THE CASE OF THE TISCOTTS
What I had on the slate for this part'cular afternoon was a brisk walk up
Broadway as far as the gasoline district and a little soothin'
conversation with Mr. Cecil Slattery about the new roadster he's tryin'
to Paladino me into placin' my order for. I'd just washed up and was in
the gym. giving my coat a few licks with the whisk broom, when Swifty Joe
comes tiptoein' in, taps me on the shoulder, and points solemn into the
front office.
"That's right," says I, "break it to me gentle."
"Get into it quick!" says he, grabbin' the coat.
"Eh?" says I. "Fire, police, or what?"
"S-s-sh!" says he. "Lady to see you."
"What kind," says I, "perfect, or just plain lady? And what's her name?"
"Ahr-r-r chee!" he whispers, hoarse and stagy. "Didn't I tell you it was
a lady? Get a move on!" and he lifts me into the sleeves and yanks away
the whisk broom.
"See here, Swifty," says I, "if this is another of them hot air
demonstrators, or a book agent, there'll be trouble comin' your way in
bunches! Remember, now!"
Here was once, though, when Swifty hadn't made any mistake. Not that he
shows such wonderful intelligence in this case. With her wearin' all them
expensive furs, and the cute little English footman standin' up straight
in his yellow topped boots over by the door, who wouldn't have known she
was a real lady?
She's got up all in black, not exactly a mournin' costume, but one of
these real broadcloth regalias, plain but classy. She's a tall, slim
party, and from the three-quarters' view I gets against the light I
should guess she was goin' on thirty or a little past it. All she's armed
with is a roll of paper, and as I steps in she's drummin' with it on the
window sill.
Course, we has all kinds driftin' into the studio here, by mistake and
otherwise, and I gen'rally makes a guess on 'em right; but this one don't
suggest anything at all. Even that rat faced tiger of hers could have
told her this wa'n't any French millinery parlor, and she didn't look
like one who'd get off the trail anyway. So I plays a safety by coughin'
polite behind my hand and lettin' her make the break. She ain't backward
about it, either.
"Why, there you are, Professor McCabe!" says she, in that gushy, up and
down tone, like she was usin' language as some sort of throat gargle.
"How perfectly dear of you to be here, too!"
"Yes, ain't it?" says I. "I've kind of got into the habit of bein'
here."
"Really, now!" says she, smilin' just as though we was carryin' on a
sensible conversation. And it's a swagger stunt too, this talkin' without
sayin' anything. When you get so you can keep it up for an hour you're
qualified either for the afternoon tea class or the batty ward. But the
lady ain't here just to pay a social call. She makes a quick shift and
announces that she's Miss Colliver, also hoping that I remember her.
"Why, sure," says I. "Miss Ann, ain't it?"
As a matter of fact, the only time we was ever within speakin' distance
was once at the Purdy-Pells' when she blew in for a minute just at dinner
time, lifted a bunch of American Beauties off the table with the excuse
that they was just what she wanted to send to the Blind Asylum, and blew
out again.
But of course I couldn't help knowin' who she was and all about her.
Ain't the papers always full of her charity doin's, her funds for this
and that, and her new discoveries of shockin' things about the poor?
Ain't she built up a rep as a lady philanthropist that's too busy doing
good to ever get married? Maybe Mrs. Russell Sage and Helen Gould has
gained a few laps on her lately; but when it comes to startin' things for
the Tattered Tenth there ain't many others that's got much on her.
"Gee!" thinks I. "Wonder what she's going to do for me?"
I ain't left long in doubt. She backs me up against the desk and cuts
loose with the straight talk. "I came in to tell you about my new
enterprise, Piny Crest Court," says she.
"Apartment house, is it?" says I.
"No, no!" says she. "Haven't you read about it? It's to be a white plague
station for working girls."
"A white--white----Oh! For lungers, eh?"
"We never speak of them in that way, you know," says she, handin' me the
reprovin' look. "Piny Crest Court is the name I've given to the site.
Rather sweet, is it not? Really there are no pines on it, you know; but I
shall have a few set out. The buildings are to be perfectly lovely. I've
just seen the architect's plans,--four open front cottages grouped around
an administration infirmary, the superintendent's office to be finished
in white mahogany and gold, and the directors' room in Circassian walnut,
with a stucco frieze after della Robbia. Don't you simply love those
Robbia bambinos?"
"Great!" says I, lyin' as easy and genteel as if I had lots of practice.
"I am simply crazy to have the work started," she goes on; "so I am
spending three afternoons a week in filling up my lists. Everyone
responds so heartily, too. Now, let me see, I believe I have put you down
for a life membership."
"Eh?" says I, gaspin' some; for it ain't often I'm elected to things.
"You will have the privilege of voting for board members and of
recommending two applicants a year. A life membership is two hundred and
fifty dollars."
"You mean I get two-fifty," says I, "for--for just----"
Then I came to. And, say, did you ever know such a bonehead? Honest,
though, from all I'd heard of the way she spreads her money around, and
the patronizin' style she has of puttin' this proposition up to me, I
couldn't tell for a minute how she meant it. And when I suddenly
surrounds the idea that it's me gives up the two-fifty, I'm so fussed
that I drops back into the chair and begins to hunt through the desk for
my checkbook. And then I feels myself growin' a little warm behind the
ears.
"So you just put me down offhand for two hundred and fifty, did you?"
says I.
"If you wish," says she, "you may take out a life certificate for each
member of your family. Several have done that. Let me show you my list of
subscribers. See, here are some of the prominent merchants and
manufacturing firms. I haven't begun on the brokers and bankers yet; but
you will be in good company."
"Ye-e-es?" says I, runnin' my eye over the firm names. "But I don't know
much about this scheme of yours, Miss Colliver."
"Why, it is for working girls," says she, "who are victims of the white
plague. We take them up to Piny Crest and cure them."
"Of working?" says I.
"Of the plague," says she. "It is going to be the grandest thing I've
done yet. And I have the names of such a lot of the most interesting
cases; poor creatures, you know, who are suffering in the most wretched
quarters. I do hope they will last until the station is finished. It
means finding a new lot, if they don't, and the public organizations are
becoming so active in that sort of thing, don't you see?"
Somehow, I don't catch it all, she puts over her ideas so fast; but I
gather that she'd like to have me come up prompt with my little old
two-fifty so she can get busy givin' out the contracts. Seein' me still
hangin' back, though, she's willin' to spend a few minutes more in
describin' some of the worst cases, which she proceeds to do.
"We estimate," says Miss Ann as a final clincher, "that the average cost
is about fifty dollars per patient. Now," and she sticks the subscription
list into my fist, "here is an opportunity! Do you wish to save five
human lives?"
Ever had it thrown into you like that? The sensation is a good deal like
bein' tied to a post and havin' your pockets frisked by a holdup gang.
Anyway, that's the way I felt, and then the next minute I'm ashamed of
havin' any such feelings at all; for there's no denyin' that dozens of
cases like she mentions can be dug up in any crowded block. Seems kind of
inhuman, too, not to want chip in and help save 'em. And yet there I was
gettin' grouchy over it, without knowin' why!
"Well," says I, squirmin' in the chair, "I'd like to save five hundred,
if I could. How many do you say you're going to take care of up at this
new place?"
"Sixty," says she. "I select the most pitiful cases. I am taking some
things to one of them now. I wish you could see the awful misery in that
home! I could take you down there, you know, and show you what a squalid
existence they lead, these Tiscotts."
"Tiscotts!" says I, prickin' up my ears. "What Tiscotts? What's his first
name?"
"I never heard the husband mentioned," says Miss Ann. "I doubt if there
is one. The woman's name, I think, is Mrs. Anthony Tiscott. Of course,
unless you are really interested----"
"I am," says I. "I'm ready to go when you are."
That seems to jar Miss Colliver some, and she tries a little shifty
sidestepping; but I puts it up to her as flat as she had handed it to me
about savin' the five lives. It was either make good or welsh, and she
comes to the scratch cheerful.
"Very well, then," says she, "we will drive down there at once."
So it's me into the Victoria alongside of Miss Ann, with the fat coachman
pilotin' us down Fifth-ave. to 14th, then across to Third-ave., and again
down and over to the far East Side.
I forget the exact block; but it's one of the old style double-deckers,
with rusty fire escapes decorated with beddin' hung out to air, dark
hallways that has a perfume a garbage cart would be ashamed of, rickety
stairs, plasterin' all gone off the halls, and other usual signs of real
estate that the agents squeeze fifteen per cent. out of. You know how
it's done, by fixin' the Buildin' and Board of Health inspectors, jammin'
from six to ten fam'lies in on a floor, never makin' any repairs, and
collectin' weekly rents or servin' dispossess notices prompt when they
don't pay up.
Lovely place to hang up one of the "Home, Sweet Home" mottoes! There's a
water tap in every hall, so all the tenants can have as much as they
want, stove holes in most of the rooms, and you buy your coal by the
bucket at the rate of about fourteen dollars a ton. Only three a week for
a room, twelve dollars a month. Course, that's more per room than you'd
pay on the upper West Side with steam heat, elevator service, and a
Tennessee marble entrance hall thrown in; but the luxury of stowin' a
whole fam'ly into one room comes high. Or maybe the landlords are doin'
it to discourage poverty.
"This is where the Tiscotts hang out, is it?" says I. "Shall I lug the
basket for you, Miss Colliver?"
"Dear no!" says she. "I never go into such places. I always send the
things in by Hutchins. He will bring Mrs. Tiscott down and she will tell
us about her troubles."
"Let Hutchins sit on the box this time," says I, grabbin' up the basket.
"Besides, I don't want any second hand report."
"But surely," puts in Miss Ann, "you are not going into such a----"
"Why not?" says I. "I begun livin' in one just like it."
At that Miss Ann settles back under the robe, shrugs her shoulders into
her furs, and waves for me to go ahead.
Half a dozen kids on the doorstep told me in chorus where I'd find the
Tiscotts, and after I've climbed up through four layers of stale cabbage
and fried onion smells and felt my way along to the third door left from
the top of the stairs, I makes my entrance as the special messenger of
the ministerin' angel.
It's the usual fam'ly-room tenement scene, such as the slum writers are
so fond of describin' with the agony pedal down hard, only there ain't
quite so much dirt and rags in evidence as they'd like. There's plenty,
though. Also there's a lot of industry on view. Over by the light shaft
window is Mrs. Tiscott, pumpin' a sewin' machine like she was entered in
a twenty-four-hour endurance race, with a big bundle of raw materials at
one side. In front of her is the oldest girl, sewin' buttons onto white
goods; while the three younger kids, includin' the four-year-old boy, are
spread out around the table in the middle of the room, pickin' nut meat
into the dishpan.
What's the use of tellin' how Mrs. Tiscott's stringy hair was bobbed up,
or the kind of wrapper she had on? You wouldn't expect her to be sportin'
a Sixth-ave. built pompadour, or a lingerie reception gown, would you?
And where they don't have Swedish nursery governesses and porcelain tubs,
the youngsters are apt not to be so----But maybe you'll relish your nut
candy and walnut cake better if we skip some details about the state of
the kids' hands. What's the odds where the contractors gets such work
done, so long as they can shave their estimates?
The really int'restin' exhibit in this fam'ly group, of course, is the
bent shouldered, peaked faced girl who has humped herself almost double
and is slappin' little pearl buttons on white goods at the rate of twenty
a minute. And there's no deception about her being a fine case for Piny
Crest. You don't even have to hear that bark of hers to know it.
I stands there lookin' 'em over for a whole minute before anybody pays
any attention to me. Then Mrs. Tiscott glances up and stops her machine.
"Who's that?" she sings out. "What do you----Why! Well, of all things,
Shorty McCabe, what brings you here?"
"I'm playin' errand boy for the kind Miss Colliver," says I, holdin' up
the basket.
Is there a grand rush my way, and glad cries, and tears of joy? Nothing
doing in the thankful hysterics line.
"Oh!" says Mrs. Tiscott. "Well, let's see what it is this time." And she
proceeds to dump out Miss Ann's contribution. There's a glass of
gooseb'ry bar le duc, another of guava jelly, a little can of pate de
foie gras, and half a dozen lady fingers.
"Huh!" says she, shovin' the truck over on the window sill. As she's
expressed my sentiments too, I lets it go at that.
"Looks like one of your busy days," says I.
"One of 'em!" says she with a snort, yankin' some more pieces out of the
bundle and slippin' a fresh spool of cotton onto the machine.
"What's the job?" says I.
"Baby dresses," says she.
"Good money in it?" says I.
"Oh, sure!" says she. "Forty cents a dozen is good, ain't it?"
"What noble merchant prince is so generous to you as all that?" says I.
Mrs. Tiscott, she shoves over the sweater's shop tag so I can read for
myself. Curious,--wa'n't it?--but it's the same firm whose name heads the
Piny Crest subscription list. It's time to change the subject.
"How's Annie?" says I, lookin' over at her.
"Her cough don't seem to get any better," says Mrs. Tiscott. "She's had
it since she had to quit work in the gas mantle shop. That's where she
got it. The dust, you know."
Yes, I knew. "How about Tony?" says I.
"Tony!" says she, hard and bitter. "How do I know? He ain't been near us
for a month past."
"Sends in something of a Saturday, don't he?" says I.
"Would I be lettin' the likes of her--that Miss Colliver--come here if he
did," says she, "or workin' my eyes out like this?"
"I thought Lizzie was in a store?" says I, noddin' towards the
twelve-year-old girl at the nut pickin' table.
"They always lays off half the bundle girls after Christmas," says Mrs.
Tiscott. "That's why we don't see Tony regular every payday any more. He
had the nerve to claim most of Lizzie's envelope."
Then it was my turn to say "Huh!"
"Why don't you have him up?" says I.
"I'm a-scared," says she. "He's promised to break my head."
"Think he would?" says I.
"Yes," says she. "He's changed for the worse lately. He'd do it, all
right, if I took him to court."
"What if I stood ready to break his, eh?" says I. "Would that hold him?"
Say, it wa'n't an elevatin' or cheerful conversation me and Mrs. Tiscott
indulged in; but it was more or less to the point. She's some int'rested
in the last proposition of mine, and when I adds a few frills about
givin' a butcher's order and standin' for a sack of potatoes, she agrees
to swear out the summons for Tony, providin' I'll hand it to him and be
in court to scare the liver out of him when she talks to the Justice.
"I hate to do it too," says she.
"I know," says I; "but no meat or potatoes from me unless you do!"
Sounds kind of harsh, don't it? You'd think I had a special grudge
against Tony Tiscott too. But say, it's only because I know him and his
kind so well. Nothing so peculiar about his case. Lots of them swell
coachmen go that way, and in his day Tony has driven for some big people.
Him and me got acquainted when he was wearin' the Twombley-Crane livery
and drawin' down his sixty-five a month. That wa'n't so long ago,
either.
But it's hard waitin' hours on the box in cold weather, and they get to
boozin'. When they hit it up too free they lose their places. After
they've lost too many places they don't get any more. Meantime they've
accumulated rheumatism and a fam'ly of kids. They've got lazy habits too,
and new jobs don't come easy at forty. The next degree is loafin' around
home permanent; but they ain't apt to find that so pleasant unless the
wife is a good hustler. Most likely she rows it. So they chuck the fam'ly
and drift off by themselves.
That's the sort of chaps you'll find on the bread lines. But Tony hadn't
quite got to that yet. I knew the corner beer joint where he did odd jobs
as free lunch carver and window cleaner. Also I knew the line of talk I
meant to hand out to him when I got my fingers on his collar.
"Well?" says Miss Ann, when I comes back with the empty basket. "Did you
find it an interesting case?"
"Maybe that's the word," says I.
"You saw the young woman, did you?" says she, "the one who----"
"Sure," says I. "She's got it--bad."
"Ah!" says Miss Ann, brightenin' up. "And now about that life
membership!"
"Well," says I, "the Piny Crest proposition is all right, and I'd like to
see it started; but the fact is, Miss Colliver, if I should put my name
down with all them big people I'd be runnin' out of my class."
"You would be--er----Beg pardon," says she, "but I don't think I quite
get you?"
I'd suspected she wouldn't. But how was I going to dope out to her clear
and straight what's so muddled up in my own head? You know, all about how
Annie got her cough, and my feelin's towards the firms that's sweatin'
the Tiscotts, from the baby up, and a lot of other things that I can't
state.
"As I said," goes on Miss Colliver, "I hardly think I understand."
"Me either," says I. "My head's just a merry go round of whys and
whatfors. But, as far as that fund of yours goes, I don't come in."
"Humph!" says she. "That, at least, is quite definite. Home, Hutchins!"
And there I am left on the curb lookin' foolish. Me, I don't ride back to
the studio on any broadcloth cushions! Serves me right too, I expect. I
feels mean and low down all the rest of the day, until I gets some
satisfaction by huntin' up Tony and throwin' such a scare into him that
he goes out and finds a porter's job and swears by all that's holy he'll
take up with the fam'ly again.
But think of the chance I passed up of breakin' into the high toned
philanthropy class!