The most transparent fraud on the streets of the great cities is
the pseudo-paralytic. At almost any street corner can be seen what
purports to be a trembling wreck of a man. His legs are twisted into
horrible shapes. The hand which he stretches forth for alms is a mere
claw, seemingly twisted by pain into all sorts of distorted shapes,
trembling and wavering. The arms move back and forth in pathetic
twistings as if the pains were shooting up and down the ligaments
with all the force of sciatica.
The head bobs from side to side as if it were impossible to keep it
still. And the words which come from the half-paralyzed mouth are
a mere mumble of inarticulate sounds, as if the tongue, too, were
suffering torture.
A more pitiable sight than this could not be conjured up. And the
extended hat of the victim of what seems to be a complication of St.
Vitus dance, paralysis, sciatic rheumatism, and the delirium tremens,
is always a ready receptacle for the pennies, nickels and dimes of the
thoughtless. This is one side of the picture; now look on the other.
It is dusk. Just that time of day when the lights are not yet
brightening the streets, and when the sun has made the great tunnels
between the sky-scrapers, ways of darkness. Detective Wooldridge is
watching. He has been watching two of the deplorable fraternity for
two hours. As the dusk deepens he sees them both arise, dart swiftly
across the street and board a car. By no mere chance is it that they
are both on the same car. The detective follows. Before a low saloon
on the West Side the victims of innumerable diseases descend from the
car, walking upright as six-year soldiers on parade. They enter the
saloon. They seat themselves at a table behind an angle in the back
which conceals them from the street. The detective loiters down to the
end of the bar and watches. From every pocket, even from the hat rim,
pours a pile of coins.
The two sort out the quarters, the nickels, the pennies. The heaps are
very evenly divided over two or three cheap whiskies or a couple of
bottles of five-cent beer.
Then the real finale comes. Detective Wooldridge gets busy, and a
goodly portion of the spoil finds its way out of the hands of the
sharpers in the way of a fine.
But for every one of these paralytic frauds caught there are dozens,
even scores, who get away unscathed. It is the estimate of the best
detectives that not one in a thousand of these paralytic beggars is
genuine. It is one of the most bare-faced cases of deception of the
public which comes under the notice of the police.