At the stroke of six Ikey Snigglefritz laid down his goose. Ikey was a
tailor’s apprentice. Are there tailor’s apprentices nowadays?
At any rate, Ikey toiled and snipped and basted and pressed and patched
and sponged all day in the steamy fetor of a tailor-shop. But when work
was done Ikey hitched his wagon to such stars as his firmament let
shine.
It was Saturday night, and the boss laid twelve begrimed and begrudged
dollars in his hand. Ikey dabbled discreetly in water, donned coat, hat
and collar with its frazzled tie and chalcedony pin, and set forth in
pursuit of his ideals.
For each of us, when our day’s work is done, must seek our ideal,
whether it be love or pinochle or lobster à la Newburg, or the sweet
silence of the musty bookshelves.
Behold Ikey as he ambles up the street beneath the roaring “El” between
the rows of reeking sweat-shops. Pallid, stooping, insignificant,
squalid, doomed to exist forever in penury of body and mind, yet, as he
swings his cheap cane and projects the noisome inhalations from his
cigarette you perceive that he nurtures in his narrow bosom the
bacillus of society.
Ikey’s legs carried him to and into that famous place of entertainment
known as the Café Maginnis—famous because it was the rendezvous of
Billy McMahan, the greatest man, the most wonderful man, Ikey thought,
that the world had ever produced.
Billy McMahan was the district leader. Upon him the Tiger purred, and
his hand held manna to scatter. Now, as Ikey entered, McMahan stood,
flushed and triumphant and mighty, the centre of a huzzaing concourse
of his lieutenants and constituents. It seems there had been an
election; a signal victory had been won; the city had been swept back
into line by a resistless besom of ballots.
Ikey slunk along the bar and gazed, breath-quickened, at his idol.
How magnificent was Billy McMahan, with his great, smooth, laughing
face; his gray eye, shrewd as a chicken hawk’s; his diamond ring, his
voice like a bugle call, his prince’s air, his plump and active roll of
money, his clarion call to friend and comrade—oh, what a king of men he
was! How he obscured his lieutenants, though they themselves loomed
large and serious, blue of chin and important of mien, with hands
buried deep in the pockets of their short overcoats! But Billy—oh, what
small avail are words to paint for you his glory as seen by Ikey
Snigglefritz!
The Café Maginnis rang to the note of victory. The white-coated
bartenders threw themselves featfully upon bottle, cork and glass. From
a score of clear Havanas the air received its paradox of clouds. The
leal and the hopeful shook Billy McMahan’s hand. And there was born
suddenly in the worshipful soul of Ikey Snigglefritz an audacious,
thrilling impulse.
He stepped forward into the little cleared space in which majesty
moved, and held out his hand.
Billy McMahan grasped it unhesitatingly, shook it and smiled.
Made mad now by the gods who were about to destroy him, Ikey threw away
his scabbard and charged upon Olympus.
“Have a drink with me, Billy,” he said familiarly, “you and your
friends?”
“Don’t mind if I do, old man,” said the great leader, “just to keep the
ball rolling.”
The last spark of Ikey’s reason fled.
“Wine,” he called to the bartender, waving a trembling hand.
The corks of three bottles were drawn; the champagne bubbled in the
long row of glasses set upon the bar. Billy McMahan took his and
nodded, with his beaming smile, at Ikey. The lieutenants and satellites
took theirs and growled “Here’s to you.” Ikey took his nectar in
delirium. All drank.
Ikey threw his week’s wages in a crumpled roll upon the bar.
“C’rect,” said the bartender, smoothing the twelve one-dollar notes.
The crowd surged around Billy McMahan again. Some one was telling how
Brannigan fixed ’em over in the Eleventh. Ikey leaned against the bar a
while, and then went out.
He went down Hester street and up Chrystie, and down Delancey to where
he lived. And there his women folk, a bibulous mother and three dingy
sisters, pounced upon him for his wages. And at his confession they
shrieked and objurgated him in the pithy rhetoric of the locality.
But even as they plucked at him and struck him Ikey remained in his
ecstatic trance of joy. His head was in the clouds; the star was
drawing his wagon. Compared with what he had achieved the loss of wages
and the bray of women’s tongues were slight affairs.
He had shaken the hand of Billy McMahan.
Billy McMahan had a wife, and upon her visiting cards was engraved the
name “Mrs. William Darragh McMahan.” And there was a certain vexation
attendant upon these cards; for, small as they were, there were houses
in which they could not be inserted. Billy McMahan was a dictator in
politics, a four-walled tower in business, a mogul, dreaded, loved and
obeyed among his own people. He was growing rich; the daily papers had
a dozen men on his trail to chronicle his every word of wisdom; he had
been honored in caricature holding the Tiger cringing in leash.
But the heart of Billy was sometimes sore within him. There was a race
of men from which he stood apart but that he viewed with the eye of
Moses looking over into the promised land. He, too, had ideals, even as
had Ikey Snigglefritz; and sometimes, hopeless of attaining them, his
own solid success was as dust and ashes in his mouth. And Mrs. William
Darragh McMahan wore a look of discontent upon her plump but pretty
face, and the very rustle of her silks seemed a sigh.
There was a brave and conspicuous assemblage in the dining saloon of a
noted hostelry where Fashion loves to display her charms. At one table
sat Billy McMahan and his wife. Mostly silent they were, but the
accessories they enjoyed little needed the indorsement of speech. Mrs.
McMahan’s diamonds were outshone by few in the room. The waiter bore
the costliest brands of wine to their table. In evening dress, with an
expression of gloom upon his smooth and massive countenance, you would
look in vain for a more striking figure than Billy’s.
Four tables away sat alone a tall, slender man, about thirty, with
thoughtful, melancholy eyes, a Van Dyke beard and peculiarly white,
thin hands. He was dining on filet mignon, dry toast and apollinaris.
That man was Cortlandt Van Duyckink, a man worth eighty millions, who
inherited and held a sacred seat in the exclusive inner circle of
society.
Billy McMahan spoke to no one around him, because he knew no one. Van
Duyckink kept his eyes on his plate because he knew that every one
present was hungry to catch his. He could bestow knighthood and
prestige by a nod, and he was chary of creating a too extensive
nobility.
And then Billy McMahan conceived and accomplished the most startling
and audacious act of his life. He rose deliberately and walked over to
Cortlandt Van Duyckink’s table and held out his hand.
“Say, Mr. Van Duyckink,” he said, “I’ve heard you was talking about
starting some reforms among the poor people down in my district. I’m
McMahan, you know. Say, now, if that’s straight I’ll do all I can to
help you. And what I says goes in that neck of the woods, don’t it? Oh,
say, I rather guess it does.”
Van Duyckink’s rather sombre eyes lighted up. He rose to his lank
height and grasped Billy McMahan’s hand.
“Thank you, Mr. McMahan,” he said, in his deep, serious tones. “I have
been thinking of doing some work of that sort. I shall be glad of your
assistance. It pleases me to have become acquainted with you.”
Billy walked back to his seat. His shoulder was tingling from the
accolade bestowed by royalty. A hundred eyes were now turned upon him
in envy and new admiration. Mrs. William Darragh McMahan trembled with
ecstasy, so that her diamonds smote the eye almost with pain. And now
it was apparent that at many tables there were those who suddenly
remembered that they enjoyed Mr. McMahan’s acquaintance. He saw smiles
and bows about him. He became enveloped in the aura of dizzy greatness.
His campaign coolness deserted him.
“Wine for that gang!” he commanded the waiter, pointing with his
finger. “Wine over there. Wine to those three gents by that green bush.
Tell ’em it’s on me. D––––n it! Wine for everybody!”
The waiter ventured to whisper that it was perhaps inexpedient to carry
out the order, in consideration of the dignity of the house and its
custom.
“All right,” said Billy, “if it’s against the rules. I wonder if
’twould do to send my friend Van Duyckink a bottle? No? Well, it’ll
flow all right at the caffy to-night, just the same. It’ll be rubber
boots for anybody who comes in there any time up to 2 A. M.”
Billy McMahan was happy.
He had shaken the hand of Cortlandt Van Duyckink.
The big pale-gray auto with its shining metal work looked out of place
moving slowly among the push carts and trash-heaps on the lower east
side. So did Cortlandt Van Duyckink, with his aristocratic face and
white, thin hands, as he steered carefully between the groups of
ragged, scurrying youngsters in the streets. And so did Miss Constance
Schuyler, with her dim, ascetic beauty, seated at his side.
“Oh, Cortlandt,” she breathed, “isn’t it sad that human beings have to
live in such wretchedness and poverty? And you—how noble it is of you
to think of them, to give your time and money to improve their
condition!”
Van Duyckink turned his solemn eyes upon her.
“It is little,” he said, sadly, “that I can do. The question is a large
one, and belongs to society. But even individual effort is not thrown
away. Look, Constance! On this street I have arranged to build soup
kitchens, where no one who is hungry will be turned away. And down this
other street are the old buildings that I shall cause to be torn down
and there erect others in place of those death-traps of fire and
disease.”
Down Delancey slowly crept the pale-gray auto. Away from it toddled
coveys of wondering, tangle-haired, barefooted, unwashed children. It
stopped before a crazy brick structure, foul and awry.
Van Duyckink alighted to examine at a better perspective one of the
leaning walls. Down the steps of the building came a young man who
seemed to epitomize its degradation, squalor and infelicity—a
narrow-chested, pale, unsavory young man, puffing at a cigarette.
Obeying a sudden impulse, Van Duyckink stepped out and warmly grasped
the hand of what seemed to him a living rebuke.
“I want to know you people,” he said, sincerely. “I am going to help
you as much as I can. We shall be friends.”
As the auto crept carefully away Cortlandt Van Duyckink felt an
unaccustomed glow about his heart. He was near to being a happy man.
He had shaken the hand of Ikey Snigglefritz.