This was after Nigger Mike had gone into exile in cold and sorrowful
Toronto, and while Tony Kelly did the moist honors at Number Twelve
Pell. Nigger Mike, you will remember, hurried to his ruin on the
combined currents of enthusiasm and many drinks, had registered a score
or two of times; for he meditated casting full fifty votes at the coming
election, in his own proper person, and said so to his friends.
As Mike registered those numerous times, the snap-shot hirelings of
certain annoying reformers were busy popping him with their cameras. His
friends informed him of this, and counselled going slow. But Mike was
beyond counsel, and knew little or less of cameras--never having had
his picture taken save officially, and by the rules of Bertillon. In the
face of those who would have saved him, he continued to stagger in
and out upon that multifarious registration, inviting destruction. The
purists took the pictures to the District Attorney, their hirelings told
their tales, and Mike perforce went into that sad Toronto exile. He is
back now, however, safe, sober, clothed and in his right mind; but that
is another story.
The day had been a sweltering July day for all of Chinatown. Now that
night had come, the narrowness of Pell and Doyers and Mott Streets was
choked with Chinamen, sitting along the curb, lolling in doorways, or
slowly drifting up and down, making the most of the cool of the evening.
Over across from Number Twelve a sudden row broke out. There were
smashings and crashings, loopholed, as it were, with shrill Mongolian
shrieks. The guests about Tony's tables glanced up with dull,
half-interested eyes.
“It's Big Mike Abrams tearin' th' packin' out of th' laundry across th'
street,” said Tony.
Tony was at the front door when the war broke forth, and had come aft
to explain. Otherwise those about his tables might have gone personally
forth, seeking a solution of those yellings and smashings and
crashings for themselves, and the flow of profitable beer been thereby
interrupted. At Tony's explanation his guests sat back in their chairs,
and ordered further beer. Which shows that Tony had a knowledge of his
business.
“About them socialists,” resumed Sop Henry, taking up the talk where it
had broken off; “Big Tom Foley tells me that they're gettin' something
fierce. They cast more'n thirty thousand votes last Fall.”
“Say,” broke in the Nailer, “I can't understand about a socialist. He
must be on the level at that; for one evenin', when they're holdin' a
meetin' in the Bowery, a fleet of gons goes through a dozen of 'em,
an', exceptin' for one who's an editor, and has pulled off a touch
somewheres, there ain't street car fare in all their kecks. That shows
there's nothin' in it for 'em. Th' editor has four bones on him--hardly
enough for a round of drinks an' beef stews. Th' mob blows it in at
Flynn's joint, down be th' corner.”
“I'm like you, Nailer,” agreed Sop Henry. “Them socialists have
certainly got me goin'. I can't get onto their coives at all.”
“Lishten, then.” This came from the Irish Wop, who was nothing if not
political. “Lishten to me. Yez can go to shleep on it, I know all about
a socialist. There's ould Casey's son, Barney--ould Casey that med a
killin' in ashphalt. Well, since his pah-pah got rich, young Casey's
a socialist. On'y his name ain't Barney now, it's Berna-a-ard. There's
slathers av thim sons av rich min turnin' socialists. They ain't strong
enough to git a fall out av either av th' big pa-a-arties, so they rush
off to th' socialists, where be payin' fer th' shpot light, they're
allowed to break into th' picture. That's th' way wit' young Barney,
ould Ashphalt Casey's son. Wan evenin' he dr-r-ives up to Lyon's wit'
his pah-pah's broom, two bob-tailed horses that spint most av their time
on their hind legs, an' th' Casey coat av arms on the broom dure, th'
same bein' a shtick av dynamite rampant, wit' two shovels reversed on a
field av p'tatoes. 'How ar-r-re ye?' he says. 'I want yez to jump in an'
come wit' me to th' Crystal Palace. It's a socialist meet-in',' he says.
'Oh, it is?' says I; 'an' phwat's a socialist? Is it a game or a musical
inshtrumint?' Wit' that he goes into p'ticulars. 'Well,' thinks I,
'there's th' ride, annyhow; an' I ain't had a carriage ride since
Eat-'em-up-Jack packed in--saints rest him! So I goes out to th' broom;
an' bechune th' restlessness av thim bob-tailed horses an' me not seein'
a carriage fer so long, I nearly br-r-roke me two legs gettin' in.
However, I wint. An' I sat on th' stage; an' I lishtened to th'
wind-jammin'; an' not to go no further, a socialist is simply an
anarchist who don't believe in bombs.”
There arose laughter and loud congratulatory sounds about the door.
Next, broadly smiling, utterly complacent, Big Mike Abrams walked in.
“Did youse lobsters hear me handin' it to th' monkeys?” he asked, and
his manner was the manner of him who doubts not the endorsement of men.
“That chink, Low Foo, snakes two of me shirts. I sends him five, an'
he on'y sends back three. So I caves in his block wit' a flatiron. You
ought to pipe his joint! I leaves it lookin' like a poolroom that won't
prodooce, after the wardman gets through.”
“An' Low Foo?” queried Tony, who had shirts of his own.
“Oh, a couple of monks carries him to his bunk out back. It'll take
somethin' more'n a shell of hop to chase away his troubles!” Mike
refreshed himself with a glass of beer, which he called suds. “Say,” he
continued with much fervor, “I wisht I could get a job punchin' monks at
a dollar a monk!”
Mike Abrams, _alias_ Big Mike, was a pillar of Chinatown, and added
distinctly to the life of that quarter. He was nearly six feet tall,
with shoulders as square as the foretopsail yard of a brig. His nervous
arms were long and slingy, his bony hands the size of hams. Neither the
Dropper nor yet Big Myerson could swap blows with him, and his hug--if
it came to rough-and-tumble--was comparable only to the hug of Mersher
the Strong Arm, who had out-hugged a bear for the drinks.
While he lived, Little Maxie greatly appreciated Big Mike. Little Maxie
is dead now. He ranked in the eyes of Mulberry Street as the best tool
that ever nailed a leather. To be allowed to join out with his mob
was conclusive of one's cleverness as a gon. For Maxie would have no
bunglers, no learners about him.