Although a recognized factor in the world pugilistic, I was not above
seeking occasional employment in these resorts, and it helped me to
create for myself another reputation. I did not work in these places
for the purpose of study or observation, yet, every night my contempt
for the patrons of these "joints" increased.
Men, whose names I had heard and mentioned with awe; men, whose
positions and station should have been guarantees of every sterling
quality, came there, not once, but night after night, to enjoy that
seemingly harmless pastime known as "slumming"--to have a "good time."
A "good time" in the midst of moral and physical filth; a "good time" in
the company of jailbirds, fallen men and women; a "good time" of
grossest selfishness, for, over and over again, I have seen men there
for whose education I would have gladly given years of my life, and who,
by one word of sympathy or encouragement, could have rekindled the dying
flame of hope, of self-respect, in some fellow-being, but that word was
never spoken, because it would have brought discord into the "good
time," and would have jangled the croaking melody chanted by that chorus
of human scum in praise of their host--the "sightseer"--of the evening!
A glorious sport this "sightseeing," these "good times," when men of
"respectability" and position feast with gloating eyes on all that is
vile and look on the unfortunates of a great city as if they were some
strange beasts, some freaks in human shape. That almost every creature
in these "dives" and "joints" has left behind a niche in the world's
usefulness, or a home, to which his or her daily thoughts stray back, is
not considered by the "sightseer." One does not like unpleasant
reflections when at a circus.
Vile, very vile, are the men and women who constitute the population of
divedom, but how about the representatives of respectability, who come
among them to spend their "good time" with them?
Were I at liberty to give the names of men whom I have seen hobnobbing
with the most fearful riff-raff, you would shrug your shoulders and say:
"I cannot believe it of them." Yet, I do not lie.
There is no need for lying, and there is much corroboration, not the
least being the conscience of those men.
We want you--you men and women of respectability--to come to these
"dives," but we want you to come for another purpose. Even at this very
moment there is a scope for your efforts in spite of all change of
administration and Christian endeavor has done for that part of the
city. The stamping out of vice is carried on vigorously, but vice is a
proverbially obstinate disease.
Only a few nights ago I saw a scene in a widely known pest hole, reeking
with stench beyond its very doors, which I can only hint at in
describing it.
At one of the tables sat a youth, a mere boy, who had been coaxed into
the dirty hole by the persuasion of the wily "barker" at the side door.
The boy seemed from the country, his ruddy complexion and "store
clothes" indicated it. The drink, which he had been forced to buy, was
standing untasted before him. Without being afraid, he kept wide awake
and resented all overtures made to him. But he looked too much like an
easy victim to escape the usual procedure.
Before he was aware of it, a woman had dropped into the chair on the
other side of the table. At least more than fifty years of age, the
toothless wretch assumed the coquetry of a young girl.
The gray hair, devoid of comb or ribbon, hung in straggling strands to
her shoulders. The front of her dress was unbuttoned. Still, this
witch of lowest depravity, lulled her Lorelei song, hoping to transfix
the gaze of the boy--young enough perhaps to be her grandson--by the
leer of her bleary eyes.
I do not dare, and if I dared, could not tell you the horridness of this
scene, yet it was only a detail in the grander spectacle, the "good
time," seen and enjoyed nightly by thousands of the "better" class.
Forerunners of the eventually coming overthrow of "open" vice made
themselves felt during some of the more important elections and for a
few weeks preceding election day the ukase was sent out by the
mysterious hidden powers: "Lie low for a while."
These periods of restriction, while not welcome, did not involve great
hardships for us, the "sports" of the Bowery. If the blare of the
wheezy cornet and the thumping of the piano had to be silenced for the
time being, there were other channels in which the services of the men,
who did not care, could be utilized.
One of the most flourishing industries carried on was the confidence
game in its many guises.
"Ah, all the 'easy marks' go up to the Tenderloin now," is the cry of
the few remaining Bowery grafters. Then it was different.
The Bowery was famed from Atlantic to Pacific for what it offered.
Every day a new consignment of lambs unloaded itself on this highway of
the foolish and miserable, to be devoured by the expectant wolves. The
recognized headquarters of the wolves was at the corner of Pell street.
A few among them were men of some education and refinement, but the most
of them were beetle-browed ruffians, who seemed ill at ease in their
fine raiment, the emblem of their calling.
To get the stranger's money many means were used.
Sailors, immigrants, farmers and out-of-town merchants were approached
in most suitable manner, generally by a claim of former
acquaintanceship. To celebrate the renewal of their old friendship it
was necessary to adjoin to the nearby gin-mill. Here, the stranger, the
"refound old friend," would not be permitted to spend one cent of his
money--"dear, no, you're my guest."
Next move: The two reunited friends--the wolf and the lamb--are joined
by a third--"an old friend o' mine," says the wolf.
The newcomer sings one of the many variations of the old, old theme. He
has just won a lot of money at a game where no one can lose; or has a
telegram promising beyond a doubt that a certain horse was to win that
day; or has a hundred dollar bill, which he wants to change; or is
broke, and offers his entire outlay of jewelry, watch, studs and rings,
each one flashing with fire-spitting jewels, for a mere bagatelle of
fifty dollars; or offers to bet on some mechanical trick toy in his
possession, trick pocketbook or snuff box, and loses every bet to the
wolf--but not to the lamb; or offers to take both, wolf and lamb, to a
"regular hot joint," hinting at the beautiful sights to be beheld there,
which, in reality, is a "never-lose" gambling device.
Should the lamb prove impervious to all these temptations, the pleasing
concoction called "knock-out drops" is introduced as most effective
tonic.
Sometimes there is a slip in the proceedings, and the lamb "tumbles to
the game" before he is shorn. This is entirely against the rules of the
industry, and cannot be permitted without being rebuked. Therefore, the
confidence industry was always willing to draw its apprentices from the
class in which muscularity and brutality were the only qualifications.
Other industries, now much retrograded, were the "sawdust," "green
goods" and "gold brick" games. All these games were vastly entertaining
to all, and vastly profitable to some. Besides, in their lower stages,
and technically inside of the law, they gave employment to many young
men, who, like me, were unwilling to use their strength in more
honorable occupation, preferring to be the slaves of crooked masters and
schemes.
Those were not all the ways in which a well-known tough could earn an
honest dollar. To our "hang out," sheltering always a large number of
choice spirits, frequently came messengers calling for a quota for some
expedient mission. We were the "landsknechts" of the day, willing to
serve any master, without inquiring into the ethics of the cause, for
pay.
Electoral campaigns in this and other cities furnished much employment.
Capt B----, of Hoboken, a notorious "guerrilla" chief, was a frequent
employer. During a heated contest in a small town near Baltimore, he
shipped fifty of us to the scene of strife to "help elect" his patron.
Five "Bowery gents," in rough and ready trim, were stationed near each
doubtful polling place, and, somehow, induced voters, unfriendly to
their master of the moment, to keep away from the ballot boxes.
Local primaries and conventions, regardless of politics, could never
afford to do without us. To-day we would fight the men, who, to-morrow,
would pay us to turn the tables on our masters of yesterday.
Still, we were loyal to our temporary bosses. We offered our strength
and brutality in open market. We asked a price, and, if it was paid, we
did our "work" with a faithfulness worthier of a better cause. That
this was so is proven by the fact that not only John Y. McKane, the
"Czar of Coney Island," recruited his police force from among us, but
even reputable concerns, like the Iron Steamboat Company, and others,
engaged men of our class to preserve order and peace at designated
posts.
A number of railroad companies and detective bureaus, in times of
strikes, invited us to aid them in protecting property and temporary
employees, but, for some reason or other, these offers were never
greedily accepted.
Among the rest of these unlisted occupations must be mentioned playing
pool and cards. I do not mean the out-and-out experts of these games
hung around to win money from unwary strangers. Quite a number of the
more "straight" saloons on the Bowery did not object to having about the
place a crowd of fellows who were fair players of pool or the games of
cards in vogue. If, by any chance they lost a game, the proprietor
would stand the loss, and, if they proved exceedingly lucky, he would
give them a percentage of the receipts of the game.
It is rather difficult to enumerate all the different ways in which a
man, who had to live by his "wits," could make a living on the Bowery.
They were many and variegated in their nature. It was a saying of the
day that all a man had to do then was to leave his "hang-out" for an
hour to return with enough money to pay his expenses for the day.
*AT THE SIGN OF CHICORY HALL.*
*CHAPTER VI.*
*AT THE SIGN OF CHICORY HALL.*
I have several times mentioned "hang-out." Most of these "hang-outs"
were ginmills (saloons) of the better class, but the real Bowery
Bohemian chose odd spots for his haunts. The most unique resort in this
Bohemia of the nether world was at Chicory Hall, where my particular
gang had established itself.
It was a basement at the corner of Fourth street and Bowery. Originally
a bakeshop, it had been unoccupied for some time, until a coffee
merchant rented it to prepare his chicory there. One man constituted
the entire working force of the plant, and it so happened that Tom
Noseley, the chicory baker, was imbued with sporting proclivities.
Do not let us forget that, at the time, the prize-fighter was a man of
consequence to the youths of the East Side. To know a pugilist, to have
spoken to him, to have shaken his hand, was an event never to be
forgotten.
Tom Noseley was a very young man. In the immediate neighborhood of his
basement were many "sporting-houses." Tom Noseley was earning eighteen
dollars a week. What is more natural than that one of sporting
proclivities should become an enthusiastic patron of "sporting-houses"?
Tom Noseley wanted to number some well-known pugilists among his
acquaintances. Several well-known pugilists, I among the number, did
not resent his many invitations to drink with him, and, ere long, the
dream of Noseley seemed fully realized, for we consented, after much
coaxing, to call at his basement for the pleasant task of "rushing the
growler."
Our first call at the cellar convinced us of its many attractions. It
seemed just the place for an ideal "hang-out." Then, also, there was
Tom Noseley's weekly stipend of eighteen dollars a week, which he was
willing to spend to the last cent for the "furthering of sport."
Tom Noseley was a hunter of Bowery lions. I have been told that in
higher social strata different lions are hunted by different hunters.
Still, the species do not differ very much from each other.
Men who had "done" a long term in prison; men who had a reputation for
crookedness; men who were known to make their living without having to
descend to the ignoble manner of working for it, all these had been fads
of Noseley. Then, the sporting spirit of the Bowery flared up with
great spluttering, and Noseley, for the nonce, took the poor, shiftless
boxers to his heart of hearts.
We named the cellar "Chicory Hall," and quickly succeeded in making it
known.
The cellar consisted of two large rooms. Descending from Fourth street,
about a dozen steps led to the bakeshop. Four small windows, grimed
with impenetrable dirt, suggested the presence of light. The sunlight
or cloudy sky found no token there. At night one dim flame of gas gave
a sort of humorous weirdness to the filthy hole.
Adjoining the bakeshop was a dark apartment of the same size as the
first room, used as storing place for the bags of bran, which were used
in the manufactory of chicory. Shortly after establishing our
headquarters at Chicory Hall, we chose the storage room as our sleeping
chamber, making unwieldy couches from the heavy, unclean bags.
Certainly we had conveniences, a "front room" and a "bedroom," what more
could we desire? And we appreciated it. Did not I, myself, spend ten
entire days and nights in Chicory Hall without ever leaving it?
But while Tom Noseley's eighteen dollars a week, earned by his
intermittent labors in baking chicory, were not to be despised as the
substantial nucleus of our treasury, they were not enough to provide a
little food and much drink for about six able-bodied prizefighters out
of work. The regular staff included Jerry Slattery, the Limerick
Terror; Mike Ryan, the Montana Giant; Tom Green and his brother, Patsy
Green; Charlie Carroll and myself.
On Saturday, Tom Noseley's pay day, two or three of the staff appointed
themselves a committee to accompany our host to the office and to
prevent him from falling into other hands. His return was celebrated by
feasting on many pounds of raw chopped meat and drinking many gallons of
beer. Sunday morning found the exchequer very much depleted, containing,
perhaps, just enough to reflicker our drooping and aching spirits by
purchasing several pints of the vilest fusel oil, parading under the
name of whiskey, ever manufactured.
Sabbath day, the day of rest, as appointed by the Master, was spent by
us in quiet peace. That the peace was a consequence of the turbulent
hilarity of the night before, and not a desire to live according to
divine dictates is a mere detail.
At the beginning of our sojourn at Chicory Hall our feast of Saturday
was generally followed by a famine until the next week's end. This was
somewhat palliated by a happy inspiration of "Lamby," a character of the
locality.
"Lamby"--no one knew him by any other name--had some mysterious hiding
and sleeping place, but was infatuated with our Subterranean Bohemia and
spent all his spare time--which practically was all his time, excepting
the hours dedicated to sleep--with the Knights of Chicory Hall. He was
a boy of about seventeen years of age, over six foot tall, of piping
voice and full of most unexpected opinions and ideas.
There was good stuff in "Lamby," as in many of the East Side boys, who
are, by environment and circumstances, led into evil, or, at least,
useless lives. "Lamby's" heart was bigger than all his carcass. To be
his friend, meant that "Lamby" thought it his duty to give three-fourths
of all his temporary possessions to the cementing of this friendship.
I made "Lamby's" acquaintance under inconvenient conditions. He was not
yet entitled to vote. This did not prevent him from formulating the
strongest opinions on political personages and principles. During the
election which made me acquainted with him, "Lamby" for some unknown
reason, was doing the most enthusiastic individual "stumping" for the
candidate of one of the labor parties. It was conceded by the
supporters of the labor ticket that the candidate in question stood
absolutely no chance of being elected and that their entire list of
nominees was only in the field as a means of making propaganda, of
paving the way for future possibilities. All this did not deter "Lamby"
from sounding the labor-man's praises on all and every occasion.
In one of his many eulogies "Lamby" was opposed by a ward-heeler of the
local organization, who laughing offered to bet any amount that the much
praised candidate would not poll fifty votes. This roused the ire of the
champion of labor.
"Say," cried "Lamby" at his adversary, "you know I ain't got no money to
bet and that's why you're so anxious to bet me. If you're on the level
in this, I'll tell you what I'll do. You put up your money and if
Kaltwasser don't get elected I won't speak to no human being for a
month."
The politician accepted this odd bet and, a few weeks later, "Lamby," by
his own decree, found himself sentenced to one month's silence.
And "Lamby" loved to talk!
It was a fearful dilemma, but leave it to a Bowery boy to wriggle out of
a scrape.
In one of his rambles, "Lamby" had met Rags, and, impressed by some
similarity in their appearance and disposition, had appointed him
forthwith his chum and inseparable companion.
Rags was a cur of nondescript origin and breed. His long, wobbly and
ungainly legs barely balanced a long and shaggy body, draped with a
frowsy, kaleidoscopic mass of wiry hair. The color of Rags' eyes could
not be determined, bangs of matted locks wholly screening them from
view.
For some obscure reason, "Lamby" conceived the idea that the use of the
lower extremities would prove injurious to Rags, and the mongrel--surely
weighing at least fifty pounds--spent most of his time in the loving
arms of his adoring friend.
The opportunity to return some of his friend's devotion, by making
himself useful to him, came to Rags during the period in which "Lamby's"
tongue was restrained from its favorite function for a month of silence.
"Lamby's" pledge not to speak to a human being for a month was never
broken, but he found a way of expressing himself to Rags in such loud
and distinct tones that no one had any difficulty in following the train
of conversation.
There was so much ingenuity in the plan that the ward politician
declared the bet off and presented "Lamby" with a part of the stake
money.
On a Monday, when the feast of Saturday was but a sweet memory and the
famine of the week had set in with convincing force, Tom Noseley and his
staff of friends--including "Lamby" and Rags, who hugged the shadowy
recess of a corner--sat disconsolately in the dingy dimness of Chicory
Hall.
"Ain't none of you fellows got any money at all?" queried Jerry Slattery
against hope.
The question was too absurd to deserve an answer.
"Well, what are we going to do?" pursued the Limerick Terror; "I'm
hungry as blazes and can't stand this any longer. Nothing to eat and
nothing to drink; this is worse than being on the bum in the country
among the hayseeds. If I don't get something here pretty soon, I'll go
out into the Bowery and see if I can't pick up something."
The harangue passed our ears without comment. More deep and dark
silence. Then everybody turned to where "Lamby's" preambling cough
heralded a monologistic dialogue.
"Rags," began the silent sage of Chicory Hall, "what would you and me
do, if we was hungry and wasn't as delicate as we are? Wouldn't you and
me go up to Lafayette alley and look them chickens over that don't seem
to belong to nobody? Couldn't you and me use them in the shape of one o'
them nice chicken stews with plenty of potatoes and onions in it? Ain't
it too bad that you and me is too delicate to be chasing round after
them chickens and that we aren't allowed to speak so's we could tell
other people how to get a meal that'll tickle them to death?"