"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.