then lunges forward. He comes in with a jab, and he catches Haley
squarely on the mouth with his left. Aha, he has landed. He pulls
his right back to follow it up, but in that fraction of a second his
chance has gone, for he’s up against a ring general. Two more futile
rushes and then he tried again. This time he misses with the left, but
starting his right without pulling back, he catches his man on the jaw
just in front of the ear. He feels the blow land and then he starts in
with rights and lefts, but shifty Patsy steps inside of them and they
go around his neck. In a frenzy the Kid pushes him away, but for his
trouble he gets another jab on that sore nose that brings the moisture
to his eyes.
“Make him fight, Kid,” bawls the trainer; “go after him.”
He might as well go after a dancing sunbeam as to go after the elusive,
shifty, smiling Patsy, who is stalling and jabbing the third round
away, and when the final gong rings he is still going after him with
nothing doing. There is bitterness in his heart, but it doesn’t last,
for when they shake hands, the little fellow who made many a good one
in his day look like a draught horse, remarks:
“You’re all right, Kid, and you’ll beat a lot of them some day.”
[Illustration: The glitter of a circus became too much for them to
resist]
A CASE OF KNOCKOUT DROPS
In a back room of a place just off Broadway sat a good-looking
brunette--you will notice all these girls of mine are good looking--and
three young fellows of the kind known to the police as “cadets.” There
was nothing unusual about this room except that it was better furnished
than you would have expected, and it had expensive oil paintings on
the walls. Besides, it was carpeted. All this would mean higher-priced
drinks if not a better service.
It was a drinking place where women might come with their escorts and
feel reasonably safe from intrusion, and midnight was its busiest
hour. Just now was the calm which precedes the storm, and there were
not enough guests to induce the waiters to cease their gossiping and
loafing in the big room outside.
The woman who sat there at the little round table was a common type;
you can see her like wherever you go, especially at night. When the
sun has gone down and the lights are bright, she flutters out of some
cave-like dwelling like a new kind of butterfly, with the instincts of
the moth, in that she flutters only at night, and in her veins runs the
blood of a hunter, for she is ever on the trail.
This one is pretty in a negative sort of way. Her features are regular,
her teeth are white and strong, and her eyes are bright and have
expression, but if you will look close you will notice a hard glance
there. It is neither merciful nor kind.
She has emotions, but they are hardly worth considering, for they are
of the baser sort.
She has nerve, daring, courage and calmness, and because her life has
been a constant warfare she fears nothing. She may dread the touch of a
policeman’s hand and the command to “Come on,” but she doesn’t fear it.
There is a difference, you know, between the words of fear and dread.
It is unfortunate that she was born to be what she is.
Her first adventure in life was when she became infatuated with the
glitter of the arena, and with a girl companion of her own age took up
with a couple of clowns attached to a circus. But she soon found the
difference between the dressing tents and reserved seats and headed for
the nearest big city.
“There ain’t a case note among the four of us,” remarks one of the men.
“I think we’re a bunch of shines. The first thing you know we’ll have
to go out and look for jobs.”
The girl was drumming idly on the table with her fingers.
“You’re the strongest one of the lot, what’s the matter with you making
a start?” said another to the one who had just spoken.
“I’d look nice getting up with the milk wagons, wouldn’t I?”
The girl stopped her drumming and glanced up.
“You can leave me out of all this argument,” she remarked, “for I don’t
figure. No more Broadway for mine after ten o’clock to-night, and it’s
a case of good-by for you, too, Jack.”
“I suppose that’s another one of your funny jokes,” said Jack, “but I
don’t like those kind of stories, so you can cut it out.”
“No funny story about it at all,” she went on, in that even, monotonous
way which is particularly aggravating. “I’m tired of this way of
living, and I’m tired of being a coaling station, and I know when I got
enough.”
“Where are you going?”
She had resumed her drumming and paid no attention.
“Who are you going with?”
“That’s none of your damned business.”
He leaned forward and taking her by the wrist gave her a vicious pull
toward him.
“I suppose it’s that guy from the country?”
“Well, what if it is?” she said defiantly, and then, as if she had
suddenly made up her mind, she went on, talking rapidly, as a woman
will do when she is under a nervous strain:
“He’s going to do what you never thought of doing--he’s going to marry
me and make me decent--if it ain’t too late. He’s going to meet me
here at ten o’clock and we’re going to jump to the Coast. He’s got the
coin, for he’s sold out his farm. He’s going to take me out there, and
he says we are going to begin all over again; that I’ll have a good
chance, for nobody will know where I came from. What do I get here?
Nothing. If I’m sick I can go to the hospital or die in my room like a
rat in a garret. I haven’t a friend in the world who would do anything
for me on the level and for pure friendship’s sake. If I was to grow
old to-morrow, I couldn’t get enough to buy a cup of coffee, and of
all the good fellows I know there is only one who would walk across the
street to do anything for me just because he liked me. You’re broke
now, and you are wondering how you are going to get money, but you know
down in your heart that you’re expecting me to get it for you. You’ve
got a long wait, for I’ll not get it. I’m through, and that settles it.”
“So you’ve been meeting this fellow on the quiet, have you?” asked the
one who was called Jack.
“No, I haven’t seen him for five years.”
“Don’t think you can kid me; how have you been framing things up then
if you haven’t been meeting him?”
She gazed at him steadily for a moment as if she were shaping her
course, and then she said:
“Well, I’ll just put you right for once. I suppose you’ve heard of the
mail. Well, I’ve been getting letters from him, and here,” pulling one
from a little handbag she carried, “is the last one.”
With a quick, deft movement he snatched it from her hand and opened it.
At the first line he laughed loudly.
“He’s nutty, all right--he must have it bad. Listen to him:”
He began to read.
MY DEAR LITTLE GIRL:--I have just received your letter, and the world
looks different to me already. I don’t want you to tell me any more
about yourself, for I don’t want to know any more. We have nothing to
do with the past now, it is only the future which concerns us and that
will be what we make it. I have sold the old farm, so we have $12,000
to start with, and I shall be in New York at the place you suggest and
on time to the minute, so you can look for me. Don’t bother about
baggage or any of your personal belongings, for all we will want is a
minister. After that we can talk things over. I hate to leave the old
place, but it makes no difference now that I’m going to have you.
Yours always, JOE.
He handed the letter back to her.
“Little girl, you’re all right after all, ain’t she, fellows? Landed a
guy with $12,000 in cold coin, and he’ll have the goods on him, too, I
suppose. We won’t do a thing but take that bank roll away and send him
back to the farm again.”
Then he turned to the girl.
“How’s the best way to do it? Give him the peter? Maybe it will be best
to take him up to the room and wait till he gets asleep. It’s your job,
Maude, so we’ll do as you say. It’s only nine o’clock, and we’ve got an
hour yet to frame it up.”
She was looking at him with horror in her face.
“You’re wrong,” she cried, “he’s not to be trimmed. He’s going to marry
me and we are going away. There’s no job about this, and I want you to
leave him alone.”
“We’ll leave him alone all right, and when you see the new front on me
to-morrow you’ll think I own Broadway. Twelve thousand dollars, why,
the four of us can go to Europe on that.”
Then she stood up.
“If you touch him or try to turn him off I’ll call in a cop and have
you all pinched,” and she swept her hand at them with an inclusive
movement.
“Don’t go off your nut like that, everything will be all right,” said
Jack. “You’ll get your bit, no matter what happens, but you’re talking
like a crazy woman. You never used to be like this. You’ve been in
tougher jobs before. You just think you’re stuck on this Joe because he
writes you a nice letter, but there’s nothing to it. You stick to me
and I’ll stick to you, and this bundle will put us on Easy Street. Why
don’t you be nice?”
She had partly turned her back on them and was looking at one of the
pictures on the wall.
It is when a woman is silent that she is most dangerous, because
then she is thinking. Give a woman time to think and you are simply
supplying her with ammunition. But the stupid man who had dominated
by brute force knew nothing of this. To him her silence meant
acquiescence, and he scented an easy victory.
With a quick, alert nod of his head he motioned the other two from the
room, and they left silently and like automatons, their feet on the
carpet giving forth no sound, but her senses were keen and she knew
when they had gone. As the door closed behind them she turned around
with a smile on her face.
“I think,” she said, “that you will be a fool as long as you live. Here
I find a man with a big roll, and arrange to have him bring it to us
on a gold plate and you turn around, make me give my hand away, and
declare those two dead ones in on the play. You’ll never have sense if
you live to be a hundred years old.”
He looked at her admiringly.
“You’re better than I thought,” he said at last. “We’ll jump to Europe
on this. Wait ’till I get a paper and see if there is a ship sailing
to-morrow morning. We’ll make a quick getaway from the whole crowd.”
He almost ran through the door in his eagerness.
He was back in a few moments with a newspaper in his hand. Eagerly he
scanned the columns devoted to shipping news.
“Good,” he ejaculated, “there’s one goes to France. Sails at nine
o’clock. We’ll head for Paris--there’s the place to buy your clothes;
swell, too, and cheap; and we won’t take anything with us, we’ll buy it
all there.”
“Get down to cases,” she said sharply. “How are you going to do this?”
“I’ve got the peter drops,” he said, putting his hand to his pocket.
“That’ll be the easiest way. We’ll just dope him a bit, grab the money,
get out quick, and lay low somewhere until to-morrow.”
“You know best,” she said, but her voice had a strained tone in it that
escaped him. “But whatever you do, whenever I give you any kind of a
tip take it quick, see.”
Even as she spoke the door was pushed open and a well-built,
brown-faced young fellow strode in, looked around, paused irresolutely,
and then went toward her with a smile on his face and his hand
outstretched.
“You see, I’m on time, Maude,” he said.
“Yes, Joe, and I’ve been waiting for you a long while. This is a friend
of mine who has been very good to me, and I want you to know him. His
name is Jack. That’s been enough for me and I guess it will be enough
for you.”
“Let’s have one drink, and then I’ll have to be getting along,” said
Jack, briskly.
The other didn’t drink, but the coaxing of the girl made him almost
forget his name, and three glasses of whiskey were ordered from the
man who came at the summons of the bell.
They were about to drink when she suddenly exclaimed:
“Oh, Joe, here’s a picture that always makes me think of the old days;
see, that one with the lake,” and as Joe looked the other man deftly
poured the dose into the waiting glass. She saw it done and nodded her
approval, and then, while they were still talking about the picture,
she asked Jack to get her a pencil so she could write a note. In
little affairs of this kind strict obedience to an order is absolutely
necessary, so he did not question her, but went at once.
When he returned they were sitting at the table again.
“Now for our last drink together,” she remarked gayly, “and here’s that
we may all be happy,” and she looked at Jack.
And so they drank, and then Jack set himself to watching furtively out
of the corner of his eye this man with the money. He fell to wondering
just where it was, and turned cold at the thought that it might have
been left at some place for safe keeping. Once his eyes closed and he
opened them with an effort. The girl said something, and it took him
some little time before his brain could figure out what he ought to
say in reply, and longer still for his lips to form the words. She was
talking rapidly, but her voice seemed a great distance away.
“Come on, Joe,” he heard that all right. “Come on, it’s time we were
going. We must hurry.”
It didn’t seem at all strange to him that they should want to hurry; in
fact, it seemed quite natural.
“If he’s a friend of yours we ought not to leave him here like that.”
That was the man’s voice, he could swear to that.
“Come on,” she said again, and for hours afterward it was as if the
world was filled with women shouting “come on, come on,” to tall,
athletic young fellows with blue eyes and brown faces, and the
incessant murmur of it all made his head ache.
Then he was being violently handled by someone who appeared to be
intent upon annoying him and causing his head to hurt still worse.
He was slapped and walked, and a strange, queer liquid was being forced
between his teeth.
Then he opened his eyes.
“You’re all right now, I guess,” said a man’s unfamiliar voice.
“What’s the matter?” he asked thickly.
“Nothing much, only you’ve been drugged and your heart came near
quitting. Lie down now and rest up a bit and you’ll be all right after
a while.”
“Where the devil am I?” he asked, after the manner of the abducted girl
in the society drama.
“You’re in the hospital--you ought to be glad you’re alive.”
[Illustration]
[Illustration: Wild revelry of the masked ball and the perfect ladies
with the hot sports]
DISCOVERING A PRIMA DONNA
The great see-saw of life is as interesting as a poker game if you
only have a mind to watch it, but, like the poker game, it must be
thoroughly understood and closely studied to appreciate the fine
points. In the beginning we all take cards, we all draw to fill; the
winning hands slip easily through life, while the four flushes try to
bluff it out, and there’s many a four flush in New York to-day who is
getting away with it.
Many a girl who wears a sailor hat never saw a yacht, and many a man
who wears a diamond pin couldn’t pay fifty cents on the dollar if it
came to a show down.
But that isn’t the story by any means.
I call this little recital of facts the beginning and the end; you’ll
see why later as the plot thickens.
New York with the lid on is New York just the same, no matter what the
police say. It’s all there, only it is covered up a bit.
The shades are pulled closer, but the lights and everything else are
behind them.
The wild revelry of the masked ball is toned down not one jot, and the
perfect ladies in tights who help to make life endurable for the sports
on these occasions do not add, so far as can be seen, even so much as
one piece of jewelry to their scant costumes.
You may never have seen the kind of room I’m going to introduce to you,
but if you haven’t it’s your fault, for they are common enough, not
only in New York, but in many other cities.
There’s space enough for dancing here, and the floor is polished like
glass. Around the sides are round tables for the drinkers, and they are
the most important feature, for if you don’t drink, or at least order
drinks, you had better skiddoo, for you’ll not have a very pleasant
time.
At one end of the room is an orchestra, consisting of a piano and a
violin. I don’t need to call your attention to the fact that the fellow
who is playing the violin knows his business. You can tell that by the
way he handles his instrument. He never learned that touch out of a
book, nor did he acquire that technique at the rate of ten lessons for
a dollar, cash in advance. A few years before he was playing nocturnes
and sonatas before fashionable audiences for big money, but he hit
the slide and now he’s at the bottom--a dollar a night and drinks for
ragtime.
The hands on the clock which mark the flight of time show exactly
midnight, and business is at high tide. It’s a case of get the money
between now and three o’clock and then slow down, and every aggressive
waiter in the place is hustling as if his life depended on it.
A girl is standing at the piano as the orchestra strikes the
introduction of a song. Not a bad-looking girl if you observe her
closely. Rather a strong face, good, honest blue eyes, set well
apart, and a chin in which there is some hint of determination and
self-reliance. She has a trim little figure, not voluptuous, but good
to look at--the kind of a figure that seems to belong in an evening
gown, and which men turn around to look at.
The only thing that stamps her as an habitue of the place is her
dress. Its gaudiness was made for the night. It is a street beacon
which proclaims at every step, “follow me.” The picture hat, with the
sweeping red feather, heightens the effect. It is all very stagey, and
would look as garish as spangles in the honest light of day.
But this is not a daylight scene, so we’ll let that pass.
“Ha, there, you noisy guys, cut out that chinnin’; Little Melba’s goin’
ter sing. Cheese it.”
It is the strident voice of a waiter that admonishes a noisy party at
one of the tables, and it has an immediate effect.
It’s just as well, you know, to pay a little attention to the advice of
a waiter in a place like this.
And so she sings her song.
It is a refrain with a swing to it, and it tells the story of a man and
a woman in a rather affecting way, and for her loyalty to him, the man
calls the woman his pal.
But the words don’t count here; it’s the voice, and you’ll see why they
call her Little Melba. Every note is true and clear, and there is never
a falter at the high ones.
It doesn’t need a waiter to command order now; the first line of that
song, as sung by her, did more than all the waiters in the world could
do.
It commanded the respectful attention of that mixed mob.
At the finish of the first chorus, a sailor in the exuberance of his
admiration, and feeling that he must give voice to his sentiments in
some tangible manner, roared out:
“You’re all right, old pal; you’re all right.”
She smiled at the compliment, nodded at him in a friendly way, and then
she continued.
Every night she sang there--ten songs--and she was paid exactly the
same as the waiters--one dollar, but she received in addition certain
privileges, the details of which need not be entered into here, because
they have nothing to do with the story.
One of the waiters--the one who had called out for order--was her man.
She called him another name, and he was known to the world by still
another. As a matter of fact, although he didn’t know it, he belonged
to her--although he thought she belonged to him--for the clothes that
he wore were bought with her money, the food that he ate she paid for,
and it was she who rented the place which he called home. She was the
bread winner, she bore the burden of life, and she took the blows. The
police kept their eyes on her, but paid no attention to the man--the
real criminal.
As the last notes of her song forced their way through the clouds of
tobacco smoke, three men in evening dress came in. They were of the
usual kind of visitors from which the waiters always expect a wine
order. They wore evening clothes like men who had been used to them all
their lives, and it didn’t need the sharp eyes of a waiter in a tough
resort like this to detect that air of prosperity which invariably
forms an invisible halo about money.
The square-jawed, square-shouldered young fellow who took the order
was not disappointed. It was wine, and as he uncorked the bottle, full
of a sense of his own importance, one of them asked, casually:
“Who is the lady who was singing as we came in?”
“Little Melba; she’s there with de goods, all right, ain’t she?”
“Tell her to come over here and have a drink.”
“Sure. Ha, Melba, you’re wanted over here,” he bawled, and smilingly
she came.
“Will you have a drink?” asked the man who had sent for her.
“Wine?” she queried, “I’d rather have a glass of beer, if it’s all the
same to you, for I’m thirsty enough to drink a keg. Then me for the
wine afterward.”
After her drink had been ordered and she had tossed it off with the air
of one who is well used to it, she remarked:
“Now I’ll hit a little of that fizz, if you don’t mind.”
“How long have you been singing here?”
“Oh, about six months. It’s a bum job, though. The smoke gets in my
throat.”
“What songs do you sing?”
She ran over a list that took in all the popular melodies of the day.
“Here’s a dollar, get up and sing another one--anyone will do, and do
your best.”
Dollars for singing one song were rare for her, so she obeyed with
alacrity, and she sang as best she knew.
When she had finished she came back to where they were sitting just as
one of the men was saying:
“Why don’t you give her a chance, Jim? You can never tell how these
kind will turn out. Remember Elinore was dug up out of just such a
joint as this.”
“Do you want to go on the stage?” asked Jim, abruptly.
“Do I?” and she unconsciously straightened up. “Why, I’d go on for
nothing, just to show them I could make good. Say, I’d work for my
board. Can you put me on?”
“I think I can,” and smiled as he said it.
He pulled a card case out of his vest pocket, took a card from it,
which he handed to her.
“Come see me to-morrow afternoon at three o’clock.”
She looked at the name on the card and gasped in astonishment, for it
was that of one of the best-known of metropolitan theatrical managers,
whose chief claim to fame lay in the many successful productions of
comic opera.
“Are you on the level with this?” she asked, incredulously.
“Come around to-morrow and see,” he answered.
“Put it there,” she said, excitedly, as she held out her hand, and
then she called out to the waiter to whom she believed she owed her
allegiance:
“Billy, Billy, come over here.”
With a roll and a swagger, and not too hurriedly, lest he lose one
tithe of that dignity which he believed went with the position of
beer slinger in one of the toughest joints in New York, Billy came,
scowling, as if he already scented in the air coming interference with
his plans of life.
“See, Billy,” she said, laughing like a little girl with the joy of it
all. “See, this is the great theatre manager, and he’s going to give
me a show to see what I can do. I’m going on the stage, Billy, in a
regular theatre, and sing before the people. Ain’t it great?”
She was like a child in her enthusiasm.
“Come on, let me blow the crowd: what are you going to have, boys?”
this last with a comprehensive sweep of the hands. “I’m buying now.”
Billy stood looking down on her with a scowl.
“What’s all dis?” he asked. “What’s comin’ off here, and me not in on
de play?”
Then he turned to the manager.
“What are yer doing--givin’ me gal a jolly, ha? Well, cut it out, it
don’t go here, see? Don’t let ’em string yer, Melba. I guess de’re a
bunch of pretty flip guys wid all dere glad rags; what?”
“This ain’t no string, Billy, this is all right, ain’t it, Mister?” and
she appealed to the man who had been talking to her.
“It’s all right as far as I am concerned,” was the answer. “You do as I
say, and if you have any ambition, I guess you’ll get along all right.”
“Do as you say?” queried the waiter, scornfully. “You ain’t no Pierpont
Morgan. What’s de matter wid her doin’ as I say once in er while. Do
yer t’ink I’m a dummy wot ain’t got no voice? I guess nit. Just cut all
dis funny business out and leave my gal alone.”
“Take it easy, Billy, and don’t get excited. This is a chance for me,
don’t you see? What’s the good of staying here and losing my voice for
a dollar a night when I might be getting big money in the theatre?”
“Big money nothin’,” he protested. “Ain’t yer on dat it’s only a stall?
Dis guy is stuck on yer, dat’s it. He wants to win yer away from me.”
The three wise men who had been drinking wine rose to their feet just
as any other three wise men would have done under the circumstances. It
doesn’t pay to get mixed up with a waiter in a tough joint, because
the waiter always gets the best of it--that’s why he is a waiter. He
has a lot to do besides serving drinks, and if he wasn’t handy with his
fists, and feet, too, for that matter, he couldn’t hold his place for
more than a night.
As they started for the door the girl stood up.
“I’ll be there to-morrow, all right,” she called out.
“Over my dead body you will,” came Billy’s voice.
They were out of the door by this time, too late to hear the sound of a
blow and too late to see the girl drop to the floor.