Knowledge is power, and power is a good thing, as you yourself well
know. Since Eve opened the way, and she and Adam paid the price--a high
one, I sometimes think--you are entitled to every kind of knowledge.
Also, you are entitled to all that you can get.
But having acquired knowledge, you are not entitled to peddle it out in
secret to Central Office bulls, at a cost of liberty and often life to
other men. When you do that you are a snitch, and have thrown away your
right to live. Anyone is free to kill you out of hand, having regard
only to his own safety. For such is the common law of Gangland.
Let me ladle out a cautionary spoonful.
As you go about accumulating knowledge, you should fix your eye upon
one or two great truths. You must never forget that when you are close
enough to see a man you are close enough to be seen. It is likewise
foolish, weakly foolish, to assume that you are the only gas jet in
the chandelier, the only pebble on the beach, or possess the only kodak
throughout the entire length of the boardwalk. Bear ever in mind that
while you are getting the picture of some other fellow, he in all human
chance is snapping yours.
This last is not so much by virtue of any law of Gangland as by a law of
nature. Its purpose is to preserve that equilibrium, wanting which,
the universe itself would slip into chaos and the music of the spheres
become but the rawest tuning of the elemental instruments. The stars
would no longer sing together, but shriek together, and space itself
would be driven to stop its ears. Folk who fail to carry these grave
matters upon the constant shoulder of their regard, get into trouble.
At Gouverneur hospital, where he died, the register gave his name as
“Samuel Wendell,” and let it go at that. The Central Office, which finds
its profit in amplification, said, “Samuel Wendell, _alias_ Kid Unger,
_alias_ the Ghost,” and further identified him as “brother to Johnny the
Mock.”
Samuel Wendell, _alias_ Kid Unger, _alias_ the Ghost, brother to Johnny
the Mock, was not the original Ghost. Until less than two years ago the
title was honorably worn by Mashier, who got twenty spaces for a night
trick he turned in Brooklyn. Since Mashier could not use the name in
Sing Sing, Wendell, _alias_ Kid Unger, brother to Johnny the Mock,
adopted it for his own. It fitted well with his midnight methods and
noiseless, gliding, skulking ways. Moreover, since it was upon his own
sly rap to the bulls, who made the collar, that Mashier got pinched, he
may have felt himself entitled to the name as part of his reward. The
Indian scalps his victim, and upon a similar principle Wendell,
_alias_ Unger, brother to Johnny the Mock, when Mashier was handed that
breath-taking twenty years, may have decided to call himself the Ghost.
It will never be precisely known how and why and by whose hand the Ghost
was killed, although it is common opinion that Pretty Agnes had much
to do with it. Also, common opinion is more often right than many might
believe. In view of that possible connection with the bumping off of the
Ghost, Pretty Agnes is worth a word. She could not have been called old.
When upon a certain Saturday evening, not remote, she stepped into Jack
Sirocco's in Chatham Square, her years counted fewer than nineteen.
Still, she had seen a good deal--or a bad deal--whichever you prefer.
Pretty Agnes' father, a longshoreman, had found his bread along the
docks. None better ever-shaped for a boss stevedore, or trotted up a
gangplank with a 280-pound sack of sugar on his back. One day he fell
between the side of a moored ship and the stringpiece of the wharf; and
the ship, being at that moment ground against the wharf by the swell
from a passing steamer, he was crushed. Those who looked on called him a
fool for having been killed in so poor a way. He was too dead to resent
the criticism, and after that his widow, the mother of Pretty Agnes,
took in washing.
Her mother washed, and Pretty Agnes carried home the clothes. This went
on for three years. One wind-blown afternoon, as the mother was hanging
out clothes on the roof--a high one--and refreshing her energies with
intermittent gin from the bottle of her neighbor, the generous Mrs.
Callahan, she stepped backward down an airshaft. She struck the flags
ten stories below, and left Pretty Agnes to look out for herself.
Looking out for herself, Pretty Agnes worked in a sweatshop in
Division Street. Here she made three dollars a week and needed five.
The sweatshop owner--for she was a dream of loveliness, with a fog of
blue-black hair and deep brown eyes--offered to make up the lacking two,
and was accepted.
Round, ripe, willowy, Pretty Agnes graduated from the Division Street
sweatshop to a store in Twenty-third Street. There she served as a cloak
model, making fourteen dollars a week while needing twenty. The
manager of the cloak store was as generous as had been the owner of the
sweatshop, and benevolently made up the absent six.
For Pretty Agnes was lovelier than ever.
All work and no play, makes Jack a dull boy. Also, it has the same
effect on Jill. Pretty Agnes--she had a trunkful of good clothes and
yearned to show them--went three nights a week to one of those dancing
academies wherewith the East Side was and is rife. As she danced she met
Indian Louie, and lost no time in loving him.
Having advantage of her love, that seeker after doubtful dollars showed
Pretty Agnes where and how she could make more money than would come
to her as a cloak model in any Twenty-third Street store. Besides, he
jealously disapproved of the benevolent manager, though, all things
considered, it is hard to say why.
Pretty Agnes, who had grown weary of the manager and to whom Louie's
word was law, threw over both the manager and her cloak-model position.
After which she walked the streets for Louie--as likewise did Mollie
Squint--and, since he often beat her, continued to love him from the
bottom of her heart.
Between Pretty Agnes and Mollie Squint, Louie lived sumptuously. Nor
could they themselves be said to have altogether suffered; for each knew
how to lick her fingers as a good cook should. Perhaps Louie was
aware that his darlings held out on him, but regarded it as just an
investment. He must have known that to dress well stood first among the
demands of their difficult profession, which was ancient and had been
honorable, albeit in latter days ill spoken of.
Louie died, and was mourned roundly by Pretty Agnes for eight weeks.
Then she gave her love to Sammy Hart, who was out-on-the-safe. Charlie
Lennard, _alias_ Big Head, worked pal to Sammy Hart, and the Ghost went
with them as outside man and to help in carrying the tools.
Commonly Sammy and Big Head tackled only inferior safes, in cracking
which nothing nobler nor more recondite than a can-opener was demanded.
Now and then, however, when a first-class box had to be blown and soup
was an absolute requirement, the Ghost came in exceeding handy. No yegg
who ever swung under and traveled from town to town without a ticket,
knew better than did the Ghost how to make soup.
The soup-making process, while ticklish, ought to be worth reading
about. A cake of dynamite is placed in the cold bottom of a kettle. Warm
water is added, and the kettle set a-simmer over a benzine lamp. As
the water heats, the dynamite melts into oil, and the oil--being
lighter--rises to the top of the water.
The oil is drawn softly off with a syringe, and as softly discharged
into a bottle half filled with alcohol. The alcohol is to prevent
explosion by jarring. Soup, half oil, half alcohol, can be fired with a
fuse, but will sustain quite a jolt without resenting it.
This was not true in an elder day, before our box workers discovered
that golden alcoholic secret. There was a yegg once who was half in,
half out, of the window of a P. O. Pie had the bottle of soup in his
hip pocket. The sash fell, struck the consignment of hip-pocket soup,
and all that was found of the yegg were the soles of his shoes. Nothing
so disconcerting would have happened had the Ghost made the soup.
The Ghost, while believed in by Big Head and Sammy, was distrusted by
Pretty Agnes. She distrusted him because of his bad repute as a snitch.
She called Sammy's attention to what tales were abroad to the black
effect that the Ghost was a copper in his mildewed soul, and one time
and another had served stoolpigeon to many dicks.
Sammy took no stock in these reports, and told Pretty Agnes so.
“Th' Ghost's all right,” he said; “he's been wit' me an' Big Head when
we toins off twenty joints.”
“He may go wit' you,” retorted Pretty Agnes, “for twenty more tricks,
an' never rap. But mark me woids, Sammy; in th' end he'll make a present
of youse to th' bulls.”
Sammy only laughed, holding that the feminine intelligence, while
suspicious, was not a strong intelligence.
“Well,” said Sammy, when he had ceased laughing, “if th' Ghost does
double-cross me, w'at'll youse do?”
“W'at'll I do? As sure as my monaker is Pretty Agnes, I'll have him
cooked.”
“Good goil!” said Sammy Hart.
Gangland discusses things social, commercial, political, and freely
forms and gives opinions. From a panic in Wall Street to the making of
a President, nothing comes or goes uncommented upon and unticketed
in Gangland. Even the fashions are threshed out, and sage judgments
rendered concerning frocks and hats and all the latest hints from Paris.
This you can test for yourself, on any evening, at such hubs of popular
interest as Sirocco's, Tony's, Jimmy Kelly's or the Chatham Club.
Sirocco's was a-swarm with life that Saturday evening when Pretty Agnes
dropped in so casually. At old Jimmy's table they were considering the
steel trust investigation, then proceeding--ex-President Roosevelt had
that day testified--and old Jimmy and the Irish Wop voiced their views,
and gave their feelings vent. Across at Slimmy's the dread doings of a
brace of fair ones, who had excited Coney Island by descending upon that
lively suburb in harem skirts, was under discussion.
Speaking of the steel trust investigation and its developments, old
Jimmy was unbelting after this wise. Said he, bringing down his hairy
fist with a whack that startled every beer glass on the table into an
upward jump of full three inches:
“Th' more I read of th' doin's of them rich guys, th' more I begin to
think that th' makin' of a mutt lurks in every million dollars. Say,
Wop, they don't know how to pick up a hand an' play it, after it's been
dealt 'em. Take 'em off Wall Street an' mix 'em up wit' anything except
stocks, an' they can't tell a fire plug from a song an' dance soubrette.
If some ordinary skate was to go crabbin' his own personal game th'
way they do theirs, th' next you'd hear that stew would be in
Blooming-dale.”
“Phwat's eatin' yez now, Jimmy?” inquired the Wop, carelessly. “Is it
that steel trusht thing th' pa-a-apers is so full of?”
“That an' th' way Morgan an' th' balance of that fur-lined push fall
over themselves. Th' big thing they're shy on is diplomacy. When it
comes to diplomacy, they're a lot of dead ones.”
“An' phwat's diplom'cy?”
The Wop didn't like big words; his feeling was to first question, then
resent them.
“Phwat's diplom'cy?” he repeated.
“Diplomacy,” said old Jimmy, “is any cunnin' move that lands th' trick.
You wake up an' hear a noise; an' you think it's some porch-climber,
like th' Nailer here, turnin' off th' joint. At that, not knowin' but
he's framed up with a gun, you don't feel like goin' to th' mat with
him. What do you do? Well, you use diplomacy. You tosses mebby a
dumbbell over th' bannisters, an' lets it go bumpin' along from step
to step, makin' more row than some geezer failin' down stairs with a
kitchen stove. Th' racket throws a scare into th' Nailer, an' he beats
it, see?”
“An' that's diplom'cy!” said the Wop.
“Also, it's exactly what them Wall Streeters ain't got. Look at th' way
they're always fightin' Roosevelt. For twenty-five years they've been
roustin' Teddy; an' for twenty-five years they've done nothin' but keep
him on th' map. When Teddy was in Mulberry Street th' Tammany ducks gets
along with him as peaceful as a basketful of pups. Diplomacy does it;
that, an' payin' strict attention to Teddy's blind side. 'What's th' use
of kickin' in th' gate,' says they, 'when we knows where a picket's off
th' fence?' You remember Big Florrie Sullivan puttin' young Brady on th'
Force? Teddy's in Mulberry Street then. Do you think Big Florrie goes
queerin' th' chances, be tellin' Teddy how Brady passes th' cush box
in Father Curry's church? Not on your life! It wouldn't have been
diplomacy; Teddy wouldn't have paid no attention. Big Florrie gets in
his work like this:
“'Say, Commish,' he says, 'I sees th' fight of my life last night.
Nineteen rounds to a knockout! It's a left hook to th' jaw does it.'
“'No!' Teddy says, lightin' up like Chinatown on th' night of a Chink
festival; 'you int'rest me! Pull up a stool,' says he, 'an' put your
feet on th' desk. There; now you're comfortable, go on about th' fight.
Who were they?'
“'A lad from my district named Brady,' says Big Florry, 'an' a
dock-walloper from Williamsburg. You ought to have seen it, Commish!
Oh, Brady's th' goods! Pie's th' lad to go th' route! He's all over that
Williamsburg duffer like a cat over a shed roof! He went 'round him like
a cooper 'round a barrel!'
“Big Florrie runs on like that, using diplomacy, an' two weeks later
Brady's thumpin' a beat.”
“Ye're r-r-right, Jimmy,” said the Wop, after a pause which smelled
of wisdom; “I agrees wit' yez. Morgan, Perkins, Schwab an' thim rich
omadauns is th' bum lot. Now I think av it, too, Fatty Walsh minchons
that wor-r-rd diplom'cy to me long ago. Yez knew Fatty, Jimmy?”
“Fatty an' me was twins.”
“Fatty's th' foine la-a-ad; on'y now he's dead--Mary resht him! Th' time
I'm in th' Tombs for bouncin' th' brick off th' head av that Orangeman,
who's whistlin' th' Battle av th' Boyne to see how long I can shtand it,
Fatty's th' warden; an' say, he made th' place home to me. He's talkin',
Fatty is, wan day about Mayor Hughey Grant, an' it's then he shpeaks av
diplom'cy. He says Hughey didn't have anny.”
“Don't you believe it!” interrupted old Jimmy; “Fatty had Hughey down
wrong. When it comes to diplomacy, Hughey could suck an egg an' never
chip th' shell.”
“It's a special case loike. Fatty's dishtrict, d'yez see, has nothin' in
it but Eyetalians. Wan day they'r makin' ready to cilibrate somethin'.
Fatty's in it, av course, bein' leader, an' he chases down to th' City
Hall an' wins out a permit for th' Dago parade.”
“What's Hughey got to do with that?”
“Lishten! It shtrikes Hughey, him bein' Mayor, it'll be th' dead wise
play, when Fatty marches by wit' his Guineas, to give them th' gay,
encouragin' face. Hughey thinks Fatty an' his pushcart la-a-ads is
cilibratin' some Dago Saint Patrick's day, d'yez see. It's there Fatty
claims that Hughey shows no diplom'cy; he'd ought to have ashked.”
“Asked what?”
“I'm comin' to it. Fatty knows nothin' about phwat's on Hughey's chest.
His first tip is when he sees Hughey, an' th' balance av th' Tammany
administration cocked up in a hand-me-down grandstand they've faked
together in City Hall Park. Fatty pipes 'em, as he an' his Black
Hand bunch comes rowlin' along down Broadway, an' th' sight av that
grandshtand full av harps, Hughey at th' head, almosht gives him heart
failure.
“Fatty halts his Eyetalians, sets them to ma-a-arkin' toime, an' comes
sprintin' an' puffin' on ahead.
“'Do a sneak!' he cries, when he comes near enough to pass th' wor-r-rd.
'Mother above! don't yez know phwat these wops av mine is cilibratin'?
It's chasin' th' pope out av Rome. Duck, I tell yez, duck!”
“Sure; Hughiy an' th' rist av th' gang took it on th' run. Fatty could
ma-a-arch all right, because there's nobody but blackhanders in his
dish-trict. But wit' Hughey an' th' others it's different. They might
have got his grace, th' archbishop, afther thim.”
“Goin' back to Teddy,” observed old Jimmy, as he called for beer, “them
rich lobsters is always stirrin' him up. An' they always gets th' worst
of it. They've never brought home th' bacon yet. Tie's put one over on
'em every time.
“Yez can gamble that Tiddy's th' la-a-ad that can fight!” cried the Wop
in tones of glee; “he's th' baby that's always lookin' f'r an argument!”
Then in a burst, both rapturous and irrelevant: “tie's th' idol av th'
criminal illimint!”
“I don't think that's ag'inst him,” interjected the Nailer, defensively.
“Nor me neither,” said old Jimmy. “When it comes down to tacks, who's
quicker wit' th' applaudin' mitt at sight of an honest man than th'
crim'nal element?--only so he ain't bumpin' into their graft. Who is it
hisses th' villyun in th' play till you can hear him in Hoboken? Ain't
it some dub just off the Island? Once a Blind Tom show is at Minor's,
an' a souse in th' gallery is so carried away be grief at th' death of
Little Eva, he falls down two flights of stairs. I gets a flash at him
as they tosses him into th' ambulance, an' I hopes to join th' church if
it ain't a murderer I asks Judge Battery Dan to put away on Blackwell's
for beatin' up his own little girl till she can't get into her frock.
Wall Streeters an' college professors, when it comes to endorsin' an
honest man, can't take no medals off th' crim'nal element.”
“Phwy has Morgan an' th' rist av thim Wall Street geeks got it in f'r
Tiddy?” queried the Wop. “Phwat's he done to 'em?”
“Nothin'; only they claims it ain't larceny if you steal more'n a
hundred thousand dollars, an' Teddy won't stand for a limit.”
“If that's phwat they're in a clinch about, then I'm for Tiddy,”
declared the Wop. “Ain't it him, too, that says th' only difference
bechune a rich man an' a poor man is at th' bank? More power to
him!--why not? Would this beer be annythin' but beer, if it came through
a spigot av go-o-old, from a keg av silver, an' th' bar-boy had used a
dia-mond-shtudded bung-starter in tappin' it?”
Over at Slimmy's table, where the weaker sex predominated, the talk was
along lighter lines. Mollie Squint spoke in condemnation of those harem
skirts at Coney Island.
“What do youse think,” she asked, “of them she-scouts showin' up at Luna
Park in harem skirts? Coarse work that--very coarse. It goes to prove
how some frails ain't more'n half baked.”
“Why does a dame go to th' front in such togs?” asked Slimmy
disgustedly.
“Because she's stuck on herself,” said the Nailer, who had drifted over
from old Jimmy and the Wop, where the talk was growing too heavy for
him; “an' besides, it's an easy way of gettin' th' spot-light. Take
anything like this harem skirt stunt, an' oodles of crazy Mollies'll
fall for it. Youse can't hand it out too raw! So if it's goin' to stir
things up, an' draw attention, they're Johnny-at-the-rat-hole every
time!”
“We ladies,” remarked Jew Yetta, like a complacent Portia giving
judgment, “certainly do like to be present at th' ball game! An' if we
can't beat th' gate--can't heel in--we'll climb th' fence. Likewise,
we're right there whenever it's th' latest thing. Especially, if we've
got a face that'd stop traffic in th' street. Do youse remember”--this
to Anna Gold--“when bicycles is new, how a lot of old iron-bound
fairies, wit' maps that'd give youse a fit of sickness, never wastes a
moment in wheelin' to th' front?”
“Do I remember when bicycles is new?” retorted Anna Gold, resentfully.
“How old do youse think I be?”
“Th' Nailer's right,” said Slimmy, cutting skilfully in with a view to
keeping the peace. “Th' reason why them dames breaks in on bicycles,
an' other new deals, is because it attracts attention; an' attractin'
attention is their notion of bein' great. Which shows that they don't
know th' difference between bein' famous an' bein' notorious.”
Slimmy, having thus declared himself, looked as wise as a treeful of
owls.
“Well, w'at is th' difference?” demanded Anna Gold.
“What's th' difference between fame an' notoriety?” repeated Slimmy,
brow lofty, manner high. “It's th' difference, Goldie, between havin'
your picture took at th' joint of a respectable photographer, an'
bein' mugged be th' coppers at th' Central Office. As to harem skirts,
however, I'm like Mollie there. Gen'rally speakin', I strings wit' th'
loidies; but when they springs a make-up like them harem skirts, I pack
in. Harem skirts is where I get off.”
“Of course,” said Big Kitty, who while speaking little spoke always to
the point, “youse souses understands that them dolls who shakes up Coney
has an ace buried. They're simply a brace of roof-gardeners framin' up a
little ink. I s'pose they fig-gered they'd make a hit. Did they?”--this
was in reply to Mollie Squint, who had asked the question. “Well, if
becomin' th' reason why th' bull on post rings in a riot call, an'
brings out th' resoives, is your idee of a hit, Mollie, them dames is
certainly th' big scream.”
“Them harem skirts won't do!” observed the Nailer, firmly; “youse hear
me, they won't do!”
“An' that goes f'r merry widdy hats, too,” called out the Wop, from
across the room. “Only yister-day a big fat baby rounds a corner on me,
an' bang! she ketches me in th' lamp wit' th' edge av her merry widdy.
On the livil, I thought it was a cross-cut saw! She came near bloindin'
me f'r loife. As I side-steps, a rooshter's tail that's sproutin' out av
th' roof, puts me other optic on th' blink. I couldn't have seen a shell
av beer, even if Jimmy here was payin' fer it. Harem skirts is bad; but
th' real minace is merry widdys.”
“I thought them lids was called in,” remarked Slimmy.
“If they was,” returned the Wop, “they got bailed out ag'in. Th' one I'm
nailed wit' is half as big as Betmont Pa-a-ark. Youse could 've raced a
field av two-year olds on it.”
“Well,” remarked the Nailer, resignedly, “it's th' fashion, an' it's up
to us, I s'pose, to stand it. That or get off the earth.”
“Who invints th' fashions?” and here the Wop appealed to the deep
experience of old Jimmy.
“Th' French.”
Old Jimmy--his pension had just been paid--motioned to the waiter to
again take the orders all 'round.
“Th' French. They're the laddy-bucks that shoves 'em from shore. Say
'Fashion!' an' bing! th' French is on th' job, givin' orders.”
“Thim Frinch 're th' great la-a-ads,” commented the Wop, admiringly.
“There's a felly on'y this mornin' tellin' me they can cook shnails so's
they're almosht good to eat.”
“Tell that bug to guess ag'in, Wop,” said Mollie Squint. “Snails is
never good to eat. As far as them French are concerned, however, I go
wit' old Jimmy. They're a hot proposition.”
Jack Sirocco had been walking up and down, his manner full of
uneasiness.
“What's wrong, Jack?” at last asked old Jimmy, who had observed that
proprietor's anxiety.
Sirocco explained that divers gimlet-eyed gentlemen, who he believed
were emissaries of an antivice society, had been in the place for hours.
“They only now screwed out,” continued Sirocco. Then, dolefully: “It'd
be about my luck, just as I'm beginnin' to get a little piece of change
for myself, to have some of them virchoo-toutin' ginks hand me a wallop.
I wonder w'at good it does 'em to be always tryin' to knock th' block
off somebody. I ain't got nothin' ag'inst virchoo. Vir-choo's all right
in its place. But so is vice.”
Old Jimmy's philosophy began manoeuvring for the high ground.
“This vice and virtue thing makes me tired,” he said; “there's too much
of it. Also, there's plenty to be said both ways. Th' big trouble wit'
them anti-vice dubs is that they're all th' time connin' themselves.
They feel moral when it's merely dyspepsia; they think they're virchous
when they're only sick. In th' end, too, virchoo always falls down.
Virchoo never puts a real crimp in vice yet. Virchoo's a sprinter; an'
for one hundred yards it makes vice look like a crab. But vice is a
stayer, an' in th' Marathon of events it romps in winner. Virchoo likes
a rockin'-chair; vice puts in most of its time on its feet. Virchoo
belongs to th' Union; it's for th' eight hour day, with holidays an'
Saturday afternoons off. Vice is always willin' to break th' wage
schedule, work overtime or do anythin' else to oblige. Virchoo wants two
months in th' country every summer; vice never asks for a vacation since
th' world begins.”
The Wop loudly cheered old Jimmy's views. Sirocco, however, continued
gloomy.
“For,” said the latter with a sigh, “I can feel it that them anti-vice
guys has put th' high-sign on me. They'll never rest now until they've
got me number.”
Pretty Agnes, on comin' in, had taken a corner table by herself. She
heard, but did not join in the talk. She even left untouched the glass
of beer, which, at a word from old Jimmy, a waiter had placed before
her. Silent and sad, with an expression which spoke of trouble present
or trouble on its way, she sat staring into smoky space.
“W'at's wrong wit' her?” whispered Slimmy, who, high-strung and
sensitive, could be worked upon by another's troubles.
“Why don't youse ask her?” said Big Kitty.
Slimmy shook a doubtful head. “She ain't got no use for me,” he
explained, “since that trouble wit' Indian Louie.”
“She sure couldn't expect you an' th' Grabber,” remarked Anna Gold,
quite scandalized at the thought of such unfairness, “to lay dead, while
Louie does you out of all that dough!”
“It's th' rent,” said Jew Yetta. She had been canvassing Pretty
Agnes out of the corners of her eyes. “I know that look from me own
experience. She can't come across for the flat, an' some bum of an agent
has handed her a notice.”
“There's nothin' in that,” declared Mollie Squint. “She could touch me
for th' rent, an' she's hep to it.” Then, in reproof of the questioning
looks of Anna Gold: “Sure; both me an' Agnes was stuck on Indian Louie,
but w'at of that? Louie's gone; an' besides, I never blames her. It's me
who's th' butt-in; Agnes sees Louie first.”
“Youse 're wrong, Yetta,” spoke up the Nailer, confidently. “Agnes ain't
worryin' about cush. There ain't a better producer anywhere than Sammy
Hart. No one ever sees Sammy wit'out a roll.”
The Nailer lounged across to Pretty Agnes; Mollie Squint, whose heart
was kindly, followed him.
“W'y don't youse lap up your suds?” queried the Nailer, pointing to the
beer. Without waiting for a return, he continued, “Where's Sammy?”
“Oh, I don't know,” returned Pretty Agnes, her manner half desperate.
“Nailer, I'm simply fretted batty!”
“W'at's gone crooked, dear?” asked Mollie Squint, soothingly. “Youse
ain't been puttin' on th' mitts wit' Sammy?”
“No,” replied Pretty Agnes, the tears beginning to flow; “me an' Sammy's
all right. On'y he won't listen!” Then suddenly pointing with her
finger, she exclaimed; “There! It's him I'm worryin' about!”
The Nailer and Mollie Squint glanced in the direction indicated by
Pretty Agnes. The Ghost had just come in and was sidling into a chair.
It must be admitted that there was much in his appearance to dislike.
His lips were loose, his eyes half closed and sleepy, while his chin
was catlike, retreating, unbased. In figure he was undersized,
slope-shouldered, slouching. When he spoke, his voice drawled, and the
mumbled words fell half-formed from the slack angles of his mouth. He
was an eel--a human eel--slippery, slimy, hard to locate, harder still
to hold. To find him you would have to draw off all the water in the
pond, and then poke about in the ooze.
“It's him that's frettin' me,” repeated Pretty Agnes. “He's got me
wild!”
The Nailer donned an expression, cynical and incredulous.
“W'at's this?” said he. “W'y Agnes, youse ain't soft on that mutt, be
youse? Say, youse must be gettin' balmy!”
“It ain't that,” returned Pretty Agnes, indignantly. “Do youse think I'd
fall for such a chromo? I'd be bughouse!”
“Bughouse wouldn't half tell it!” exclaimed Mollie Squint fervently.
“Him?”--nodding towards the Ghost. “W'y he's woise'n a wet dog!”
“Well,” returned the puzzled Nailer, who with little imagination, owned
still less of sentimental breadth, “if youse ain't stuck on him, how's
he managin' to fret youse? Show me, an' I'll take a punch at his lamp.”
“Punchin' wouldn't do no good,” replied Pretty Agnes, resignedly. “This
is how it stands. Sammy an' Big Head's gettin' ready to do a _schlam_
job. They've let th' Ghost join out wit' 'em, an' I know he's goin' to
give 'em up.”
The Nailer looked grave.
“Unless youse've got somethin' on him, Agnes.” he remonstrated, “you
oughtn't to make a squawk like that. How do youse know he's goin' to
rap?”
“Cause he always raps,” she cried fiercely. “Where's Mashier? Where's
Marky Price? Where's Skinny Goodstein? Up th' river!--every mother's son
of 'em! An' all his pals, once; every one! He's filled in wit' th' best
boys that ever cracked a bin. An' every one of 'em's doin' their bits,
while he's here drinkin' beer. I tell youse th' Ghost's a snitch! Youse
can see 'Copper' written on his face.”
“If I t'ought so,” growled the Nailer, an evil shine in his beady eyes,
“I'd croak him right here.” Then, as offering a solution: “If youse 're
so sure he's a stool, w'y don't youse tail him an' see if he makes a
meet wit' any bulls?”
“Tail nothin'!” scoffed Pretty Agnes, bitterly; “me mind's made up. All
I'll do is wait. If Sammy falls, it'll be th' Ghost's last rap. I know
a party who's crazy gone on me. For two weeks I've been handin' him th'
ice pitcher. All I has to do is soften up a little, an' he'll cook th'
Ghost th' minute I says th' woid.”
Pretty Agnes, as though the sight of the Ghost were too much for her
feelings, left the place. The Ghost himself, appeared uneasy, and didn't
remain long.
The Nailer turned soberly to Mollie Squint. “Do youse t'ink,” said he,
“there's anythin' in that crack of Agnes?”
“Search me!” returned Mollie Squint, conservatively. “I ain't sayin' a
woid.”
“It's funny about youse skoits,” remarked the Nailer, his manner an
imitation of old Jimmy's. “Here's Agnes talkin' of havin' th' Ghost
trimmed in case he tips off Sammy to th' dicks, an' yet when Slimmy an'
th' Grabber puts Indian Louie over th' jump, neither Agnes nor you ever
so much as yelps!”
“You don't understand,” said Mollie Squint, tolerantly. “Sammy's nice
to Agnes. Louie? Th' best he ever hands us is to sting us for our rolls,
an' then go blow 'em on that blonde. There's a big difference, Nailer,
if youse could only see it.”
“Well,” replied the Nailer, who boasted a heart untouched, “all I can
say is youse dolls are too many for me! You've got me wingin'.”
Midnight!
The theatre of operations was a cigar store, in Canal Street near the
Bowery. The Ghost was on the outside. The safe was a back number; to
think of soup would have been paying it a compliment. After an hour's
work with a can-opener, Sammy and Big Head declared themselves within
ten minutes of the money. All that remained was to batter in the
inner-lining of the box.
Big Head cocked a sudden and suspicious ear.
“What's that?” he whispered.
Sammy had just reversed the can-opener, for an attack upon that
sheet-iron lining. He paused in mid-swing, and listened.
“It's a pinch,” he cried, crashing down the heavy iron tool with a
cataract of curses. “It's a pinch, an' th' Ghost is in on it. Agnes had
him right!”
It was a pinch sure enough. Even as Sammy spoke, Rocheford and
Wertheimer of the Central Office were covering them with their pistols.
“Hands up!” came from Wertheimer.
“You've got us bang right!” sighed Big Head.
Outside they found Cohen, also of the Central Office, with the ruffles
on the Ghost.
“That's only a throw-off,” sneered Sammy, pointing to the bracelets.
The Ghost began to whine. The loose lips became looser than ever, the
drooping lids drooped lower still.
“W'y, Sammy,” he remonstrated weepingly, “youse don't t'ink I'd go an'
give youse up!”
“That's all right,” retorted Sammy, with sullen emphasis. “Youse'll get
yours, Ghost.”
Had the Ghost been wise he would have remained in the Tombs; it was his
best chance. But the Ghost was-not wise. Within the week he was walking
the streets, and trying to explain a freedom which so sharply contrasted
with the caged condition of Big Head and Sammy Hart. Gangland turned its
back on him; his explanations were not received. And, sluggish and thick
as he was, Gangland made him feel it.
It was black night in University Place. The Ghost was gumshoeing his
way towards the Bridge Saloon. A taxicab came slowly crabbing along the
curb. It stopped; a quick figure slipped out and, muzzle on the very
spot, put a bullet through the base of the Ghost's brain.
The quick figure leaped back into the cab. The door slammed, and the cab
dashed off into the darkness at racing speed.
In that splinter of time required to start the cab you might have
seen--had you been near enough--two white small hands clutch with a kind
of rapturous acceptance at the quick figure, as it sprang into the cab,
and heard the eager voice of a woman saying “Promise for promise, and
word for word! Who wouldn't give soul and body for th' death of a
snitch?--for a snake that will bite no more?”