“_Oh! There was a social party,
Of Repubs and Democrats;
Met at Michael Casey’s,
And put away their hats,
One ticket gave a lady,
Admittance and her grub,
Invited by the committee,
Of the Casey Social Club._”
POPULAR SONG.
THE entrance to the hall was a-glitter with gas lights; freshly
barbered young men in high collars and sack coats stood about the
doorway, smoking cigarettes and spitting on the steps. A wagon was
unloading kegs of beer at a side door; people flocked into the smoky
entry; now and then a hired hack would pull up at the curb and a member
of the club would hand his sweetheart out and up the steps. Four
policemen, engaged at three dollars a head to keep order, stood on the
sidewalk counting the ingoing kegs.
“Forty quarters, all told,” said a pock-marked officer, lifting his
huge shoulders.
“Whew! The club’ll have a neat wad to put away if they sell all that!
An’ just look at the people goin’ in!”
“Say, there’s one fight in every two kegs o’ beer,” said a third
policeman. “That makes twenty turns before the janitor turns off the
lights. We ain’t a-goin’ to have no cinch.”
The others laughed.
At the far end of the entry stood a pair of half doors so arranged that
only one person could pass them at a time. Behind these, bathed in a
glare of yellow light from a cluster of gas jets which hung directly
overhead, stood Danny Casey, attired in a dress suit rented from
Goldstine the costumer, a huge crimson badge edged with gold braid
hanging from his lapel. He was taking tickets and deftly slipping
them into a slot in a tin box which stood beside him on a chair; on
the stairs leading to the ballroom, a man with a mass of brass checks
hanging by strings from his fingers was keeping up a continuous fire
of patter. Murphy and McGonagle, feeling rather queer behind their
glittering expanses of shirt front, walked stiffly down the steps to
where Casey was standing.
“A mob!” said McGonagle. “The floor’s blocked with ’em already.”
“And they’ve on’y started to come,” said Casey. “Who ordered the extree
beer?”
“McGlory: an’ we’ll need it, too; for the guys what’s a-comin’ in looks
dead t’irsty.”
“Say,” put in Murphy, in an injured tone, “I don’t know how youse
people take it but I feel like a sign for a clothin’ store. I can’t
bend wit’out breakin’ me shirt and the pants ain’t got no pockets in.”
“You look,” commented McGonagle, “like a dressed up prize-fighter.
Somebody ought to slam McGlory in the jaw for makin’ that motion that
we all must wear dress suits. I know I look a mess in mine.”
“Thirty-eight dress suits at a dollar a throw,” figured Casey, as he
politely plucked ticket after ticket from hands extending them to him;
“that’s thirty-eight plunks. Goldstine’s makin’ money and McGlory will
be holdin’ him up for a comish.”
There was a stir among the sack-coated and high-collared coterie at
the entrance. A tall, well-built girl, tastefully dressed and carrying
herself with a dashing air, had come in, escorted by a blushing youth
who looked very uncomfortable under the notice they created.
“It’s Nelly Fogarty,” said someone. “She don’t look like a poverty
knocker when she’s dressed up, eh?”
“‘Oh Nelly was a lady,’” sang another. “Say, Brennen, here’s yer girl!”
“Gee!” exclaimed the person addressed. “And I told her I wasn’t comin’;
she’s got me dead!”
The congregated youths grinned over their high collars and bowed after
the fashion approved by Professor Whalen, teacher of the “Glide Waltz.”
The girl flashed them a smile as she went by, a bunch of La France
roses in her hand. But a cloud crossed her face, and she bit her lips
at sight of young Brennen.
“Go on, please, Mr. Shimph,” requested she, of her escort. “I’ll folly
you in a minute.”
“But, say Nell!” exclaimed Shimph, who had also caught sight of
Brennen, “yous’re with me, ain’t ye?”
“Cert’n’y!” with a lofty air, “I don’t shake me friends that way.”
Re-assured, Shimph walked down the entry; Miss Fogarty beckoned with
the roses, and Brennen, a little abashed, came to her.
“I thought,” said she, “that you couldn’t come to-night. What’s the
matter?--didn’t ye want to take me?”
“Ah, say, Nell! What’s the use--”
“Who did ye come with? Was it Mary Haley?”
“I came alone Nell; ’pon me soul, I did!”
“Eddy Brennen, if I thought you was double-faced enough to--”
“Will ye cheese it! If the gang git next they’ll give me the laugh. I
didn’t bring no lady, Nell. I’m dead broke and couldn’t, see! That’s
the reason I give youse the song and dance about not comin’. When I
take youse out, I want to do the right t’ing.”
Nell’s face grew brighter at this explanation and she said:
“I knowed you wasn’t workin’, didn’t I; and I didn’t expect ye’d blow
your money when ye hadn’t much. You ain’t acquainted with me, I can
see that right here. I ain’t no leg-puller. Got a ticket?”
“No,” answered the youth awkwardly; “I’m waitin’ for a slow. Casey told
me there’d be some goin’ aroun’ after the push got in.”
“For Heaven’s sake!” cried Miss Fogarty: “Don’t hang around the door
waitin’ for a captain; ye’ll git a hard name!” She looked down the
entry where Casey was riffling a packet of tickets his shirt front and
rhinestone studs gleaming under the slanting rays of light. “After I go
in,” continued she, “ask Danny for one; I’ll fix it with him as I pass.”
“But, say Nell! I don’t like--”
“Oh bother!” She started to rejoin her escort, but stopped suddenly.
“Look here,” she cautioned, “don’t you ask me for a single dance; for
if ye do ye’ll get flagged! Rox Shimph sent me these flowers and put up
money for a hack, and he’s me partner for all the dances.”
“Say, are youse goin’ to t’row me down for that--”
“Don’t call him names! He’s run the pair o’ looms next to mine for
three years now, and he’s always acted like a perfect gentleman. You
come to see me steady, Mr. Brennen, but I won’t play Rox for a lobster
even for you.” And with this she once more started away fumbling in her
purse and saying over her shoulder: “Don’t forget to ask Danny for the
ticket.”
Murphy had gone to the street door to speak to a friend while the above
scene was enacting; now he came hurrying back to the “gate” excitedly.
“McGonagle,” exclaimed he, “here comes Nobby Foley and Tim Daily wit’ a
couple o’ skirts. I’ll bet we’ll have the ‘chain gang’ here!”
“Gee,” murmured Goose. “If they cut loose this won’t be a ball, it’ll
be a scrappin’ match. Say d’youse t’ink four cops is enough? Hadn’t we
better git the loot to send two more?”
Murphy looked at him, disdainfully.
“We ain’t a lot o’ kids, are we?” inquired he. “I might be dead wrong
but I t’ink the push kin hold their own with any of ’em. There’s only
one t’ing to do; as soon as they git gay, go in an’ slam ’em; ain’t
that right?”
Foley was short and square-jawed; Daily was big and brawny; and both
carried themselves with much aggressiveness, swaggering into the hall,
their convoys on their arms, with the air of men whose deeds were epic
in the ward.
“That’s a swell one wit’ Foley,” whispered a voice. “Who is she,
Brennen?”
“An old party rammer,” answered Brennen; “an’ she’s the star pivoter of
Whalen’s Academy. Her an’ Bat Mahoney won the prize waltz at the Emmet
Band’s picnic, Decoration Day.”
“Her hair’s bleached,” remarked the other; “an’ that rouge on her face
is the reddest t’ing that ever come down the pike.”
The girl was taller than her escort; she was remarkably handsome,
dressed richly, and held herself in a way that made the women whisper
and the men stare. As they neared the gate, she laughing and showing
her beautiful teeth and flashing her splendid eyes here and there,
McGonagle leaned forward and whispered a few quick words in Murphy’s
ear.
“No!” exclaimed the latter, incredulously.
“Sure t’ing! What are youse goin’ to do?”
“Why, put out the flag!”
Brennen suddenly craned his neck out of its circle of stiff linen,
excitedly.
“Murphy won’t take their tickets!” he breathed, “there’s goin’ to be a
run in at the start!”
All surged toward the gate; McGonagle whistled through his thumb and
fore-finger; a policeman came looming along through the cigar smoke.
“Stand back, gents,” requested he. He flourished his club airily, and
measured Daily with his eye. “On’y three couple allowed at the gate at
a time.”
The crowd fell back disappointedly. The group at the gate were engaged
in excited debate; Foley was describing aerial hieroglyphics with his
clenched fist; the girl had let go his arm and was staring Murphy
boldly in the eye.
“You’ve insulted this lady!” declared Foley in a sharp high-pitched
voice.
“I didn’t insult nobody,” said Murphy. “Didn’t I flag her on the quiet?
Nobody knowed it until youse made a holler.”
“This is the rankest snap I ever stacked up against,” remarked the
girl, tossing her head and rubbing the wrinkles out of her long
gloves. “If I’d a-knowed it was a nasty-nice affair, I wouldn’t a-come!”
“This ain’t the first time youse gave me the wrong end of it, Murphy,”
said Foley, drawing back in such a way as to cause McGonagle to brace
himself for the expected rush. “For the last time; does she go in, or
is she barred?”
“She’s barred!” said Murphy.
“This ain’t no flash shine,” broke in McGonagle, “we’ve got our girls
here to-night, and I, for one, won’t let mine dance on the same floor
with her, and that goes!”
“Push along, gents,” hinted the policeman, “inside or out; yer blockin’
the passage.”
Daily jogged his companion’s elbow and whispered:
“Don’t git leary; ye’ll queer Kelly if ye kick up a row, now. Give him
a chance to work the gang what’s runnin’ the show. We can come back, ye
know, when he’s done; and if youse wants to do business, then, with the
guy on the door, why you kin go ahead.”
The crush was growing; Levi and his orchestra had just gone in, and the
tuning of the harp and violins came floating down the stairway. Belated
Jerry McGlory came striding in, in a light top coat and a glossy silk
hat, bowing like a duke to his acquaintances, with Veronica McTurpin,
the little widow who kept the millinery store; she was half hidden in
her bouquet, and also bowing and smiling, dazzlingly. Mike McCarty
followed, more than ever earning his right to the title of Brummel
of the ward. He carried his stick and one glove in his right hand;
with the other he was barely touching the elbow of Mazie Driscoll,
who sold ribbons in a down-town store. Then there was Shaffer the
collector for the brewery, and Carrie Lentze, whose father carried on
the “Delicatessen” store on the avenue; while behind them came Koskee
McGurk and a daughter of O’Mally, who kept the junk shop back of the
railroad.
“Checks!” cried the man on the stairs jingling his bunch of brass tags.
“Put yer wardrobe away, gents; youse can’t go on the floor with yer
overcoat or sky-piece.”
“Hully gee!” gasped a youth in soiled white kid gloves and a scarlet
Ascot tie; “they sticks youse a quarter for wardrobe!”
“It’s a t’row down,” echoed a neighbour. “Mame,” to the girl at his
side, “it’ll cost two bits to put away yer hat.”
“G’way,” said Mame, shocked. “It’s not the right thing, when you’re
asked a dollar admission.”
The man with the checks was growing impatient.
“Don’t hold a meetin’ and make speeches about it,” requested he. “If
yer goin’ to cough up, do it.”
The bar was on the second floor and had a door leading into the
ballroom; groups of men and women were gathered about the tables;
waiters were rushing about, the fingers of each hand twisted, in some
miraculous fashion, about the handles of a dozen beer glasses; a young
man was seated at a piano, singing a popular ballad in a high, throaty
voice; some members of the club, their coats stripped off, their
sleeves rolled up, were drawing beer, popping corks and passing out
dry-looking cigars to a long line of thirsty patrons who stood along
the bar.
It was ten o’clock. The floor of the ballroom shone with wax;
the rows of chairs upon three sides were filled with chattering
couples; Levi and his musicians stood ready. All were waiting for
Master-of-Ceremonies Murphy, to give the word.
“The floor looks great,” remarked that gentleman. He was surrounded
by the “floor committee” at the far end of the room, and was running
his eye over everything like a general before going into battle. There
would be no hitch if he could help it. He hummed a tune and went
through a few steps of a “glide waltz” by way of a test.
“Like old cheese,” commented he, “jist as slippy as ice.” He looked
about him, again. “Where’s McGonagle?” he inquired. “Oh, there youse
are,” seeing that gentleman. “All ready?”
“Sure,” responded Goose, “it’s up to youse to say when.”
Larry took some half dozen steps out upon the floor; then he paused,
rapped sharply with his heel, and drew himself up with a dignity
that Professor Whalen could not have excelled. All eyes were upon
him; he extended both arms, palms held downward, waving them up and
down. Silence fell. The palms came together with a sharp report; Levi
described a wild flourish with his bow; the cornet blared brassily;
McGonagle and Annie Clancy stepped out upon the floor to lead the
march. The ball was on.
At midnight the affair was in full blast; quadrille, schottische and
waltz succeeded each other with hardly a pause, the dancers whirled,
stamped and pirouetted with exhaustless energy; the musicians blew and
scraped, the perspiration dropping from their faces. A sergeant of
police, on his round of inspection, had just dropped in; he stood in
the doorway leading to the staircase looking wet and chilled, for it
had begun to rain, and talked to the men on duty in the hall.
“Anything doing?” asked he, shaking the drops of water from the brim of
his hat, his eyes taking in the heaving mass on the floor, swaying in
rhythm with the music.
“On’y a couple o’ drunks,” answered the pock-marked officer; “an’ we
just fired ’em out, not botherin’ to pull up for the wagon.”
“I seen Daily and some o’ that crowd, in the barroom,” said another.
“From the way things look he’s cappin’ for Kelly, and Kelly’s dealin’
out the dough for further orders.”
“For drinks, eh?” The sergeant frowned. “Say Laughlin, go in there and
tell Kelly I want to see him, right away. The damn fool oughtn’t make
work for me!”
Kelly had a roll of notes in his hand and was flourishing them
animatedly over his head; a crowd of half drunken youths surged about
him, approvingly; he was their idol, having usurped the post held an
hour before by Shaffer, the collector for the brewery.
“This is the stuff that makes the world move!” declared the
saloonkeeper. “We’re all after it, me bucko’s, ivery wan av us an’
small blame till him that puts the fattest wad in the bank, eh?”
“Yer dead right, Kel,” agreed a supporter.
“Barkeeper,” remarked Kelly after a glance about, “me friends here are
doin’ nawthin’.” He stripped a note from the bundle and threw it upon
the sloppy bar. “Work that out,” requested he, “an’ tell me when it’s
done. There’s more to folly, for I’m out for a good toime the noight.”
“There’s a good t’ing!” exclaimed Nobby Foley. “He’s a blood, d’ye
hear--a blood! He treats youse right, see?”
“Gintlemen,” affirmed the object of these remarks, “I haven’t a mane
bone in me body, an’ the man that do be after callin’ James Kelly
a friend, is welcome till share his last dollar. Iv any av yez gits
pinched does yez friends have till ax me twice till go yez bail? Be
hivens!” excitedly, “there ain’t a magistrate in the city, Raypublican
or Dimmycrat, that’ed kape yez in the jug a minyute after I wint
forninst him and told him till lave ye go.”
The enthusiasm that greeted this statement shook the walls. Daily,
Foley, and a select circle of kindred spirits added no little volume to
it. They rapturously patted the speaker on the back and beat the bar
with their glasses, for each had a five dollar note tucked snugly away
in his pocket and felt in duty bound to stir up the promised amount of
enthusiasm. The outburst elated the selectman; his voice was husky with
drink, but he climbed upon a chair and plunged into a speech.
“The fellys that are again’ me,” declared he, “say that I am not
a Dimmycrat, an’ would have yez vote to bate me. But whin the day
comes I’ll show thim what the people of the ward t’ink, because the
dillygates’ll be there that’ll name me in spoite av thim!”
He forgot his protestation of a few minutes before that he was out for
a good time, and proceeded to make a bid for his hearers’ support at
the primaries; Daily and his henchmen were punctuating his remarks by
salvos of applause, when Laughlin summoned the orator into the entry.
“Hello, Phil,” Kelly greeted the sergeant, “sure an’ it’s glad till see
yez I am; but divil take ye, cud yez not wait till I got through! I had
’em jist where I wanted thim; I wur makin’ votes by the dozen.”
“It’s a slashin’ good game for you,” grumbled the sergeant; “but look
at my end of it! You load ’em up with booze--they’ll fight--my men’ll
pull ’em, an’ I’ll have to hold ’em till Moran kin give’m a hearin’ in
the mornin’. Then what? There’s lots of fellows from my division here,
an’ I must carry that division, Kelly, I must carry it, or lose me job;
that’s just how I stand. An’ if I put me people away in the cooler how
am I goin’ to do any carryin’, eh?”
“Tut, tut, man dear, I must make meself solid wid the gang av young
fellys. Sure a drop av drink’ll do thim no harm, Phil; it’ll make thim
feel good, that’s all.”
The uproar raised by Daily and his friends and Kelly’s display of
ready money had captured both the rowdy and the frothy elements. But
the popular young men--the members of the club for example--held aloof;
and it was these that Kelly was working for.
“The stiff!” exclaimed Jerry McGlory, as Kelly came back into the
barroom; “he t’inks if he blows his coin over the bar we’ll fall in
line.”
“Look at Mart, over there,” said McCarty, “he’s looking black about
something.”
“He was backcappin’ Murphy a while ago. He’s half lit up, and he’ll say
somethin’ to Larry afore the night’s over, and Larry’ll slam him.”
It was McGonagle that spoke, and a moment later he added:
“Here he comes over! Play foxy, gents; don’t give him no excuse for
bother, see?”
Young Kelly approached, and with him were Daily and Foley.
“How are youse, gents?” saluted Martin. “It’s the old man’s treat;
won’t youse have somethin’?”
“We’re on the floor committee,” said McCarty, “an’ we ain’t touchin’ it
to-night.”
Martin sneered; Daily heaved his bulging chest contemptuously and
coughed. It was Foley that spoke.
“When a gent tries to be friendly wit’ me,” announced he, “I be’s
friendly wit’ him, see? Ain’t that right?”
“It depends on the guy that’s doin’ the stunt,” answered McGonagle.
“Eh, no! What t’ell no! Youse do it every hitch!” And Foley excitedly
dramatized a scene: “A gent comes up to me, and puts out his fin, see?
What do I do? Why I takes it, an’ puts away me medicine like a little
man! All to be sociable, see? All to be sociable!”
“That’s right,” agreed Daily. “That’s the proper t’ing to do. Why
youse’d cut a hell of a caper, turnin’ down good people, wouldn’t
youse.”
“Ah, go soak yer head,” growled McGonagle. “Youse guys give me a pain!
We ain’t suckers; we kin see a play when it’s made, as well as the
next.”
“Youse’re all gents!” put in Martin, sarcastically. “Here that lobster
Murphy goes an’ turns down a lady, at the door. I’m ’sponsible to me
friends for that, d’ye hear? I sold ’em the tickets an’ I’m ’sponsible
for the game I steered ’em against! Ain’t that right?”
“Sure,” answered Daily and Foley in a breath.
“Where’s Murphy?” demanded Martin. “Murphy’s got to apologize fer
insultin’ Nobby’s lady friend. He’s got to do it!”
“It’s comin’,” said McGlory, in a low tone.
“We’d better put Larry next,” remarked McCarty in the same voice.
“Kelly carries a jack; remember how he t’rowed it into Ned Hogan that
night?”
Larry was dancing; he had his arm about Annie Clancy’s trim waist and
they swayed and spun with the music. Annie’s face was bright and happy;
her eyes shone like twin stars, for Larry was telling her how good a
fellow his friend McGonagle was, and that was a tale that Annie could
have listened to forever.
Word had gone about among the “floor committee” that Kelly was looking
for him, and Larry received mysterious nods, winks and signals. He
could make nothing of it, so he led Annie to a seat beside Miss
McTurpin, and walked over to where McGonagle, who had crossed the room,
was standing.
“What’s the new one?” inquired Larry. “What’s the gang all pullin’
faces about?”
“Keep yer eyes on Kelly,” cautioned Goose. “He’s been puttin’ away
booze all night, and he wants to see you about the girl what you
flagged at the door.”
“Oh!” Larry shoved his head forward in a bull-like movement and stared
about him. “Does he want some o’ my game, eh? Is the lobster spoilin’
to mix it up with me? There’ll be on’y two blows struck; I’ll hit him,
and he’ll hit the floor!”
Mike McCarty came out of the barroom and approached them, crossing the
floor in the midst of the dancers. A girl’s swinging skirts almost
wrapped themselves about him, as her partner piloted her by.
“Ah, there, Mike?” cried the lady, gleefully, and McCarty bowed like a
Chesterfield, never pausing in his stride, however, until he reached
the spot where Goose and Larry were talking.
“Kelly’s comin’ across,” said he pointing among the dancing throng. “He
just seen youse a minit ago, and he’s goin’ to lay you out, so he says.”
Larry growled an answer deep down in his chest; he was looking at Kelly
and his two allies as they swaggered through the dancers. McGonagle
rapped out a vexed oath, as he caught Larry by the arm.
“I t’ought,” complained he, “that we’d pull off this affair wit’out any
scrappin’; and here them mugs spoils it all. Say, if there’s a fight,
Annie won’t do a t’ing but climb down me back fer fetchin’ her.”
“My girl too,” said McCarty, dolefully.
“Come out in the entry,” pleaded Goose. “Don’t scare the women!”
Larry reluctantly went with them, casting glances over his shoulder at
his prospective opponent.
“The mug’ll t’ink I’m afraid o’ him,” said he. When they reached the
entry he tugged viciously at the breast of his dress coat. “Damn it,”
growled he, savagely, “the t’ing ain’t got no buttons on! I don’t want
to get no blood on me shirt front.”
“Keep yer eyes on Foley,” whispered Mike to McGonagle. “I’ll look out
for Daily.”
“D’ye t’ink ye kin hold him even? He pulls the beam fifty pounds more’n
youse.”
“I wouldn’t care,” smiled Mike, “if he was as big as the side o’ a
house. The bigger he is the harder he’ll fall.”
“Youse’re a nice-lookin’ pill, ain’t ye?” were Kelly’s first words.
“Floor Manager, too,” sneeringly; “why, youse don’t know a lady when ye
see one.”
“She’s crooked!” remarked Larry, “and youse know she is.”
“You’re a liar,” snarled Martin. “And even if she is, she’s better than
some women I know of. She don’t live with--”
He did not finish but leaped back and threw up his guard. Larry, his
face wrinkling with a grin, was upon him, striking with the speed,
precision and power of a practiced boxer. The exchange was heavy and
rapid. The men panted and laboured for breath, cursing each other
between their teeth. The policemen were clattering up the steps from
the lower passage; the doorway leading to the ballroom was banked solid
with the strained, anxious faces of partisans; women screamed shrilly;
the music stopped with a crash.
Suddenly Larry slipped and fell upon one knee; Foley made a quick,
wicked kick at his side, and the next instant was thrown against the
wall by the force of a smashing blow from McGonagle. Mike McCarty was
staring eagerly into Daily’s face, his body quivering like that of a
crouching cat, when the officers arrived.
“Fire ’em out,” commanded McGonagle. “Fire the t’ree o’ them!”
The offenders were promptly hustled down the stairs and out upon the
sidewalk. A light rain was falling; the arc lamps sputtered and hissed
in the silence. A form wrapped in a blue mackintosh, and holding an
umbrella, was standing upon the steps.
“Here he is,” laughed the policeman who held Martin; “and I didn’t have
to tell him he was wanted, either.”
The three ejected ones stared curiously at the woman; and the policeman
laughed again and closed the door.
“Mart,” said the woman, “I want to talk to you.”
“Who’s yer friend,” snickered Foley.
“Give us a knockdown,” said Daily.
“Oh, hell!” Martin’s tone was one of deep disgust and he waved his hand
in a bored fashion.
“Le’s go have somethin’, then,” suggested Daily, “don’t stand here in
the damp.”
“Go on home, Bella,” commanded Martin, addressing the woman on the
steps. “What are ye doin’ around here, anyway? Youse must t’ink I’m a
chump, don’t ye, to have youse follyin’ me up this way.”
“Just a minute, Mart,” pleaded Bella: “I won’t be longer than a minute,
so help me God!”
“Ah, git away from me!”
“_Mart!_”
“Go on, Kelly,” said Daily; “don’t talk to a bundle o’ skirts that way.
See what she wants; we’ll wait for youse at Mintzers.”
Daily and Foley cut across the street to where the lights of a saloon
flared redly through the mist; Martin and the girl started up the
street, slowly. She gave one upward glance at the windows of the hall,
and sighed to see the dancers whirl gayly by. That was of the bright
past; and the future was black enough for her.