A RAID ON THE STALE-BEER DIVES.
Midnight roll-call was over in the Elizabeth Street police-station,
but the reserves were held under orders. A raid was on foot, but
whether on the Chinese fan-tan games, on the opium joints of Mott and
Pell Streets, or on dens of even worse character, was a matter of
guess-work in the men's room. When the last patrolman had come in from
his beat, all doubt was dispelled by the brief order "To the Bend!" The
stale-beer dives were the object of the raid. The policemen buckled
their belts tighter, and with expressive grunts of disgust took up
their march toward Mulberry Street. Past the heathen temples of Mott
Street--there was some fun to be gotten out of a raid _there_--they
trooped, into "the Bend," sending here and there a belated tramp
scurrying in fright toward healthier quarters, and halted at the
mouth of one of the hidden alleys. Squads were told off and sent
to make a simultaneous descent on all the known tramps' burrows in
the block. Led by the sergeant, ours--I went along as a kind of war
correspondent--groped its way in single file through the narrow rift
between slimy walls to the tenements in the rear. Twice during our trip
we stumbled over tramps, both women, asleep in the passage. They were
quietly passed to the rear, receiving sundry prods and punches on the
trip, and headed for the station in the grip of a policeman as a sort
of advance guard of the coming army. After what seemed half a mile of
groping in the dark we emerged finally into the alley proper, where
light escaping through the cracks of closed shutters on both sides
enabled us to make out the contour of three rickety frame tenements.
Snatches of ribald songs and peals of coarse laughter reached us from
now this, now that of the unseen burrows.
"School is in," said the Sergeant drily as we stumbled down the worn
steps of the next cellar-way. A kick of his boot-heel sent the door
flying into the room.
A room perhaps a dozen feet square, with walls and ceiling that might
once have been clean--assuredly the floor had not in the memory of
man, if indeed there was other floor than hard-trodden mud--but were
now covered with a brown crust that, touched with the end of a club,
came off in shuddering showers of crawling bugs, revealing the blacker
filth beneath. Grouped about a beer-keg that was propped on the wreck
of a broken chair, a foul and ragged host of men and women, on boxes,
benches, and stools. Tomato-cans filled at the keg were passed from
hand to hand. In the centre of the group a sallow, wrinkled hag,
evidently the ruler of the feast, dealt out the hideous stuff. A pile
of copper coins rattled in her apron, the very pennies received with
such showers of blessings upon the giver that afternoon; the faces of
some of the women were familiar enough from the streets as those of
beggars forever whining for a penny, "to keep a family from starving."
Their whine and boisterous hilarity were alike hushed now. In sullen,
cowed submission they sat, evidently knowing what to expect. At the
first glimpse of the uniform in the open door some in the group,
customers with a record probably, had turned their heads away to avoid
the searching glance of the officer; while a few, less used to such
scenes, stared defiantly.
A single stride took the sergeant into the middle of the room, and
with a swinging blow of his club he knocked the faucet out of the keg
and the half-filled can from the boss hag's hand. As the contents of
both splashed upon the floor, half a dozen of the group made a sudden
dash, and with shoulders humped above their heads to shield their
skulls against the dreaded locust broke for the door. They had not
counted upon the policemen outside. There was a brief struggle, two or
three heavy thumps, and the runaways were brought back to where their
comrades crouched in dogged silence.
"Thirteen!" called the sergeant, completing his survey. "Take them out.
'Revolvers' all but one. Good for six months on the island, the whole
lot." The exception was a young man not much if any over twenty, with a
hard look of dissipation on his face. He seemed less unconcerned than
the rest, but tried hard to make up for it by putting on the boldest
air he could. "Come down early," commented the officer, shoving him
along with his stick. "There is need of it. They don't last long at
this. That stuff is brewed to kill at long range."
At the head of the cellar-steps we encountered a similar procession
from farther back in the alley, where still another was forming to take
up its march to the station. Out in the street was heard the tramp of
the hosts already pursuing that well-trodden path, as with a fresh
complement of men we entered the next stale-beer alley. There were
four dives in one cellar here. The filth and the stench were utterly
unbearable; even the sergeant turned his back and fled after scattering
the crowd with his club and starting them toward the door. The very
dog in the alley preferred the cold flags for a berth to the stifling
cellar. We found it lying outside. Seventy-five tramps, male and
female, were arrested in the four small rooms. In one of them, where
the air seemed thick enough to cut with a knife, we found a woman, a
mother with a new-born babe on a heap of dirty straw. She was asleep
and was left until an ambulance could be called to take her to the
hospital.
Returning to the station with this batch, we found every window in the
building thrown open to the cold October wind, and the men from the
sergeant down smoking the strongest cigars that could be obtained by
way of disenfecting the place. Two hundred and seventy-five tramps had
been jammed into the cells to be arraigned next morning in the police
court on the charge of vagrancy, with the certain prospect of six
months "on the Island." Of the sentence at least they were sure. As to
the length of the men's stay the experienced official at the desk was
sceptical, it being then within a month of an important election. If
tramps have nothing else to call their own they have votes, and votes
that are for sale cheap for cash. About election time this gives them
a "pull," at least by proxy. The sergeant observed, as if it were the
most natural thing in the world, that he had more than once seen the
same tramp sent to Blackwell's Island twice in twenty-four hours for
six months at a time.
[Illustration: AN ALL-NIGHT TWO-CENT RESTAURANT, IN "THE BEND."]
As a thief never owns to his calling, however devoid of moral scruples,
preferring to style himself a speculator, so this real home-product
of the slums, the stale-beer dive, is known about "the Bend" by the
more dignified name of the two-cent restaurant. Usually, as in this
instance, it is in some cellar giving on a back alley. Doctored,
unlicensed beer is its chief ware. Sometimes a cup of "coffee"
and a stale roll may be had for two cents. The men pay the score.
To the women--unutterable horror of the suggestion--the place is
free. The beer is collected from the kegs put on the sidewalk by the
saloon-keeper to await the brewer's cart, and is touched up with drugs
to put a froth on it. The privilege to sit all night on a chair, or
sleep on a table, or in a barrel, goes with each round of drinks.
Generally an Italian, sometimes a negro, occasionally a woman, "runs"
the dive. Their customers, alike homeless and hopeless in their utter
wretchedness, are the professional tramps, and these only. The meanest
thief is infinitely above the stale-beer level. Once upon that plane
there is no escape. To sink below it is impossible; no one ever rose
from it. One night spent in a stale-beer dive is like the traditional
putting on of the uniform of the caste, the discarded rags of an old
tramp. That stile once crossed, the lane has no longer a turn; and
contrary to the proverb, it is usually not long either.
With the gravitation of the Italian tramp landlord toward the old
stronghold of the African on the West Side, a share of the stale-beer
traffic has left "the Bend;" but its headquarters will always remain
there, the real home of trampdom, just as Fourteenth Street is its
limit. No real tramp crosses that frontier after nightfall and in the
daytime only to beg. Repulsive as the business is, its profits to the
Italian dive-keeper are considerable; in fact, barring a slight outlay
in the ingredients that serve to give "life" to the beer-dregs, it
is all profit. The "banker" who curses the Italian colony does not
despise taking a hand in it, and such a thing as a stale-beer trust
on a Mulberry Street scale may yet be among the possibilities. One of
these bankers, who was once known to the police as the keeper of one
notorious stale-beer dive and the active backer of others, is to-day an
extensive manufacturer of macaroni, the owner of several big tenements
and other real estate; and the capital, it is said, has all come out of
his old business. Very likely it is true.
On hot summer nights it is no rare experience when exploring the worst
of the tenements in "the Bend" to find the hallways occupied by rows of
"sitters," tramps whom laziness or hard luck has prevented from earning
enough by their day's "labor" to pay the admission fee to a stale-beer
dive, and who have their reasons for declining the hospitality of the
police station lodging-rooms. Huddled together in loathsome files,
they squat there over night, or until an inquisitive policeman breaks
up the congregation with his club, which in Mulberry Street has always
free swing. At that season the woman tramp predominates. The men, some
of them at least, take to the railroad track and to camping out when
the nights grow warm, returning in the fall to prey on the city and to
recruit their ranks from the lazy, the shiftless, and the unfortunate.
Like a foul loadstone, "the Bend" attracts and brings them back, no
matter how far they have wandered. For next to idleness the tramp loves
rum; next to rum stale beer, its equivalent of the gutter. And the
first and last go best together.
As "sitters" they occasionally find a job in the saloons about Chatham
and Pearl Streets on cold winter nights, when the hallway is not
practicable, that enables them to pick up a charity drink now and then
and a bite of an infrequent sandwich. The barkeeper permits them to
sit about the stove and by shivering invite the sympathy of transient
customers. The dodge works well, especially about Christmas and
election time, and the sitters are able to keep comfortably filled
up to the advantage of their host. But to look thoroughly miserable
they must keep awake. A tramp placidly dozing at the fire would not be
an object of sympathy. To make sure that they do keep awake, the wily
bartender makes them sit constantly swinging one foot like the pendulum
of a clock. When it stops the slothful "sitter" is roused with a kick
and "fired out." It is said by those who profess to know that habit has
come to the rescue of oversleepy tramps and that the old rounders can
swing hand or foot in their sleep without betraying themselves. In some
saloons "sitters" are let in at these seasons in fresh batches every
hour.
On one of my visits to "the Bend" I came across a particularly ragged
and disreputable tramp, who sat smoking his pipe on the rung of a
ladder with such evident philosophic contentment in the busy labor of a
score of rag-pickers all about him, that I bade him sit for a picture,
offering him ten cents for the job. He accepted the offer with hardly a
nod, and sat patiently watching me from his perch until I got ready for
work. Then he took the pipe out of his mouth and put it in his pocket,
calmly declaring that it was not included in the contract, and that it
was worth a quarter to have it go in the picture. The pipe, by the way,
was of clay, and of the two-for-a-cent kind. But I had to give in. The
man, scarce ten seconds employed at honest labor, even at sitting down,
at which he was an undoubted expert, had gone on strike. He knew his
rights and the value of "work," and was not to be cheated out of either.
[Illustration: THE TRAMP.]
Whence these tramps, and why the tramping? are questions oftener asked
than answered. Ill-applied charity and idleness answer the first
query. They are the whence, and to a large extent the why also. Once
started on the career of a tramp, the man keeps to it because it is
the laziest. Tramps and toughs profess the same doctrine, that the
world owes them a living, but from stand-points that tend in different
directions. The tough does not become a tramp, save in rare instances,
when old and broken down. Even then usually he is otherwise disposed
of. The devil has various ways of taking care of his own. Nor is the
tramps' army recruited from any certain class. All occupations and
most grades of society yield to it their contingent of idleness.
Occasionally, from one cause or another, a recruit of a better stamp is
forced into the ranks; but the first acceptance of alms puts a brand on
the able-bodied man which his moral nature rarely hold out to efface.
He seldom recovers his lost caste. The evolution is gradual, keeping
step with the increasing shabbiness of his clothes and corresponding
loss of self-respect, until he reaches the bottom in "the Bend."
Of the tough the tramp doctrine that the world owes him a living makes
a thief; of the tramp a coward. Numbers only make him bold unless he
has to do with defenceless women. In the city the policemen keep him
straight enough. The women rob an occasional clothes-line when no one
is looking, or steal the pail and scrubbing-brush with which they are
set to clean up in the station-house lodging-rooms after their night's
sleep. At the police station the roads of the tramp and the tough again
converge. In mid-winter, on the coldest nights, the sanitary police
corral the tramps here and in their lodging-houses and vaccinate them,
despite their struggles and many oaths that they have recently been
"scraped." The station-house is the sieve that sifts out the chaff from
the wheat, if there be any wheat there. A man goes from his first
night's sleep on the hard slab of a police station lodging-room to a
deck-hand's berth on an out-going steamer, to the recruiting office, to
any work that is honest, or he goes "to the devil or the dives, same
thing," says my friend, the Sergeant, who knows.