it: they ought to have a
district regulated by the Police Department and the Health Department.
Then there ought to be restrictions. No bright lights for one thing. No
music. No booze. Cut out those things and you kill the place for
sightseers. Then there ought to be a law that no woman can be an inmate
without going and registering with the police, having her record looked
up, and saying she wants to enter the house. That would prevent any
possibility of white slavery. Personally, I think there's a lot of bunk
about this white-slave talk. But this plan would fix it so a girl
couldn't be kept in a house against her will. Any keeper of a house who
let in a girl that wasn't registered would be put out of business for
good and all. Men ought not to be allowed to have any interest, directly
or indirectly, in the management of these places.
"Now, of course, there's objections to any way at all of handling this
question. The minute you say 'cut out the booze' that opens a way to
police graft. But is that any worse than the chance for graft when the
women are just chased around from place to place by the police?
Segregation gives them some rights, anyhow.
"Some people say 'segregation doesn't segregate,' Well, that's true,
too. But segregation keeps the worst of it from being scattered all over
town, doesn't it? When you scatter these women you have them living in
buildings alongside of respectable families, or, worse yet, you run them
onto the streets. That's persecution, and they're bad enough off without
that.
"Say, do you think Chicago is really any more moral this minute because
the old red-light district is shut down? A few of the resort keepers
left town, and maybe a hundred inmates, but most of them stuck. They're
around in the residence districts now, running what they call 'buffet
flats.'"
* * * * *
Listening to the little Alderman I was convinced of two things. First, I
felt sure that, without thought of self-interest, he was telling me what
he really believed. Second, as he is undeniably a man of broad
experience among unfortunates of various kinds, his views are
interesting.
"I wish you'd let me print what you have said," I urged as we were
leaving his saloon.
He shook his head.
"I'll tell you what I'll do," I persisted. "I'll write it out. Perhaps I
can put it in such a way that people will see that you were playing
square. Then I'll send it to you, and, if it doesn't misrepresent you,
perhaps you'll let me print it after all."
"All right," he agreed as we shook hands.