Almost everyone knows Governor Tilden's residence in Gramercy Park, but
those who don't know it as such, may remember a big house with
bas-reliefs over the door, on the south side of that quiet square.
However, the house has nothing to do with this story, except that it was
upon its door-steps I encountered Sandy McWhiffle, on my way to the
club. I use the word "encountered" advisedly, for Sandy, finding the
bottom step somewhat narrow for a couch, had allowed one of his legs the
freedom of the sidewalk, and it was over this protruding member that I
stumbled into the arms of the gentleman slumbering on the Governor's
steps.
It was late at night--and Sandy protested. His opening remarks served
to advise me that the cop couldn't get around the Square again for at
least fifteen minutes--that he (Sandy) hadn't slept five, and that I'd
destroyed his night's rest. It did seem unfair.--I certainly could have
discovered his leg if I'd looked sharp, and twenty minutes' rest
is--well, it's twenty minutes' heaven when you need it--and Sandy needed
it--there was no question about that. But the advent of the cop making
slumber inexpedient, if not impracticable for the time being, we
adjourned, at my suggestion, to the all-night restaurant on Fourth
Avenue, near Twenty-fifth Street. You know food is a fair substitute
for sleep at times, especially after one has experimented considerably
with sleep as a substitute for food. Sandy had made quite thorough
investigations along that line. But experiments were difficult, what
with the grey Bastinado Brigade in the Squares and Park, and their blue
accomplices in the side streets.
I agreed with my vis-a-vis over the poached eggs and ale at Gibson's
that it did seem queer the air wasn't free, and that sleeping in public
was a misdemeanour. Of course one does it when pressed, but while the
Island gives the needed respite, it lessens the chances of earning
money to buy a sleeping privilege--and many trips over the river are apt
to permanently impair claims to good citizenship. Sandy hadn't been
obliged to cross the upper East River yet, but he was getting very weary
and careless about concealing it. Hadn't he been able to get any work?
Not for a long time. Didn't he do anything at all? Yes--he looked for a
job about four hours a day. Why only four hours? Because he tired easily
and had to save his strength for the line at night. The line? Yes--the
bread line at Fleischmann's.
On the main artery of the chief city of this land of plenty--on
Broadway under the shadow of Grace Church--there forms nightly a line
of men that stretches for more than a block. Men with pale faces that
show haggard under the white electric light, and haggard faces that show
hideous,--shiveringly cold men who blink at you like dazed animals or
glare at you like wild beasts;--hot, panting, almost pulseless men who
gasp in the scorched atmosphere of the city's streets--solemn, mournful
creatures, with their filthy rags loosened for any breath of air, no
matter how fetid--miserables of every type, exhausted, wretched, but
human beings all--stand every night at the edge of the curb on Broadway
and Tenth Streets waiting for a baker's over-baking.
It all flashed before my eyes in a moment.
You can see it any night, winter or summer--January or July--from ten
o'clock till two, gentlemen. Look at it and pity it--you who have pity
in your hearts. Look at it and fear it--you who have none!
Had he been there to-night? Yes, but there was a fellow near the end of
the line whose wife and children were waiting for him, so he and Sandy
exchanged places, and--well, the supply gave out about one o'clock, so
of course---- Yes, he would take another egg. Was he married? No, thank
God!
There was nothing romantic about Sandy McWhiffle, and nothing Scotch
about him except his name. Neither was his face in any way remarkable,
nor his speech, nor his story; but it struck me then that there were
dramatic possibilities in him as a man--dramatic probabilities in him
as a type.