He surely was a general of no mean order. We had often hunted him, but
he had always succeeded in eluding us by some cleverly executed
movement.
This survivor of his race irritated my determination and, supported and
flanked by my cohorts, I set out to exterminate the last of the clan.
Sounding his defy in many cackles and muffled crows the black hero raced
up and down the yard, dodging, whenever possible, under some of the
unused wagons and trucks standing about. But escape was impossible.
Driven into a corner he faced me and my bag with splendid heroism. He
met the lowering deathtrap by an angry leap, and, when I and bag fell on
top of him, we were greeted by a shower of furious picking and clawing.
Oh, brave descendant of a brave ancestry, nobly did you meet the
inevitable fate! You were never born to be eaten; you were the tough
son of a tough father! First, you fought right splendidly against being
captured, then, you resisted most stubbornly against being devoured!
Boiled, stewed, fried, hashed, you remained tough, and, even in death,
you defied us! You escaped the destiny of your weaker brethren, for you
were never eaten!
Chicken coops are not many on the Bowery. Having found and demolished
the feathered oasis, we were again reduced to dire straits.
Again "Lamby" proved our rescuer.
He and Rags, with the story of the extraordinary bet, were discovered by
a reporter and given due fame in the press. "Lamby" and Rags became
celebrities and deigned to receive their many callers in the attractive
reception room of Chicory Hall. A trifle of the glamor reflected on us,
the minor characters in the comedy, and visitors became quite frequent
to behold the "truly charming, typical Bohemia of the nether world."
But visitors will not call again unless you make their first visit
entertaining. How could we entertain them? Not one of us was as yet of
a literary turn of mind, and were not prepared to offer readings or
selections from Shakespeare, Lowell or Browning. Some of us were quite
renowned as comedians, but it is very doubtful if our humor would have
appealed to the class of people honoring us with their visits. There
was nothing left to do but to offer entertainment in the only line in
which we all were proficient. The reception room of Chicory Hall became
an impromptu arena and fights were fought down there which, for
ferociousness and bloody stubbornness have never been beaten.
It would be quite logical to suppose here that our visitors were of the
rowdy element, and all of the male sex. I wish I could tell you
differently, but the truth of the matter is that the "very best
families" were represented at our nocturnal seances by younger members
of both sexes.
In the course of time Chicory Hall became quite a "sight place," and it
was nothing unusual to see a string of carriages and coaches in front of
the humble entrance to the subterranean Bohemia. Would I were a Balzac
to describe to you an evening at Chicory Hall.
At the foot of the stairs was a circle marked on the floor with chalk.
No one save the regular members of the staff were permitted to enter the
sacred precincts without depositing a "voluntary" contribution in the
circle. Corresponding to the amount gathered by the circle was the
degree of entertainment.
On a row of boxes, crippled chairs, upturned pails and other makeshift
seats, the guests were served with drinks at their own expense pending
the preliminaries. Above their heads, traced with white paint on grimy
walls, was this legend in straggling letters:
"WELCOME TO CHICORY HALL!"
With our increasing prosperity came needed improvements, and the
solitary gas light was reinforced by a murky smelling kerosene lamp,
which I can never remember having seen topped by an uncracked chimney.
The door, on account of the lively proceedings within, had to be kept
shut, and you can easily imagine the atmosphere in the cellar, there
being no ventilation.
Still our guests kept coming and truly enjoyed themselves because "it
was all so charmingly realistic and odd."
Being the most steady member of Chicory and rarely absent from the hall,
it was quite natural that I took part in most of the "goes" in the
cellar. I felt myself in my element. Neither the Marquis of
Queensberry or the London prize ring rules were rigidly enforced, and my
viciousness had full scope, our guests--men and women of the "better"
class--liking nothing so well as a "knockout finish."
Mainly through my savageness the last vestige of regulated fighting
disappeared from our "set-tos," and our performances fell to the level
of "go-as-you-please" scrimmages. My reputation as a precious brute
increased rapidly, and again a certain set of men saw a probability in
me.
I was asked if I would fight anything and anybody under any conditions.
An easy question to answer for a man, who, in the fullest possession of
all his strength, had no knowledge of any other controlling influence
than his brutal instinct.
Not knowing or caring who my opponent was to be, I left all arrangements
to the enthusiasts, and in due time was introduced to Mr. Mickey Davis,
who had the great honor of being the champion rough and tumble fighter
of New York.
These were the conditions of our meeting: We were to be locked in a
room, with the privilege of using any means of defeating each other. Of
course, weapons were excluded, but any other pleasantries like biting,
clawing, choking, gouging, were not only allowed, but really essential.
He who first begged to have the door unlocked and to be taken from the
room was the loser.
I held the championship for some time. In fact, I relinquished it
voluntarily not long afterward on account of several changes which
occurred in my life.
I should not blame you in the least were you to feel disgust and
contempt for me for writing of it and for seemingly to glory in it.
Your disgust is justified, your contempt is not. I myself am disgusted
with my past and its several stages of degradation, but I have pledged
myself to tell you the truth, and I am doing and will do it.
Perhaps you may despise me for it, but put yourself in my place and you
will be less severe. There was something brewing and fermenting within
me which wanted to assert itself. I wanted to be somebody; to be
successful. It is a frank confession.
Will you blame a blind man for choosing the wrong path at the
crossroads? Will you not, instead, lead him in the right direction?
Was I not blind when I stood on life's highway and could not see the
pointed finger which read: "To Decency, Usefulness and Manhood"?
And there was no one to lead me.
Yes, criticise, sneer, if you will, but do not forget that in my life
there had been no parental love or guidance and no moral influence.
The attaining of my championship revived the interest of the "sporting
set" of the Bowery in me, and several flattering offers were made to me
by certain dive-keepers. I changed from place to place and left such a
trail of noble deeds behind me that ere long I found myself a real,
genuine celebrity and a man with a name.
I never had any difficulty in getting work at my calling--that of a
"bouncer," called, for the sake of politeness, "floor manager," as my
connection with any place meant additional customers. I was splendidly
equipped for the position, and my fame kept steadily increasing until I
thought myself on the sure road to success.
I reasoned the case with myself and drew the following deductions: I was
feared because of my brutality; I was respected because of my
"squareness," which had never been severely tempted; I had more money
than ever before; I was wearing well-made, if flashy, clothes; the
grumbling envy of my less fortunate fellows and chums sang like a sweet
refrain in my ears; I was strong, vicious and healthy. Why, why
shouldn't I consider myself successful?
*MY GOOD OLD PAL.*
*CHAPTER VII.*
*MY GOOD OLD PAL.*
Here we have reached a stage in my story where I must introduce to you
the dearest friend of all, my good old pal, my Bill.
Bill is only a dog, but when the doors of my past banged shut behind me
he was the only one able to squeeze through them into my better life.
He is the only relic of my other days and a living witness of
remembrance.
And, who can tell, but he, too, may have gone through a transformation,
if that was necessary in his case. He was always faithful, true and
loyal, and what would you think of me were I to repudiate him now?
Those who know me do believe and you will believe that I have not the
shadow of desire to detract one iota from the work accomplished by my
little martyr, but I would be grossly unjust were I to deprive Bill of
the credit due him for his share in the making of me.
I am a man; I feel it. My soul and conscience tell me so, and to all
the forces and factors that combined in my transformation I owe a debt
of gratitude which deeds only--not words--can repay. If this mentioning
of Bill shall demonstrate to you that he was of importance in my
regeneration, then I shall have paid part of my debt to him.
Not very long ago the rector of a fashionable church in New York City
came forward with the blunt claim that dogs have more than intelligence;
that they have souls. Of course, this assertion caused a storm of
indignation and a flood of discussion in many circles. Dogs were rated
very low after that in the list of intellectual values by the
representatives of those circles.
It is fortunate that I am not sufficiently learned or educated to have
an authoritative or deciding voice in the matter, for it will save me
from criticism when I become too enthusiastic about my good dumb,
soulless brute.
Yet, I wish, pray and hope that he has a soul.
* * * * *
Between First and Houston street, on the Bowery, was a saloon which was
known throughout the land as the "hang-out" of the most notorious toughs
and crooks in the country. Still, the place was nightly visited by
persons called "ladies and gentlemen," representatives, specimens, of
the "best" classes of society.
I was employed there as "bouncer." My nightly duty was to suppress
trouble of any kind and at all hazards.
The business staff of my employer included a number of gentlemen who
were renowned for their deftness of touch, and who, at various and
frequent times, had had their photographs taken free of charge at a
certain sombre-looking building in Mulberry street.
Their code of ethics--never adopted by the public at large--was most
elastic. Still, there were times when they did overreach the limits of
Bowery etiquette and then it became my painful duty to rise in righteous
indignation and smite them into seeing the error of their ways.
One night a middle-aged man of respectable appearance, evidently the
host of a party of "sightseers," got into a quarrel with a member of the
mentioned gentry. There was a rumpus of sufficient volume to distract
the attention of the other patrons from their most important duty, that
of spending their money, and I was forced to take a hand in it.
I quickly ascertained that the "sightseer" and his friends were lavish
"spenders," and, with a great display of dramatic effect, I ejected the
loafer, who had already become decidedly threatening. That, a few
minutes later he found his way back again via the little, ever-handy
side door, was a fact not made public.
My stylish "sightseer" had been somewhat sobered by the occurrence and
was most effusive in thanking me for having so gallantly rescued him. A
lingering sense of shame and realization of his position made him turn
homeward, but before leaving he insisted that I should call at his home
on the following day to be properly rewarded for having prevented him
from falling further into the contumely of contempt.
Greed was then one of my many besetting sins, and without losing any
time I called at the address given to me. It was a rather pretentious
dwelling in one of New York's thoroughfares of ease and good living, and
I could not help speculating on the moral make-up of a man who could
leave this abode of comfort and home cheer behind to spend his leisure
hours in a "good time" at a Bowery dive. Even though I could not read or
write at that time, and was not sensible to the world's finer motives,
such an act on the part of a man who had all that life could give,
seemed to be beyond the ken of human intelligence and my humble
understanding.
The reception accorded to me was none too cordial. He seemed to regard
me as a blackmailer, and, alas! he was very nearly correct in his
estimate. After entreating me not to breathe a word to any living soul
about his nightly adventure, he invited me to follow him to the stable
in the rear of the house, where I was to receive the reward for my
righteous conduct.
My hopes fell at this.
Stables are the lodging places of horses, and I began to wonder if he
could imagine the consequences were I to attempt to lead a gift horse
through the streets down to the Bowery. The police, if in nothing else,
are very careful in looking after strayed horses and delight in finding,
by accident, a pretended owner at the other end of the halter rope.
I mentioned all this to him, but he only laughed and bade me wait. He
took me to a stall, and there pointed with pride at a litter of
pure-bred bull pups who were taking a nap at the breast of their mother.
He stooped and, one by one, lifted them up by the scruff of their necks
for my inspection.
I felt disappointed, saw my dream of reward evaporate, and could not
screw up any interest in the canine exhibition.
My aversion for all dogs dated from my years as newsboy in Park Row.
One homeless little cur, a mongrel looking for a bit of sympathy in his
miserable existence, once made friendly overtures to me. I was still a
brute--bestial, cruel--and sent the poor thing yelping with a kick. As
soon as he had regained his footing he waited for his chance and then
bit me in the leg.
Therefore I hated dogs, and reveled in the execution of my hatred.
I watched the pups with ill-concealed disgust. The little fat fellows
hung limp and listless until dropped back into their nest. Just as I
was priming myself to propose a compromise on a cash basis, a little
rogue, different from his brothers, was elevated for examination.
Instead of hanging quietly like the rest of the younger generation of
the family, he twisted and wriggled, while his eyes, one of them
becomingly framed in black, shone with play, appeal and good nature.
The shadow of a smile must have been on my lips, for the owner placed
the pup in my arms and presented me with it.
My first impulse was to drop the pup and kick it back into the stall,
but the little fellow seemed to consider his welcome as an understood
thing, and with a sigh of content snuggled into the hollow of my arm.
He was on my left side, and his warmth must have been infective, for I
felt a peculiar if dull glow creep into my heart.
[Illustration: Bill.]
Without exactly knowing what I was doing, I tucked my new property under
my coat and made my way to my room. It is a question whether the pup
gained by the exchange of quarters. My room was on the top floor of an
old-fashioned tenement. The ceiling was slanting and not able to cope
efficiently with the rain. Of the original four panes of glass in the
window, only two remained, paper having been substituted for the others.
There was a cot, a three-legged chair, and a washstand with a cracked
basin, and a pitcher.
I dropped the pup on the cot, and intended to note how he would take to
his new surroundings. He failed to notice them. First, he squatted
down and looked at me intently. I must have passed inspection, for, not
seeing me draw closer, he came to the edge of the bed and gave a little
whine. I meant to grab him by the neck and throw him to the floor, but
when my hand touched him he felt so soft and warm, and--well, I patted
him. Of course, I had no intention of allowing a pup to change the
tenor of my life. That night I went to the saloon at the accustomed
time and did my "duty" as well as before. However, at odd moments, I
would think of the little fellow up in the room.
It had been our custom to spend the major part of the night drinking and
carousing after the close of business. But on the morning succeeding
the pup's arrival, I thought it best to go to my room at once, as he
might have upset things or caused other damage. That is what I tried to
make myself believe--a rather difficult feat in view of the pup's
enormous bulk and ferocity--not caring to interpret my feelings. I
opened the door of my attic room and peeped in. The little fellow was
curled upon the blanket and did not wake until I stood beside him. Then
he lifted his little nose, recognized me, and went off again into the
land of canine dreams.
As I was burdened with the dog, I could not let him starve. Therefore,
my neighbors had the wonderful, daily spectacle before them of seeing
me, the champion rough and tumble fighter of the city, go to the grocery
store on the corner and buy three cents' worth of milk and sundry other
delicacies suitable to my room-mate. Had they taken it good-naturedly,
I would have felt ashamed and the pup would have fared badly in his
nursing, but my neighbors sneered and smiled at my unusual proceeding
which did seem rather incongruous, and, mainly to spite them and give
them a chance to break their amused silence, did I persist in playing my
new part, that of care-taker and nurse to his royal highness, the dog.
I became used to him, after a fashion, and, though showering very little
affection on the pup, he seemed to be supremely happy in my company. We
had been together for some time before I was sure of our relative
positions. Always finding him asleep on my return from the saloon, I
was surprised to hear him move about, one morning, as I was inserting
the key in the lock. I opened the door, and before me danced the pup in
a veritable frenzy of delight at beholding me. This not being a
psychological essay, only a plain, true story, I shall not attempt to
analyze, but will tell you straight facts in a straight way.
It was a new, a bewildering sensation to me to perceive a living being
to be so pleased at my appearance. It was a new, a strange welcome,
perhaps not entirely unselfish, because milk and good things to eat
generally came with me, but, still, much purer and more sincere than,
the greeting "hello" or loud-mouthed invitation to drink vouchsafed me
by ribald companions.
I had not yet softened, at least, did not realize it, or would not admit
it, but in occasional, unobserved moments, a sporadic, spontaneous
dropping of the hard outer shell would come to me and I would not deny
it until my "manhood" whispered to me: "Why, what is the matter with
you? Are you not ashamed of giving way to your feelings? You are a
man, a great, big, tough man, and not supposed to have any softer
emotions. Get yourself together and be again a worthy member of your
class!"
I must have been in one of these softer moods on the morning when the
pup gave his first outspoken recognition. Why I did it, I do not know,
but I lifted the little fellow to my arms and sat down on the bed. To
us two a critical moment had come and it was best to make the most of
it.
"Do you like me, pup?" I asked in all seriousness.
Bless me, if that little thing did not try to bark an emphatic "Yes!"
Oh, it was no deep-toned growl or snarl. It was the pup's first effort
in the barking line, and it sounded very much like a compound of whine
and grunt. But I understood and we settled down to talk the matter
over.
I realized that the pup was entitled to be named, and that matter was
first in order.
"See here, pup; you and I are very plain and ordinary people, and it
wouldn't do to give you a 'high-toned' name. Now, what do you say to
'Bill'?--just plain 'Bill'?"
The motion was speedily passed, and then Bill and I went to discuss
other questions.
"Bill, you and I aren't overburdened with friends. If you and I were to
die at the same moment, not even a cock or crow would croak a requiem
for us. Now, I am going to make you a proposition. You're friendless,
and so am I; you're ugly and so am I; you belong to the most
unintelligent class of your kind and so do I; why not establish a
partnership between us?"
Bill had sat, watching my lips and looking as wise as a sphinx, until I
asked the question. He answered in the affirmative, without a moment's
hesitation.
"I'm glad you like my proposition, Bill. Now you and I are going to
live our own life, without regard for others. We're going to stick to
each other, Bill; we're going to be loyal to each other, and, though we
do not amount to much in the world, to each other we must be the best of
our class. We're going to be true friends."
I took Bill's paw, and, there and then, we sealed the compact, which was
never broken.
Our relationship being founded on this basis, I spent a good deal of my
spare time in the room, which until Bill's arrival, had been nothing but
my sleeping place. Soon the bare walls and the dilapidated condition of
the furniture began to grate on me and, slowly, I improved our _home_.
I bought a few pictures from a peddler, purchased two plaster casts from
an Italian, and even employed a glazier to put our window in good shape.
Bill and I took pride in our home, and thought it the very acme of
coziness. You see, neither one of us had ever known a real home.
But dogs, as well as men, need exercise, and, in the afternoon, attired
in our best--Bill with his glittering collar, on which the proceeds of a
whole night had been expended--we took our walk along the avenue. He
was beautifully ugly, and the usual pleasant witticisms, such as, "Which
is the dog?" were often inflicted upon us. But we didn't mind, being a
well-established firm of partners, who could afford to overlook the
comments of mere outsiders.
In the midst of our prosperity came an unexpected break. A reform wave
swept over the city and closed most of the "resorts." The loss of my
position left us in a badly crippled financial condition.
Bill and I had lived in a style befitting two celebrities. Porterhouse
steaks, fine chops, and cutlets had been frequent items on our bills of
fare. The drop was sudden and emphatic. Stews, fried liver, and hash
took the place of the former substantial meals, and our constitutions
did not thrive very well. It did not even stop at that, for, ere long,
we were regular _habitues_ of the free-lunch counters. It often almost
broke my heart to see my Bill, well bred and blooded, feed on the scraps
thrown to him from a lunch counter. But there was a dog for you!
Instead of turning his nose up at it, or eating it with growl and
disgust, Bill would devour the pickled tripe or corned beef with a
well-feigned relish. Between the mouthfuls his glance would seek mine
and he would say, quite plainly: "Don't worry on my account. I'm
getting along very nicely on sour tripe. In fact, it is a favorite dish
of mine."
You poor, soulless Bill, of whom many men; with souls, could learn a
lesson in grit and pluck!
During that spell of idleness our hours in the room were less cheerful
than before. I must confess that my "blues" were inspired by material
cares, and not by any regrets or self-reproaches; but, whatever the
cause, they were sitting oppressively on me, and I often found myself in
an atmosphere of the most ultra indigo. It did not take Bill very long
to understand these moods, and, by right of his partnership, he took a
hand in dispelling them.
He would place himself directly in front of me, and stare at me with
unflinching gaze. Not noticing any effect of his hypnotic suggestions,
he would go further, and place his paw on my knee, with a little
pleading whine. Having awakened my attention, he would put himself into
proper oratorical pose and loosen the flood-gates of his rhetoric.
"Say, Kil, I gave you credit for more sense and courage. Here you are,
sitting with your hands in your lap, and bemoaning a fate which is
largely of your own making. Besides--excuse me for being so brutally
frank--you ought to be ashamed of yourself. Big and strong, you live in
idleness, and now you kick because you are down and out and deprived of
your despicable means of livelihood. Owen Kildare, brace up and be a
man. You are not friendless. I am here. True, I'm only a dog, a
soulless brute, but I'm your Bill, and we're going to stick until we
both win out!"
You will not offend me by calling me a silly fool for putting these
words into Bill's mouth. Perhaps I err greatly in believing that Bill
was not without influence over me, or that I could understand him;
perhaps it was all imagination, but, if it was--and I doubt it--it was
good, because, no matter what it may be, whether imagination,
inspiration or aspiration, if it leads up and not down, it cannot be too
highly appreciated.
There were times when Bill's speech was either less convincing or my
period of blues more pronounced than usual, and then he would resort to
more drastic measures. He undertook to prove by the most vivid object
lesson that a buoyancy of spirits is the first essential. Dogs, when
gay and playful, run and romp. Bill made believe he was gay, and romped
and raced and ran. If you will take note of the fact that the exact
measurements of the room were fifteen by twelve feet, you can easily
imagine the difficulties opposing Bill's exercise. Snorting and
puffing, he would cavort about the narrow precincts, now running into a
bedpost, now bumping against the shaky washstand. But he always
accomplished his object, because, before his collapse from his
exertions, he never failed to put me into a paroxysm of laughter. No
"blues" could ever withstand Bill's method.
Still, he was but a brute--a poor, dumb brute.
*KNIGHTS ERRANT.*
*CHAPTER VIII.*
*KNIGHTS ERRANT.*
An episode, which occurred about this time, took me into latitudes and
scenes never before dreamed of by me.
As near as I can figure it, the event happened in March, 1893. I admit
that in view of the seriousness of the incident my indefiniteness seems
strange, but it is typical of my class.
Since I have moved in different spheres I have often wondered at this
and tried to explain it to myself. No other explanation seems to be at
hand except that this disregard of dates, of time and place is a
characteristic of the world Bohemian, whether on the Bowery or in the
Tenderloin. Recently I had an illustration of this.
In preparing a story, treating of a certain phase of Bowery life for a
newspaper, I bethought myself of a man, who had been closely connected
with the very occurrence I intended to mention. I sent for him and he
came to my house, willing to tell me all he could remember. He recalled
it all and graphically described every detail.
At last I asked him to tell me the year and month in which it had
happened. That caused an immediate halt in the narrative and many
minutes were spent in serious reflection. It was of no avail. We fixed
the date of it to be in "about" such and such a year, and such and such
a month, but it was impossible to accurately settle the year and month.
And this in view of the fact that the occurrence had been a cold-blooded
murder, that my informant had been an eye-witness of it and had spent
several months in the House of Detention.
Why others are so careless of dates I do not know and it is not to the
point here, but I do know that in the life of the East Side, every
existence is so crammed full of reality that even the most important
occurrences are only of temporary moment. There, events are dated by
events.
Ask a fellow of the Bowery when he had lost his father or mother, and he
will very likely answer:
"Oh, about five or six years ago."
If you insist on a more precise answer, he will scratch his head, ponder
for a while, and then: "Let's see! Yes, the old man died about two
months after I came from the penitentiary on my last bit, and that was
somewhere in 1891."
I was playing my now familiar role of bouncer at "Fatty Flynn's," an
ex-convict, who was running a dance hall and dive at 34 Bond street. It
was only a few doors from the Bowery and enjoyed a great vogue among the
transient sightseers, traversing the Bowery in search of "good times."
On the night in question, two Princeton students, arrayed in yellow and
black mufflers and wearing the insignia of their fraternity, visited the
dance hall in the course of their lark. It was rather early for that
sort of thing, the place was half-empty, and I, to do the honors of the
establishment and also to speed their "buying," stepped over to the two
young men for a "jollying" chat.
They were very young, had a considerable amount of money, and seemed
flattered by my mark of distinction.
We spoke about "sporting" life in general and they asked me concerning
several dives which were the most notorious of the day. As I had worked
in every dive of notoriety, it was not a difficult matter for me to give
all desired information. This seemed to invite their hunger for
knowledge and they invited me to make the third in their party and to
spend the night in going from dive to dive. This, by the way, this
unofficial guide-business is another way in which the man, who has to
live by his wits, turns many an "honest" dollar.
I could not accept the invitation as they held out no financial
inducement and, that not forthcoming, I felt myself in duty bound to
stick to my post and employer. However, it was a rainy night, business
was slow and my chances for making any "extra" money very slim, and I
entrusted one of my favorite waiters with the diplomatic mission of
"boosting my game" with the two students. Moved by their curiosity and
the skillful strategy of my emissary they made me an offer which was far
more than I had expected, but which was nevertheless declined by me,
until my persistent refusal to utilize my services in their behalf
screwed their bid up to a figure, which I could not conscientiously
decline.
I made my excuses to "Fatty" Flynn, and, that done, we started out on
our expedition of studying social conditions and evil. Measured by dive
time-standards, we had started out too early. It was only nine o'clock
and the "fun" in the dives hardly ever began before midnight. Still,
thanks to my knowing guidance, we found quite a number of dance halls
where we could spend the intervening hours to the profit of the
respective proprietors.
One thing, which soon disgusted me with my two charges, was that they
were unable to stand much drink. I warned them against too much
indulgence, as that would incapacitate them for the pleasures to come,
but youth is proverbially obstinate and they went their whooping way
rejoicing.
After having left the "Golden Horn," a well-known dance hall in East
Thirteenth street, we walked down Third avenue as far as Twelfth street,
where they insisted on going into a gin-mill, which shed its garish
radiance across our path. It was not a regulation dive and only known
as the rendezvous of a gang of tough fellows, who made that part of the
thoroughfare none too safe for passing strangers. From this it should
not be supposed that they were unkempt in appearance. Quite the
reverse, they were rather well-dressed.
We happened to drop into the place at a most inopportune moment. A
crowd of these fellows were at the bar spending lavishly the proceeds of
some successfully worked "trick." They were very hilarious; so were my
proteges, and I was kept constantly on the alert to prevent friction
between the hilarious majority and minority. It was not my policy to
become embroiled in any useless rows and I entreated the students to
continue on our way downtown. But they were not in a condition to
listen to reasoning and, attracted by several unclean stories told by
members of the other faction, began to treat the "house" and intermingle
with them.
There seemed to be no immediate prospect of any disturbance, and I
permitted myself to leave the room for a few minutes. On my return the
scene had completely changed. The crowd had closed around the students
and were threatening them. I learned afterward that one of the students
had taken umbrage at the rough familiarity of one of the gang and had
attempted to hit him. The situation seemed critical, but not dangerous,
and I was about to smooth matters, when my eye caught the reflection of
some suspiciously glittering object. It was a knife in the hand of the
tough offended and only partly concealed by the sleeve of the coat.
He was sneaking around the crowd to get beside his intended prey and had
almost reached him when I decided to interfere. I had not measured my
distance well, for just as I jumped between the two men, the knife was
on its downward path and found the fulfillment of its mission in my
neck.
A three-inch cut, a tenth part of an inch from the jugular vein, is not
exactly the sort of souvenir one cares to take with him from an evening
dedicated to "fun" and "good times." And when it confines one to the
hospital for several weeks, it becomes a decided bore. All this was
recognized by my new found friend, the student, who had been the
indirect cause of my disfigurement, and having in the meantime, been
expelled from his college for some wild escapade, he decided to show his
gratitude to me, for what he was pleased to call "having saved his
life," by taking me abroad.
"You are not educated. Travel is the greatest educator, therefore, I
will show you the world."
It did not require much coaxing to accept the proposition, and after
arranging for a boarding-place for my good, old Bill, we started out to
see the world.
The next six months were and are like a dream to me. I was perfectly
willing to have the world shown to me, but am inclined to believe that I
had a rather imperfect demonstrator. To be quite candid, I doubted if
my fellow-traveler was any more familiar with the world at large than I
was.
At any rate, after a hurried and zig-zagged jaunt through Europe, we
landed in Algiers with a fearfully shrunken cost capital. The cafes of
that African Paris certainly broadened my education.
An expected remittance from home failed to arrive and my partner fell
into a trance of deep and pondering thought. The conclusion of it was
that we, by decree of my "college chum," were forthwith appointed
adventurers, soldiers of fortunes, dare-devils and anything else that
could make us believe our miserable, stranded condition was the stepping
stone to great, chivalrous deeds to come. We enlisted in the Legion of
Strangers.
But chivalry loses half of its charm when it comes in red trousers, blue
jacket and on the back of a bony Rosinante, carrying you through
stretches and stretches of glowing, burning sand. In short, the life of
an African trooper, banished into the interior and subsisting on food as
foreign to a Bowery stomach as the jargon spoken by his messmates, had
absolutely no charm for me.
I am not very good at disguising my moods and emotions, and that I was
homesick, that my heart, in spite of the excitement of the occasional
skirmishes, yearned for my old Bowery, became apparent to my brother in
misery. Then, a stranger coincidence, it also cropped out that my
partner would much prefer to be on Broadway or Fifth avenue than in the
dreary stockade of Degh-del-ker.
Alas, then, the railroad system of that part of Africa was hardly in
existence, and even if it had been, it would not have been advisable for
us to take berths of civilization, as the government foolishly wanted to
retain our valuable service. History informs me that, shortly after our
departure the garrison of Degh-del-ker had several disastrous encounters
with some of the rebellious tribes, which would have probably resulted
differently had we two lent our arms and strength to the cause of the
tri-colored flag.
I mention this merely for the purpose of explaining the delicacy with
which I have related this experience. Neither my friend nor myself have
the slightest intention of becoming the unfortunate causes for
international complications between our own country and France, for
having bereft the latter of two such valiant warriors as ourselves.
We of the Bowery love colors and I had often had a potent wish that I
could show myself in all the glory of my gaudy raiment to the gang of my
old, beloved street. A Bowery boy in blue coat and red trousers, with
clanking sabre by his side, I would have made the hit of my life if
appearing thus attired in my favorite haunts. However, this pleasure
was denied to me.
We managed to procure less stunning costumes and successfully besting
the sentinels, started on our march for the coast.
It was a fearful trip. For six long weeks we plodded on through
blinding sand and blistering heat, carefully avoiding all native
villages and, yet, often saved from perishing just in the nick of time
by tribesmen, who found us in helpless state in hiding places.
From the coast we shovelled our way across the Mediterranean in the
boiler-room of the good ship St. Helene. It was suffocating work, and
time and again, we were hauled up from the regions of below, thrown on
the deck, and revived by streams of cold water.
At last, we steamed into the harbor of Marseilles, where we expected to
find a letter of credit. It was there and we both fell on our knees in
the most sincere thanksgiving ever offered.
Nothing more can be told in relation to this episode, excepting that we
both felt we had been sufficiently educated by seeing the world and that
we were urgently needed at home.
We lost no time in getting there.
*A PLAYER OF MANY PARTS.*
*CHAPTER IX.*
*A PLAYER OF MANY PARTS.*
You will easily believe me when I tell you that my very first task on
coming home was to look up my good, old pal, my Bill.
His temporary home was a stable. The owner of it was an old
acquaintance of mine and I was satisfied that Bill had been well treated
during my absence. But how I had longed for him!
In Europe and Africa I had seen dogs of purest breed and best pedigree,
but, to me, they were only as mongrels when compared to my Bill, my
loyal boy. There had not been a day in our travels, when I had not
asked myself the question: "I wonder what Bill is doing just now?"
And here I was home and rushing up to meet my pal.
The owner of the stable met me at the door and congratulated me on my
safe return. Then he grew serious and began: "See, here, Kil, whatever
we could do for Bill, we did, but there's something the matter with him.
He's off his feed and not half the lively dog he used to be."
I did not wait to hear any more, but went to look for Bill. Up in the
hayloft I caught a glimpse of him. On a bale, nearest to the
dilapidated window, there lay my Bill, the picture of loneliness. He
looked right straight in front of him and never shifted his eyes.
I stood and watched him for a few minutes, then, stepping behind a post,
whispered: "Bill."
One ear went up, the eyes blinked once or twice, but otherwise he
remained unchanged. He was afraid to trust his sense.
Again I whispered: "Bill, Oh Bill," and then hid myself.
I did not hear him move, but when I peeped out from my hiding place I
found the gaze of his true eyes upon me and, with a whine and cry, my
Bill and I were partners once again.
What a meeting that was I cannot describe to you, and, were I to attempt
it, you would laugh at our silliness. Still, I think that some of you
would not laugh and you will need no description of the scene.
That night saw Bill and me back in our ramshackle attic, and we sat up
late into the morning exchanging experiences.
Divedom was still flourishing. The reform movement had subsided after
the election, and things grew livelier every day. In spite of my ocean
voyage and change of scene, my health was not very good, and it took
considerable time to eliminate all traces of my African adventure.
There is an old German saw, which reads that any one that goes
travelling can tell a good many tales afterward. Not being strong
enough to take up my former calling of "bouncer," I hung around the back
room of Steve Brodie's place on the Bowery, and became a raconteur par
excellence. It was not my rhetoric or elocution which made me the lion
of the hour. It was solely the recapitulation of my trip, and,
particularly my African experience. This should not astonish you, for,
I beg to assure you, Bowery boys are not in the habit of extending their
tours to the Dark Continent, confining their excursions mainly to
Hoboken and other convenient picnic grounds along the Hudson or East
River.
I cannot mention the name of Steve Brodie without relating to you a
curious phase of fraud, which is not entirely without humor. In saying
this, I do not refer to Mr. Steve Brodie's accomplishments in the bridge
jumping line. Whether he really did jump from the Brooklyn and other
bridges is a question, which will never disturb the equanimity of the
world's history. I may have my opinion and a foundation for it, but
have neither the inclination or time to air it.
It was not very long before the stories of my travels had been told and
told again, until every one of the _habitues_ of the Brodian emporium
was surfeited with them. This largely curtailed the number of drinks
bought for me by admiring listeners, and I was sorely puzzled how to
fill this aching void. I was not yet fully able to "hustle" very much,
and still stuck to the sheltering shadow of Steve Brodie's back room.
It was the veriest chance that put me in the way of a new "graft" and
again brought me the surety of food and drink. I became a splendid
exemplification of the saying that life is but a stage and we players of
many parts.
The scheme developed finally owing to prevalent hero-worship. Take the
greatest celebrity of the day, push him into a crowd which is not aware
of his identity, and he will pass unnoticed. But only properly label
him and the multitude will kneel before the erstwhile nonentity.
Now, while we always have the inclination for hero-worship, heroes are
rather scarce and not always handy for the occasion. This is especially
the case on the Bowery, where quantities of heroes are always supposed
to be waiting around, "but ain't." Their supposed presence draws the
usual attendance of worshippers, and it was solely for the purpose of
not wishing to disappoint these worthy people that Steve Brodie, with my
co-operation, decided upon a plan, which proved satisfactory from the
start, and was the means of conveying many pleasant recollections into
the houses of many uptown people and into the rural homes of our land.
The plan itself was very simple, and was originated by John Mulvihill,
at the time the dispenser of liquids of the Brodie establishment.
The Horton Boxing Law had not yet been thought of, and the fistic cult
had more followers than ever before. A few of the lesser lights of
pugilism had their permanent headquarters at Brodie's, while some
aspirants for champion honors and even real champions dropped in
whenever happening to be in the neighborhood.
Brodie's well engineered fame and the many odd decorations and pictures
in the place did not fail to draw the many, and they, after inspecting
Brodie and the other oddities, invariably inquired if "some prominent
fighters" were not present. As a rule, Johnnie Mulvihill was able to
produce some celebrity to satisfy this craving of the curious, but there
were times when the stock of stars was very low; then the mentioned plan
was resorted to. It was the inspiration born of emergency.
On a certain evening I happened to be quietly sitting in the desolated
back-room. Business was dreadfully slow. My quiet was suddenly
disturbed by Mulvihill, who came tearing through the swinging doors.
"Say, Kil, you got to do me a favor. Steve is out, and there ain't a
single solitary man in the place whom I can introduce to the bunch I got
up against the bar. They just came in and are fine spenders, but I'll
lose them if you don't do this for me."
Mulvihill's request was not fully understood by me, yet, owing him many
debts of gratitude for having given me a drink on the sly and for having
often shared his corned beef and cabbage with me, I was quite willing to
do him the favor desired, which, I thought, would be nothing else than
to "jolly" the men at the bar into the buying of more drinks.
"No, no," interjected Mulvihill, "that ain't what I want you to do."
He immediately unfolded his scheme, which was nothing more or less than
that I should face the expectant as a pretended Jack Dempsey, famous
throughout the land as one of the best and squarest fighters that ever
entered a ring.
Naturally, I rebelled, not wishing to expose myself to an easy discovery
of the palpable fraud, but Mulvihill pleaded with his most persuasive
voice.
"Don't you see, those fellows don't know Jack Dempsey from Adam. Any
old thing at all would convince them they are in the presence of the
real man, and you know enough about Jack Dempsey and his history not to
be tripped up by those fellows, who never saw a prize fight in their
lives."
Who could resist such gentle pleading? I could not, and followed my
mentor in the path of deception.
Assuming the proper pose, I stepped into the barroom and was
ceremoniously introduced by Mulvihill to the "easies," who had traveled
quite a distance to bask in the radiance of a real fighter.
"Gentlemen, permit me to introduce you to the famous champion of the
world, Mr. Jack Dempsey," quoted the artful Mulvihill, and, thereby,
started me in a repertoire, which, in the number of different roles
cannot be surpassed by the most versatile actor.
The visitors pumped my hands and arms with fervid enthusiasm and showed
their appreciation of the honor afforded them by copious buying of many
rounds of drinks.
Well, the ball had been set rolling and it was a long time before it
stopped.
The plan proved surprisingly profitable, at least for Steve Brodie, and
although Mulvihill and I had to be satisfied with the crumbs from the
feast, we had a lot of fun out of it and that was no mean recompense.
You can imagine some of it, when I tell you that rather often some of
the "sightseers" would bring themselves to my remembrance (?) by
recalling to me something, which had happened to me (?) in their own
town, or how they had seen me defeat Tom, Dick or Harry by one mighty
swing from my tremendous left.
If there was fun in it, there was also some embarrassment attached to
it. The male sex is not the only one which admires physical prowess,
and ladies, escorted by gentlemen, appeared quite frequently at this
newly founded shrine of pugilistic worship.
I cannot recollect having ever been so confused as I was on a certain
night when I was cast for the role of Jake Kilrain, the man who tried to
wrest the heavyweight championship from the redoubtable John L.
Sullivan. In my limited but appreciative audience were several ladies.
A short while after my introduction I noticed a lot of whispering among
the ladies. One, the spokeswoman, stepped over to me and presented the
guest of the others.
"Oh, Mr. Kilrain, you must have a perfectly developed arm and chest.
They are necessary in your profession, are they not? And may we not
have the privilege of testing your strength?"
Before I fully realized what they intended to do they had gathered
around me and with many "oh's" and "oh, my's" they began to feel my
biceps and to prod me in the chest.
Of course, this was only an odd occurrence, and did not happen every
night, but it did not help me to respect my "betters."
It was also very embarrassing when, at the same time, I had to "double"
and even "treble." As an illustration, just let me tell you that in one
evening, and at the same time, I represented Jack McAuliffe at the head
of the bar, Mike Boden at the end of it, and Johnny Reagan in the
back-room--all well-known pugilists and champions in their class. My
audiences were especially annoying that night, holding me down to dates
and details and keeping me on the edge of apprehension lest I should mix
my identities.
Also, on a certain auspicious occasion, while portraying a certain
renowned pugilist with admirable accuracy, the said pugilist happened to
appear on the scene in person and it was only his true friendship for me
which prevented the imitation ending in a fizzle, if not worse.
Now, when all that lies behind me and belongs to a different world and
personality, I cannot fail to see the wrongness of it, but, at the time
of its happening, I cannot deny having often laughed heartily at the
silliness of those gaping curiosity-seekers.
Later, when on account of a disagreement with Steve Brodie, I
transferred my headquarters to the palace of the king--Barney Flynn, the
King of the Bowery--at the corner of Pell street and the Bowery, we
instituted another fraudulent scheme intended to interest and entertain
our many friends and provide drink and small change for us.
The palace of the King of the Bowery is not a very imposing building.
On the ground floor a saloon, overhead a lodging house, it serves the
two purposes of refreshing and resting the subjects of his majesty. For
two weighty reasons the saloon has always been the Mecca of the curious.
It is, so to speak, the entrance-gate to Chinatown and, also, the
official address of Chuck Connors.
Besides the transient crowds of nightly visitors to Chinatown, the
saloon is often honored by calls from literary personages. For some
time, it seemed to be the proper thing for writers of a certain genre to
come there to study types.
[Illustration: Jackey Doodles. Barney Flynn. Jumbo. "Chuck" Connors. A
typical group at Barney Flynn's side door.]
Right here let me say, that, without wishing to discredit any writer of
dialect stories, I have yet to find the story which presents the idiom
of the Bowery as it is spoken. I have taken the trouble to compare
different stories--each one guaranteed to be a true and realistic study
of the underworld--written by different writers and the discrepancies in
the dialect are flagrant.
One, throughout his entire tale, puts "youse" in the mouth of his most
important character. The other only uses "ye." One spells the
question: "Do you?"; the other phrases it: "D'you?"
Perhaps this also applies to other stories written in New England or
Southern dialect, but whether it does or not, it seems to be a case of
"you pays your money and you takes your choice."
I have yet to see the "low life" story which is not studded with "cul"
and "covey." Take my advice and do not use this form of address on the
Bowery. They would not understand it and, therefore, would feel
insulted.
Also, the men of the East Side are not so lacking in gallantry as to
call their lady loves "bundles" and other similar names.
Then, in the matter of emphatic language the writers are far from
hitting the target. The favorite phrase is "Wot'ell," which is a
hundred leagues removed from the distinct utterance with which this
dainty bit of conversation is used by a Bowery boy in a moment of
rhetorical flight.
So I might cite hundreds of instances.
The same carelessness of detail is manifested in other things, when
writing about us. They are not all important errors or serious
mistakes, but are grave enough to prove the unreliability of those "true
East Side studies."
A writer, who for a considerable time, has been accepted as an authority
on conditions in the underworld, is the most profligate in calling
beings and things of the sphere he describes by their wrong name. He
persists in claiming that thieves are called "guns" by police and
fellows. Every man, who has lived all his life on the Bowery, as I
have, knows that "gun" means an important personage. A millionaire is a
"gun," so is a prominent lawyer, or a politician, or a famous crook; in
short, anybody who is foremost in his profession or calling, be he
statesmen or thief, is a "gun."
The Bowery is not hard to reach and, if so inclined, you can easily test
my assertion. Take a page from one of the many East Side stories extant
and read it to a typical Bowery boy and he will ask you to interpret it
for him.
The East Side dialect does not abound in slang. Whatever of it there is
in it has been absorbed from the Tenderloin and other sources. To coin
a funny slang phrase one must have time to invent and try it. They have
no time for this on the East Side, where even time for schooling cannot
always be spared. And that accounts for ungrammatical expressions and
whimsically twisted sentences, but not for the idiotic gibberish and
forced coinages of words slipped onto the tongues of my people.
The courtiers of the King of the Bowery, being a good-natured set of
fellows, did not wish to curb the fervency of the literary "gents," and
did their best to supply the ever-increasing demand for types.
The inner sanctum of the royal palace was divided from the outer room by
the usual glass and wood partition. As Barney Flynn, the King of the
Bowery, was a genial and jovial monarch, the more secluded chamber did
not resemble a throne-room so much as a rendezvous of kindred spirits.
It was a specimen of another strata of nether world Bohemia.
Tables and chairs were about the place in picturesque disorder. On the
walls were three gigantic oil paintings, "done" by a wandering Bowery
artist for his board and lodging, including frequent libations. In one
corner was the voluntary orchestra, consisting of Kelly, the "rake," the
fiddler, and Mickey Doolan, the flute-player. Their day's work
over--they were both "roustabouts" along the river front--the two court
musicians would take their accustomed seats, and, without paying much
attention to those present, would fiddle and flute themselves back again
to their own green shores of old Erin.
They are pathetic figures, these men of the Bowery, who live their
evenly shiftless lives in dreams of days passed, but not forgotten.
Being directly in the path to and from Chinatown, Barney Flynn's saloon
was, at odd times, visited by the sociological pilgrims to this centre
of celestial colonization. One night, a writer happened to stumble into
the place. Whether his impressions were perceived in normal or abnormal
condition is not known. The "gang" was engaged in a little celebration
of its own, were observed by the writer, and, forthwith, Barney Flynn's
and the royal staff became a mine for authors of low-life stories.
With the acumen acquired in my dive training, I saw very soon that those
coming to study us were most willing to pay for grotesquely striking
types. The "real thing" had very little interest for them. What were we
to do? To get the money we had to be types, therefore, whenever the
word was passed that a searcher for realism--with funds--had arrived, we
put on our masks, lingual and otherwise, to help along the glorious
cause of literature.
No good purpose would be accomplished were I to mention the names of
authors, who portrayed us so correctly. They are now celebrities with
more paying aims. Their stories of us are still remembered, but only
because of their "beautiful and pure sentiment," and not because of
their "true realism." The latter differs with every writer and has
bewildered the casual reader.
I am strongly tempted to call by name one, whose glory as demonstrator
was dimmed in an unexpected manner. The writer in question had come
here from Philadelphia, preceded by a reputation for his sympathy with
those in the slums. Several of his "low down" stories had been hailed
as the models for all the other writers of that tribe.
With his usual aggressiveness, not devoid of a touch of almost medieval
dash and chivalry, this young man threw himself into the study of New
York slums with wonted ardor, and, naturally, mastered the subject
almost immediately. Being socially well-connected, or, rather, being
well-taken up by society, he had no trouble in interesting his friends
in his hobby. He was not niggardly in the spending of his money and
quite popular on that account with my friends in Barney Flynn's. As a
matter of fact, this promising young writer--a promise since then
fulfilled--was a favorite of the highest and lowest; verily, an enviable
position.
With note-book in hand, this young man sat among us for hours, jotting
down phrases and slang expressions, manufactured most laboriously and
carefully for the occasion. The interest of his friends increased, and
one night we were honored by a visit of a large party of ladies and
gentlemen, piloted by the aforesaid author.
Before the precious cargo had been unloaded from the cabs and hansoms,
word had been taken to the back-room. As actors respond to the call of
the stage-manager, so did we prepare ourselves to play our parts with
our well-known finesse and correctness of detail. By that I mean, that
we knew what was expected of us and that we emphasized our
"characteristics" as we had seen them burlesqued on the stage.
The promising young writer was in his glory. With irrepressible glee, he
introduced us, one by one, to his admirers, watching the effects of our
"quaint" salutations. The chorus of enthusiastic approval was
unanimous. We were "absolutely charming," "perfectly thrilling," and
"too droll for anything." Encouraged by this warm reception of our
feeble efforts, we surpassed ourselves and assault, battery, murder was
committed on the English language in most wilful frenzy. Taking it all
in all, it was a gem of slum mosaic, and is still remembered by most of
the offenders.
Having given our performance and exhausted our programme, we were told
by our friends how "very glad, charmed and delighted" they had been at
meeting us.
The doors had barely closed behind the last of the promising young
author's friends, before all the performers rushed up to the bar to
spend the money given to them for their instructive entertainment. The
comments on the visitors were many and very much to the point, but were
not uttered in the manufactured dialect. There was much laughter and
many imitations of our late audience, and none of us had noticed that
the promising young author, accompanied by a few of the party, had
returned to look for a pair of gloves forgotten by one of the ladies.
Part of our conversation was overheard and the laugh was at the writer's
expense.
Of course, we instantly endeavored to rectify our mistake and fell back
to addressing each other as "cull" and "covey," but, somehow, the effect
was not convincing.
One of his friends turned to the promising young author on leaving:
"Old man, you certainly deserve another medal for this, but this time,
it should be a leather one."