An' another man twict as well.
But that is not saying she would act as stool-pigeon. To charge that
the Darby Kid turned copper, and wised up the Central Office dicks
concerning the whereabouts of Harry the Soldier, is a serious thing. The
imputation is a grave one. Even the meanest ought not to be disgraced
as a snitch in the eyes of all Gangland, lightly and upon insufficient
evidence. There were others besides the Darby Kid who knew how to locate
Harry the Soldier. Might not one of these have given a right steer
to the bulls? Not that the Darby Kid can be pictured as altogether
blameless. She indubitably did a foolish thing. Having received that
letter, she should never have talked about it. Such communications
cannot be kept too secret. Some wretched talebearer must have been
lounging about the Chatham Club. Why not? The Chatham Club can no more
guarantee the character of its patrons than can the Waldorf-Astoria.
The evening was a recent one. It was also dull. There wasn't an overflow
of customers, hardly enough in waiting on them, to take the stiffness
out of Nigger Mike's knees.
It was nine of the clock, and those two inseparables, the Irish Wop and
old Jimmy, sat in their usual chairs. The Wop spoke complainingly of the
poolroom trade, which was even duller than trade at the Chatham Club.
“W'at wit' killin' New York racin',” said the Wop dismally, “an' w'at
wit' raidin' a guy's joint every toime some av them pa-a-pers makes a
crack, it's got th' poolrooms on th' bum. For meself I'm thinkin' av
closin'. Every day I'm open puts me fifty dollars on th' nut. An' Jimmy,
I've about med up me moind to put th' shutters up.”
“Mebby you're in wrong with th' organization.”
“Tammany? Th' more you shtand in wit' Tammany, th' ha-a-arder you get
slugged.”
Old Jimmy signalled to Nigger Mike for beer. “Over to th' Little Hungary
last night,” remarked old Jimmy casually, “them swell politicians has a
dinner. I was there.”
The last came off a little proudly.
“They tell me,” said the Wop with a deprecatory shrug, “that Cha-a-arley
Murphy was there, too, an' that Se-r-rgeant Cram had to go along to
heel an' handle him. I can remimber whin chuck steak an' garlic is
about Cha-a-arley's speed. Now, whin he's bushtin' 'em open as Chief
av Tammany Hall, it's an indless chain av champagne an' tur'pin an'
canvashback, with patty-de-foy-grass as a chaser.”
Old Jimmy shook a severe yet lofty head. “If some guy tells you,
Wop, that Charley needs anybody in his corner at a dinner that
guy's stringin' you. Charley can see his way through from napkins to
toothpicks, as well as old Chauncey Depew. There's a lot of duffers
goin' 'round knockin' Charlie. They're sore just because he's gettin'
along, see? They'll tell you how if you butt him up ag'inst a
dinner table, he'll about give you an imitation of a blind dog in a
meat-shop--how he'll try to eat peas with a knife an' let 'em roll down
his sleeve an' all that. So far as them hoboes knockin' Charley goes,
it's to his credit. You don't want to forget, Wop, they never knock a
dead one.”
“In th' ould gas house days,” enquired the Wop, “wasn't Cha-a-arley a
conducthor on wan av th' crosstown ca-a-ars?”
“He was! an' a good one too. That's where he got his start. He quit
'em when they introduced bell punches; an' I don't blame him! Them big
companies is all alike. Which of 'em'll stand for it to give a workin'
man a chance?”
“Did thim la-a-ads lasht night make spaches?”
“Speeches? Nothin' but Trusts is to be th' issue this next pres'dential
campaign.”
“Now about thim trushts? I've been wantin' to ashk yez th' long time.
I've been hearin' av trushts for tin years, an' Mary save me! if I'd
know wan if it was to come an' live next dure.”
“Well, Wop,” returned old Jimmy engigmatically, “a trust is anything
you don't like--only so it's a corp'ration. So long as it stands in with
you an' you like it, it's all right, see? But once it takes to handin'
you th' lemon, it's a trust.”
“Speakin' av th' pris'dency, it looks loike this fat felly Taft's out to
get it in th' neck.”
“Surest ever! Th' trusts is sore on him; an' th' people is sore on him.
He's a frost at both ends of th' alley.”
“W'at crabbed him?”
“Too small in th' hat-band, too big in th' belt. Them republicans better
chuck Taft in th' discard an' take up Teddy. There's a live one! There's
th' sturdy plow-boy of politics who'd land 'em winner!”
The Nailer came strolling in and pulled up a chair.
“Roosevelt, Jimmy,” said he, “couldn't make th' run. Don't he start th'
argument himself, th' time he's elected, sayin' it's his second term an'
he'll never go out for th' White House goods again?”
“Shure he did,” coincided the Wop. “An' r-r-right there he give himsilf
th' gate. You're right, Nailer; he's barred.”
“Teddy oughtn't to have got off that bluff about not runnin' ag'in,”
observed old Jimmy thoughtfully. “He sees it himself now. Th' next
day after he makes his crack, a friend of mine, who's down to th' White
House, asks him about it; is it for the bleachers,' says my friend, 'or
does it go?'
“'Oh, it goes!' says Teddy.
“'Then,' says my friend, 'you'll pardon me, but I don't think it was up
to you to say it. It may wind up by puttin' everybody an' everything in
Dutch. No sport can know what he'll want to do, or what he ought to do,
four years ahead. Bein' pres'dent now, with four years to draw to, you
can no more tell whether or no you'll want to repeat than you can tell
what you'll want for dinner while you're eatin' lunch. Once I knew a guy
who's always ready to swear off whiskey, when he's half full. Used to
chase round to th' priest, on his own hunch; to sign th' pledge, every
time he gets a bun. Bein' soaked, he feels like he'll never want another
drink. After he'd gone without whiskey a couple of days, however, he'd
wake up to it that he's been too bigoted. He'd feel that he's taken
too narrow a view of th' liquor question, an' commence to see things in
their true colors.' That's what my friend told him. And now that Teddy's
show-in' signs, I've wondered whether he recalls them warnin' words.”
“W'at'll th' demmycrats do?” asked the Nailer. “Run Willyum Jennin's?”
“They will,” retorted the Wop scornfully, “if they want to get th' hoot.
Three toimes has this guy Bryan run--an' always f'r th' end book. D'yez
moind, Jimmy, how afther th' Denver Convention lie cha-a-ases down to
th' depot to shake ha-a-ands wit' Cha-a-arley Murphy? There's no class
to that! Would Washin'ton have done it?--Would Jefferson?”
“How was he hoited be shakin' hands wit' Murphy?”
The Nailer's tones were almost defiant. He had been brought up with a
profound impression of the grandeur of Tammany Hall.
“How was he hur-r-rted? D'yez call it th' cun-nin' play f'r him to be at
th' depot, hand stretched out, an' yellin' 'Mitt me, Cha-a-arley, mitt
me?' Man aloive, d'yez think th' country wants that koind av a ska-a-ate
in th' White House?”
The acrid emphasis of the Wop was so overwhelming that it swept the
Nailer off his feet.
The Wop resumed:
“Wan thing, that depot racket wasn't th' way to carry New York. Th' way
to bring home th' darby in th' Empire Shtate is to go to th' flure wit'
Tammany at th' ringin' av th' gong. How was it Cleveland used to win?
Was it be makin' a pet av Croker, or sendin' th' organization flowers?
An' yez don't have to be told what happened to Cleveland. An' Tammany,
moind yez, tryin' to thump his proshpecks on th' nut ivery fut av th'
way! If Willyum Jinnin's had been th' wise fowl, he'd have took his
hunch fr'm th' career av Cleveland, an' rough-housed Tammany whiniver
an' wheriver found. If he'd only knocked Tammany long enough an'
ha-a-ard enough, he'd have had an anchor-nurse on th' result.”
“This sounds like treason, Wop,” said old Jimmy in tones of mock
reproach. “Croker was boss in th' Cleveland days. You'll hardly say that
Charlie ain't a better chief than Croker?”
“Jimmy, there's as much difference bechune ould man Croker an'
Cha-a-arley Murphy as bechune a buffalo bull an' a billy-goat. To make
Murphy chief was loike settin' a boy to carryin' hod. While yez couldn't
say f'r shure whether he'd fall fr'm th' laddher or simply sit down
wit' th' hod, it's a cinch he'd niver get th' bricks to th' scaffold.
Murphy's too busy countin' th' buttons on his Prince Albert, an'
balancin' th' gold eye-glasshes on th' ridge av his nose, to lave him
anny toime f'r vict'ry.”
“While youse guys,” observed the Nailer, with a great air of knowing
something, “is indulgin' in your spiels about Murphy, don't it ever
strike youse that he's out to make Gaynor pres'dent?”
“Gaynor?” repeated old Jimmy, in high offence. “Do you think Charlie's
balmy? If it ever gets so that folks of th' Gaynor size is looked on as
big enough for th' presidency, I for one shall retire to th' booby house
an' devote th' remainder of an ill-spent life to cuttin' paper dolls.
An' yet, Nailer, I oughtn't to wonder at youse either for namin' him.
There's a Demmycrat Club mutt speaks to me about that very thing at th'
Little Hungary dinner.”
“'Gaynor is a college graduate,' says the Demmycrat Clubber. 'Is he?'
says I. 'Well then he ought to chase around to that college an' make
'em give him back his money. They swindled him.' 'Look at th' friends he
has!' says th' Clubber. 'I've been admirin' 'em,' I says. 'What with one
thing an' another, them he's appointed to office has stole everything
but th' back fence.' 'But didn't Croker, in his time, hook him up with
Tammany Hall?' says th' Clubber; 'that ought to show you!' 'Croker
did,' says I; 'it's an old Croker trick. Croker was forever get-tin' th'
Gaynors an' th' Shepherds an' th' Astor-Chanlers an' th' Cord Meyers an'
all them high-fly-in' guys into Tammany. He does it for th' same reason
they puts a geranium in a tenement house window.' 'An' w'at may that
be?' asks the Clubber. 'Th' geranium's intended,' says I, 'to engage
th' eye of th' Health Inspector, an' distract his attention from th'
drain.'”
The Darby Kid, a bright dancing light in her eyes and all a-flutter,
rushed in. The Nailer crossed over to a table at which sat Mollie
Squint. The Darby Kid joined them.
“W'at do youse think?” cried the Darby Kid. “I'm comin' out of me flat
when th' postman slips me a letter from Harry th' Soldier.”
“Where is he?” asked Mollie Squint.
“That's th' funny part. He's in th' Eyetalian Army, an' headed for
Africa. That's a fine layout, I don't think! An' he says I'm th' only
goil he ever loves, an' asts me to join him! Ain't he got his nerve?”
“W'y? You ain't mad because he croaks Butch?”
“No. But me for Africa!--the ideer!”
“About Dopey Benny?” said the Nailer.
“Harry says Benny got four spaces in Canada. It's a bank trick--tryin'
to blow a box in Montreal or somethin'.”
“Then you won't join Harry?” remarked Mollie Squint.
“In Africa? When I do, I'll toin mission worker.”
The next day the Central Office knew all that the Darby Kid knew as to
Harry the Soldier. But why say it was she who squealed? The Nailer
and Mollie Squint were quite as well informed as herself, having read
Harry's letter.
To begin at the foundation and go to the eaves--which is the only right
way to build either a house or a story. Crazy Butch had reached his
twenty-eighth year, when he died and was laid to rest in accordance with
the ceremonial of his ancient church. He was a child of the East Side,
and his vices out-topped his virtues upon a principle of sixteen to one.
The parents of Butch may be curtly dismissed as unimportant. They
gave him neither care nor guidance, but left him to grow up, a moral
straggler, in what tangled fashion he would. Never once did they show
him the moral way in which he should go. Not that Butch would have taken
it if they had.
To Butch, as to Gangland in general, morality was as so much lost
motion. And, just as time-is money among honest folk, so was motion
money with Butch and his predatory kind. Old Jimmy correctly laid down
the Gangland position, which was Butch's position. Said old Jimmy:
“Morality is all to the excellent for geeks with dough to burn an' time
to throw away. It's right into the mitts of W'ite Chokers, who gets paid
for bein' good an' hire out to be virchuous for so much a year. But
of what use is morality to a guy along the Bowery? You could take a
cartload of it to Simpson's, an' you couldn't get a dollar on it.”
Not much was known of the childhood of Butch, albeit his vacuous lack
of book knowledge assisted the theory that little or less of it had been
passed in school. Nor was that childhood a lengthy one, for fame began
early to collect upon Butch's scheming brow. He was about the green and
unripe age of thirteen when he went abroad into the highways and byways
of the upper city and stole a dog of the breed termed setter. This
animal he named Rabbi, and trained as a thief.
Rabbi, for many months, was Butch's meal ticket. The method of their
thievish procedure was simple but effective. Butch--Rabbi alertly at
his godless heels--would stroll about the streets looking for prey. When
some woman drifted by, equipped of a handbag of promise, Butch pointed
out the same to the rascal notice of Rabbi. After which the discreet
Butch withdrew, the rest of it--as he said--being up to Rabbi.
Rabbi followed the woman, his abandoned eye on the hand-bag. Watching
his chance, Rabbi rushed the woman and dexterously whisked the handbag
from out her horrified fingers. Before the woman realized her loss,
Rabbi had raced around a nearest corner and was lost to all pursuit.
Fifteen minutes later he would find Butch at Willett and Stanton
Streets, and turn over the touch.
Rabbi hated a policeman like a Christian. The sight of one would send
him into growling, snarling, hiding. None the less, like all great
characters, Rabbi became known; and, in the end, through some fraud
which was addressed to his softer side and wherein a canine Delilah
performed, he Avas betrayed into the clutches of the law.
This mischance marked the close, as a hanger-snatcher, of the invaluable
Rabbi's career. Not that the plain-clothes people who caught him affixed
a period to his doggish days. Even a plains-clothes man isn't entirely
hard. Rabbi's captors merely found him a home in the Catskills, where he
spent his days in honor and his nights in sucking unsuspected eggs.
When Rabbi was retired to private life, Butch, in his bread-hunting,
resolved to seek new paths. Among the cruder crimes is house-breaking
and to it the amateur law-breaker most naturally turns. Butch became a
house-worker with special reference to flats.
In the beginning, Butch worked in the day time, or as they say in
Gangland, “went out on _skush._” Hating the sun, however, as all true
criminals, must, he shifted to night jobs, and took his dingy place
in the ranks of viciousness as a _schlamwerker_. As such he turned off
houses, flats and stores, taking what Fate sent him. Occasionally he
varied the dull monotony of simple burglary by truck-hopping.
Man cannot live by burglary alone, and Butch was not without his
gregarious side. Seeking comradeship, he united himself with the Eastman
gang. As a gangster he soon distinguished himself. He fought like a
berserk; and it was a sort of war-frenzy, which overtook him in battle,
that gave him his honorable prefix.
Monk Eastman thought well of Butch. Not even Ike the Blood stood
nearer than did Butch to the heart of that grim gang captain. Eastman's
weakness was pigeons. When he himself went finally to Sing Sing, he
asked the court to permit him another week in the Tombs, so that he
might find a father for his five hundred feathered pets.
In the days when Butch came to strengthen as well as ornament his
forces, Eastman kept a bird store in Broome Street, under the New Irving
Hall. Eastman also rented bicycles. Those who thirsted to stand well
with him were sedulous to ride a wheel. They rented these uneasy engines
of Eastman, with the view of drawing to themselves that leader's favor.
Butch, himself, was early astride a bicycle. One time and another he
paid into Eastman's hands the proceeds of many a _shush_ or _schlam_
job; and all for the calf-developing privilege of pedalling about the
streets.
Butch conceived an idea which peculiarly endeared him to Eastman. In
Forsyth Street was a hall, and Butch--renting the same--organized an
association which, in honorable advertisement of his chief's trade of
pigeons and bicycles, he called the Squab-Wheelmen. Eastman himself
stood godfather to this club, and at what times he reposed himself from
his bike and pigeon labors, played pool in its rooms.
There occurred that which might have shaken one less firmly established
than Butch. As it was, it but solidified him and did him good. The world
will remember the great gang battle, fought at Worth and Center Streets,
between the Eastmans and the Five Points. The merry-making was put an
end to by those spoil sports, the police, who, as much without noble
sympathies as chivalric instincts, drove the contending warriors from
the field at the point of their night sticks.
Brief as was the fray, numerous were the brave deeds done. On one
side or the other, the Dropper, the Nailer, Big Abrams, Ike the Blood,
Slimmy, Johnny Rice, Jackeen Dalton, Biff Ellison and the Grabber
distinguished themselves. As for Butch, he was deep within the warlike
thick of things, and no one than he came more to the popular front.
Sequential to that jousting, a thought came to Butch. The Squab-Wheelmen
were in nightly expectation of an attack from the Five Pointers. By way
of testing their valor, and settle definitely, in event of trouble, who
would stick and who would duck, Butch one midnight, came rushing up the
stairway, which led to the club rooms, blazing with two pistols at once.
Butch had prevailed upon five or six others, of humor as jocose as his
own, to assist, and the explosive racket the party made in the narrow
stairway was all that heart could have wished. It was comparable only
to a Mott Street Chinese New Year's, as celebrated in front of the Port
Arthur.
There were sixty members in the rooms of the Squab-Wheelmen when Butch
led up his feigned attack, and it is discouraging to relate that most
if not all of them fled. Little Kishky, sitting in a window, was so
overcome that he fell out backwards, and broke his neck. Some of those
who fled, by way of covering their confusion, were inclined to make
a deal of the death of Little Kishky and would have had it set to the
discredit of Butch. Gangland opinion, however, was against them. If
Little Kishky hadn't been a quitter, he would never have fallen out.
Butch was not only exonerated but applauded. He had devised--so declared
Gangland--an ideal method of separating the sheep who would fly from the
goats who would stay and stand fire.
Then, too, there was the laugh.
Gangland was quick to see the humorous side; and since humanity is prone
to decide as it laughs, Gangland overwhelmingly declared in favor of
Butch.
It was about this time that Butch found himself in a jam. His _schlam_
work had never been first class. It was the want of finish to it which
earned him the name of Butch. The second night after his stampede of the
Squab-Wheelmen, his clumsiness in a Brooklyn flat woke up a woman, who
woke up the neighborhood. Whereupon, the neighborhood rushed in and sat
upon the body of Butch, until the police came to claim him.
Subsequently, a Kings County judge saw his way clear to send Butch up
the river for four weary years. And did.
Butch was older and soberer when he returned. Also, his world had
changed. Eastman had been put away, and Ritchie Fitzpatrick ruled in
his place. Butch cultivated discretion, where before he had been hot and
headlong, and no longer sought that gang prominence which was formerly
as the breath to his nostrils.
Not that Butch altogether turned his back upon his old-time associates.
The local Froissarts tell how he, himself, captained a score or so of
choice spirits among the Eastmans, against the Humpty Jackson gang,
beat them, took them prisoners and plundered them. This brilliant
action occurred in that Fourteenth Street graveyard which was the common
hang-out of the Humpty Jacksons. Also, Humpty Jackson commanded his
partisans in person, and was captured and frisked with the rest.
Butch gained much glory and some money; for the Jacksons--however it
happened--chanced to be flush.
Butch, returning from Sing-Sing exile, did not return to his _schlam_
work. That trip up-the-river had shaken him. He became a Fagin, and
taught boys of tender years to do his stealing for him.
Butch's mob of kids counted as many as twenty, all trained in
pocket-picking to a feather-edge. As aiding their childish efforts,
it was Butch's habit to mount a bicycle, and proceed slowly down the
street, his fleet of kids going well abreast of him on the walks. Acting
the part of some half-taught amateur of the wheel, Butch would bump
into a man or a woman, preferably a woman. There would be cries and
a scuffle. The woman would scold, Butch would expound and explain.
Meanwhile the wren-head public packed itself ten deep about the center
of excitement.
It was then that Butch's young adherents pushed their shrewd way in.
Little hands went flying, to reap a very harvest of pokes. Butch began
building up a bank account.
As an excuse for living, and to keep his mob together, Butch opened
a pool parlor. This temple of enjoyment was in a basement in Willett
Street near Stanton. The tariff was two-and-a-half cents a cue, and what
Charley Bateses and Artful Dodgers worked for Butch were wont to refresh
themselves at the game.
Butch made money with both hands. He took his share as a Fagin. Then,
what fragmentary remnants of their stealings he allowed his young
followers, was faithfully blown in by them across his pool tables.
Imagination rules the world. Butch, having imagination, extended
himself. Already a Fagin, Butch became a _posser_ and bought stolen
goods for himself. Often, too, he acted as a _melina_ and bought for
others. Thus Butch had three strings to his business bow. He was getting
rich and at the same time keeping out of the fingers of the bulls. This
caused him to be much looked up to and envied, throughout the length and
breadth of Gangland.
Butch was thus prosperous and prospering when it occurred to him to fall
in love. Harry the Soldier was the Mark Antony of the Five Points, his
Cleopatra the Darby Kid. There existed divers reasons for adoring the
Darby Kid. There was her lustrous eyes, her coral mouth, her rounded
cheek, her full figure, her gifts as a shop lifter. As a graceful crown
to these attractions, the Darby Kid could pick a pocket with the best
wire that ever touched a leather. In no wise had she been named the
Darby Kid for nothing. Not even Mollie Squint was her superior at
getting the bundle of a boob. They said, and with truth, that those
soft, deep, lustrous eyes could look a sucker over, while yet that
unconscious sucker was ten feet away, and locate the keck wherein he
carried his roll. Is it astonishing then that the heart of Butch went
down on its willing knees to the Darby Kid?
Another matter:--Wasn't the Darby Kid the chosen one of Harry the
Soldier? Was not Harry a Five Pointer? Had not Butch, elbow to elbow,
with his great chief, Eastman, fought the Five Pointers in the battle
at Worth and Center? It was a triumph, indeed, to win the heart of the
Darby Kid. It was twice a triumph to steal that heart away from Harry
the Soldier.
The Darby Kid crossed over from Harry the Soldier to Butch, and brought
her love along. Thereafter her smiles were for Butch, her caresses for
Butch, her touches for Butch. Harry the Soldier was left desolate.
Harry the Soldier was a gon of merit and deserved eminence. That he
had been an inmate not only of the House of Refuge but the Elmira
Reformatory, should show you that he was a past-master at his art. His
steady partner was Dopey Benny. With one to relieve the other in the
exacting duties of stinger, and a couple of good stalls to put up an
effective back, trust them, at fair or circus or theatre break, to make
leathers, props and thimbles fly.
It was Gangland decision that for Butch to win the Darby Kid away from
Harry the Soldier, even as Paris aforetime took the lovely Helen from
her Menelaus, touched not alone the honor of Harry but the honor of the
Five Points. Harry must revenge himself. Still more must he revenge the
Five Points. It had become a case of Butch's life or his. On no milder
terms could Harry sustain himself in Gangland first circles. His name
else would be despised anywhere and everywhere that the fair and the
brave were wont to come together and unbuckle socially.
Butch, tall and broad and strong, smooth of face, arched of nose, was
a born hawk of battle. Harry the Soldier, dark, short, of no muscular
power, was not the physical equal of Butch. Butch looked forward with
confidence to the upcome.
“An' yet, Butch,” sweetly warned the Darby Kid, her arms about his neck,
“you mustn't go to sleep at the switch. Harry'll nail you if youse do.
It'll be a gun-fight, an' he's a dream wit' a gatt.”
“Never mind about that gatt thing! Do youse think, dearie, I'd let that
Guinea cop a sneak on me?”
It was a cool evening in September. A dozen of Butch's young gons were
knocking the balls about his pool tables. Butch himself was behind the
bar. Outside in Willett Street a whistle sounded. Butch picked up a
pistol off the drip-board, just in time to peg a shot at Harry the
Soldier as that ill-used lover came through the front door. Dopey Benny,
Jonathan to the other's David, was with Harry. Neither tried to shoot.
Through a hail of lead from Butch's pistol, the two ran out the back
door. No one killed; no one wounded. Butch had been shooting too high,
as the bullet-raked ceiling made plain.
Butch explained his wretched gun play by saying that he was afraid of
pinking some valued one among his boy scouts.
“At that,” he added, “it's just as well. Them wops 'll never come back.
Now when they see I'm organized they'll stay away. There ain't no sand
in them Sicilians.”
Butch was wrong. Harry, with Dopey Benny, was back the next night. This
time there was no whistle. Harry had sent forward a force of skirmishers
to do up those sentinels, with whom Butch had picketed Willett' Street.
Butch's earliest intimation that there was something doing came when a
bullet from the gun of Harry broke his back. Dopey Benny stood off the
public, while Harry put three more bullets into Butch. The final three
were superfluous, however, as was shown at the inquest next day.
The Darby Kid was abroad upon her professional duties as a gon-moll,
when Harry hived Butch. Her absence was regretted by her former lover.
“Because,” said he, as he and Dopey Benny fled down Stanton Street, “I'd
like to have made the play a double header, and downed the Kid along
wit' Butch.”
It was not so written, however. Double headers, whatever the field of
human effort, are the exception and not the rule of life.
It was whispered that Harry the Soldier and Dopey Benny remained three
days in the Pell Street room of Big Mike Abrams before their get-away.
They might have been at the bottom of the lower bay, for all the Central
Office knew. Butch was buried, and the Darby Kid wept over his grave.
After which she cheered up, and came back smiling. There is no good in
grief. Besides, it's egotistical, and trenches upon conceit.
The Central Office declares that, equipped of the right papers, it will
bring Harry the Soldier back from Africa. Also, it will go after Dopey
Benny in Kanuckland, when his time is out. The chair--says the Central
Office--shall yet have both.
Old Jimmy doesn't think there's a chance, while the jaundiced Wop openly
scoffs. Neither believes in the police. Meanwhile dark suspicions hover
cloudily over the Darby Kid. Did she rap? She says not, and offers to
pawn her soul.
“Why should I?” asks the Darby Kid. “Of course I'd sooner it was Butch
copped Harry. But it went the other way; an' why should I holler? Would
beefin' bring Butch back?”