for by buying five cents’ worth of inferior beer one is entitled to
eat at a “free lunch counter” adjacent to the bar and have a cut
from the joint and cheese and biscuits _ad lib_. To a world-wanderer
like myself, whose income was, to say the least, precarious, this
was a great institution; and it was at one of these counters that
I met a would-be guide, philosopher, and friend in the form of a
gaunt youth who, after a brief exchange of civilities, professed the
desire to show me a little of ‘Frisco under-life--at my expense. He
promised me Chinese opium and gambling dens and orgies in subterranean
dancing-halls, with attendant excitements undreamed of by my prosaic
mind.
Such an appeal to the adventure-loving spirit that lies hidden in most
of us was irresistible. I closed with the offer, and after investing
in a cheap revolver, that was quite as likely to hurt the man behind
it as the one in front, we set out for the less frequented parts of
the city. Down by the docks the streets were dark and deserted, and my
guide improved the occasion by relating the various “sand-baggings” and
assaults that had distinguished the quarter during the past week.
The only lighted shop we passed was a small tobacco booth, where
I stopped to buy cigarettes. This could hardly have taken me more
than two minutes, yet when I stepped out into the street I found my
unfortunate guide lying face downwards on the pavement, with a thin
stream of red creeping from his forehead towards the gutter. For a
brief moment I thought he had fainted; then I saw his clothes had been
rifled, and, glancing up the street, discerned the dim outline of three
dark figures trotting silently and apparently without haste into the
gloom.
A wave of anger took possession of me; the cowardly assailants
evidently thought they would get off scot-free after an easy and
profitable night’s work. I longed to give them at least a scare for
their money.
Leaving my companion, still insensible, to the care of the tobacconist,
I dashed up the street in pursuit. My footfalls echoed along the
deserted thoroughfare like rifle-shots, so I hastily discarded my boots
and continued the chase in socks.
Rather to my surprise I soon came in sight of the three figures in
front, who had now dropped into a leisurely walk. This confidence in
their security for some reason angered me the more, and in the deep
shadows of a wall I crept nearer and drew the revolver from my pocket.
I had never shot a man in my life, and for the first time I experienced
the dread of doing this in cold blood. Then I remembered my companion’s
gaunt figure prone on the pavement, and the fact that but for a
packet of cigarettes I should have certainly shared the same fate. I
fired--low down.
The men scattered like startled rabbits; two darted down by-streets on
opposite sides of the road, while the third took an abrupt seat on the
pavement and examined his leg, evidently more concerned about his wound
than the chances of escape.
As I rushed down the turning to the left I sighted my second quarry
scrambling over a mound of bricks; he turned and saw me at the same
instant, and then began a chase and obstacle race combined under
conditions that are probably unique. Over mounds of sand, lime, and
broken brick; through mazes of scaffolding, barrels, planks, and
wheelbarrows, pools of muddy water, and quagmires of soft mortar we
went. My bootless feet were soon battered and bruised, but the fever of
the chase was in my veins, and as long as my quarry was in sight I felt
incapable of abandoning the pursuit.
The fugitive was now hardly thirty feet ahead, and I dashed after him
round a corner of scaffolding, confident that I had run him to earth;
and I did, but not in the way expected. He had crouched low just round
the corner, and, unable to stop myself, I fell headlong over his body.
It was an old trick, and I scrambled to my feet anathematizing myself
for a fool, but my man had vanished. With slightly cooler blood and
a bruised head I had just decided to leave matters where they stood,
when I heard a gentle rasping, and looked up to find him clinging to a
scaffold-pole above my head. I could see his white face looking down at
me.
“What are you going to do about it?” he demanded, breathlessly.
“Come down and you’ll see,” said I, sternly.
When at last we stood facing each other, however, I found myself
at a loss. He was a mere boy, with a wizened, old-young face and
cunning eyes that took me in from hatless head to socked feet with a
callous insolence that rather appealed to me. What _was_ I going to do
about it? The police of San Francisco were either asleep or smoking
cigarettes in more salubrious quarters of the city; and it was next to
impossible to give him in charge, so I took the law into my own hands.
“Hand over what you took,” said I, “and you shall go.”
“The others went through him,” he replied, sullenly; “I don’t know how
much they got.”
“Shall we call it twenty-five dollars as a minimum?” I suggested.
His face expressed neither approval nor dissent, but he drew from a
ragged pocket a large gold watch.
“Guess that’ll cover it,” he said, coolly, and on examination I found
that it did, by fully another twenty-five dollars.
When, after considerable difficulty, I found my way back to the
tobacconist, my companion had recovered consciousness and, with a
bandaged head, sat up to hear my report.
“How much did you lose?” was my first question.
“Nothing,” he said; “I haven’t a cent in the world.”
“Then here’s something to be going on with,” said I, and handed him the
watch.
After the foregoing, it is with some reluctance that I relate what
happened two days later, but the experience is so typical of San
Franciscan under-life that I can hardly allow it to pass unrecorded.
My own part in the affair was entirely reprehensible, and I need say
no more, for everyone knows that, while confession may be good for the
soul, it is rarely compatible with personal dignity.
I wished to go to a certain theatre, and asked the way of the first
pedestrian I met. He smilingly informed me that I was going in
precisely the opposite direction, and that, as he happened to be
passing the doors himself, he would show me the way. During the
next five minutes I learnt that my guide was also a stranger to
San Francisco, and that he had come from Canada. As I had lived
there myself for four years this supplied a connecting link in our
reminiscences, and we entered the first bar to improve the occasion.
He certainly knew the Canadian prairie like a book, and his anecdotes
of ranch and bush life were so interesting that the theatre was soon
forgotten and we settled down for a chat.
[Illustration: “UNABLE TO STOP MYSELF, I FELL HEADLONG OVER HIS BODY.”]
It appeared that he had tired of the rough life of the plains, and
after a course of study had become a telegraph operator in Denver.
While there he had been approached by a gang of wire-tappers[2] with
a view to his becoming a confederate, but he had refused. A few
weeks later he heard of their capture, and went to see the trial and
conviction of the entire gang.
[2] Those who intercept telegraph messages by establishing secret
connections on branch wires, thus gaining news of races in advance of
the general public.
Now, however, they were again at large, for he had recognised their
leader that very day in the streets of San Francisco, and without a
doubt he was engaged in his old nefarious business.
My companion’s idea was to make a round of the city pool-rooms, where
they received news of the races by wire, and, if he encountered the
“wire-tapper,” force him by threats of exposure to divulge what horses
he was going to back. “There might be some brisk fun,” he said. “Would
you care to come and see it?”
This appealed to me rather more than the theatre, and we accordingly
started a careful tour of every pool-room in the city. They were dark,
dusty places, swarming with a heterogeneous collection of humanity that
ceaselessly shuffled and elbowed round boards bearing notices of the
odds and winners, while a sleek gentleman in faultless attire stood on
a rostrum at the end of the room and acted as “bookie.”
The fruitlessness of my companion’s search was growing a trifle
monotonous, when, on entering the fourth of these rooms, he seized my
arm and nodded in the direction of a tall, stout man who had emerged
from the crowd and stood counting over a large roll of bills. At last
he seemed satisfied, slipped an elastic band round the roll, and strode
out into the street.
“Come on,” whispered my companion, excitedly; “that’s my man.”
Not far from the door he tapped the stranger on the shoulder. The tall
man faced about with surprising swiftness.
“What do you want?” he snapped.
“I know all about you,” said my companion, evenly.
The collapse was sudden; the tall man’s jaw dropped perceptibly.
“Come farther away and I’ll listen to you,” he said, with a furtive
glance at the pool-room doors.
Round a quiet corner my companion stated his business, and the
wire-tapper brought out his roll of bills and fingered them feverishly.
“This is blackmail,” he whined; “but how much do you want?”
“It’s not blackmail, and I want none of your money,” protested my
companion, indignantly. “All you have to do is to take _my_ money and
place it on the right horse. Here are ten dollars for a start. I shall
watch you go in and come out of the pool-room from this corner.”
The wire-tapper had hardly left us when a little boy of thirteen or
fourteen ran up to him with a note; then he disappeared through the
swinging doors.
Presently the wire-tapper came out and, without a word, counted thirty
dollar bills into the other’s hand.
“The price was only two to one,” he explained, apologetically.
“Never mind,” said my companion; “better luck next time. Just place
this thirty dollars for me, and that will do--for the present.”
The process was repeated, and this time ninety dollars changed hands;
but the wire-tapper was evidently nervous and anxious to be gone, and
when my companion tentatively suggested a third attempt he refused
point-blank, on the ground that if he won any more that day it would
arouse suspicion. This objection, however, was overruled by the other
offering to place the money himself.
“And we’ll make the amount worth while; shall we?” he added, turning to
me. “Do you feel inclined to join me in a hundred-dollar bet?”
Fifty dollars meant a good deal to me then, but the two or three
hundred it would bring in meant a great deal more, so I took the
plunge. After another note had changed hands between the wire-tapper
and the boy, he told us to back Rough Diamond for the next race, and
threw in fifty dollars as his own stake; then we took up our position
on the opposite pavement and waited expectantly.
To my surprise my companion soon appeared and exultantly informed us
that he had succeeded in placing our stake on Rough Diamond to win at
three to one.
“To win?” roared the wire-tapper.
“Yes, to win,” retorted the other, feebly.
The wire-tapper literally danced on the pavement.
“You fool!” he spluttered; “I told you to back the horse for a _place_
this time--it has come in third.” He turned to me. “Didn’t I say for a
place?” he snapped, vehemently.
But I took no further interest in the proceedings. In Western parlance,
I had been “done brown.” The men were confederates, and all that was
left for me to do was to swallow my medicine without grimacing. So I
smiled blandly, congratulated them on their acting, and left them to
marvel at man’s credulity.
It all sounds very foolish and easy, set down in black and white, but
the San Franciscan “confidence man,” by long and unhampered practice,
has reduced his methods to a fine art; and although it is hardly likely
that any respectable, level-headed reader of THE WIDE WORLD
would fall a victim to his wiles, such a thing has been known to occur
to others, and if the foregoing personal experience helps to put these
on their guard, the purpose of its recounting will be served.
II.--A SHARP LESSON.
BY R. L. C. MORRISON.
In November of the year 1885, when I had reached the mature age of
seventeen, I found myself in Glasgow, my native city, in the service of
an uncle of mine named Mr. James Thomson, who was a merchant tailor and
Colonial outfitter in Hope Street.
One afternoon towards the end of the month my uncle gave me
instructions to call at the offices of a well-known firm in the
neighbourhood of Jamaica Street.
I was to collect an account, whose total represented a substantial
sum, and give a receipt for the money. There would, I was told, be no
difficulty about drawing what was due, as the firm in question had duly
intimated to my uncle that if he would present the account on a certain
date payment would be made then and there.
It was close upon three o’clock when I put in an appearance at the
counting-house of the firm, taking up my position in a somewhat
extended queue of clerks and others who had arrived on the same errand
as myself.
The queue was arranged in single file along a passage of considerable
length on the second storey, to reach which a flight of something like
a score of steps had to be ascended.
Right away at the far end of this passage was what had all the
appearance of a railway station booking office, where, behind a square
aperture of limited dimensions, stood the sharp-witted cashier.
I took my turn with the rest, and in due course found myself in front
of the pigeon-hole, where I presented my uncle’s account.
“All right; receipt it,” exclaimed the cashier, as he returned it.
I did so, receiving the amount of the account in Bank of Scotland pound
notes, a couple of score of them, or more, which I quickly folded into
a kind of roll and thrust deep into my trousers pocket, keeping my hand
over them for safety’s sake.
Pleased with the thought that I had got the money, I briskly threaded
my way among the nondescript crowd in the passage, and even more
briskly negotiated the stairs.
I had scarcely walked the length of the side thoroughfare which led
into Jamaica Street, however, when I heard hurrying footsteps behind
me, and, looking round, was surprised to see a very stylishly-dressed
man, whose appearance was enhanced by his faultlessly-groomed hair and
moustache. As soon as I looked in his direction he held up his hand and
beckoned me to stop.
Wondering what he could want with me I obeyed without further ado,
waiting for him to come up with me.
“Excuse me, sir,” he said, with much politeness, at the same time
slightly raising his hat, “but I believe this is your handkerchief.” As
he spoke he swept round his hand, which he had held behind his back,
and displayed to view a blue silk specimen in the handkerchief line. It
was mine; there was no doubt about that, and as I advanced my hand he
extended it towards me.
“I saw you drop it as you came down the stairs of Messrs. ----’s
office” (mentioning the name of the firm), he explained.
I thanked him and was about to resume my way when he asked if I could
direct him to Hope Street.
As everyone who knows anything about Glasgow is aware, it does not take
long to reach Hope Street from Jamaica Street, and I was beginning to
explain this to him when he cut me short with the remark that before we
went any farther I must have a drink with him. As I was a teetotaller,
however, I promptly declined his proffered hospitality, and once more
resumed my walk.
The next moment he laid a daintily-gloved hand on my shoulder, and,
with an engaging smile, said, with the utmost good humour, “But surely
a glass of lemonade or ginger-beer cannot do you any harm?”
There was a strange magnetism about the man which carried me away, and
I meekly surrendered myself to his will.
“Let us turn up this street,” he said, suddenly. “I know a nice little
quiet place where we can have a drink in comfort.”
I followed him. Strange as it may seem, I was for the time being
incapable of resistance. Perhaps my new-found friend was a hypnotist,
or something of the kind; if he did not actually possess occult powers,
he certainly had the gift in a very marked degree of ingratiating
himself with strangers.
As we walked along side by side he kept up a lively and interesting
conversation, touching lightly upon a variety of subjects. He evidently
possessed a well-stored mind, for his fund of knowledge and anecdote
seemed almost inexhaustible.
I became so interested in what he was telling me--wonderful adventures
he said he had had in South America, and a graphic description of how
diamonds are found--that I did not notice where I was being led. All I
know is that we traversed street after street, until at length the man
whom I had offered to guide to Hope Street had taken me to a part of
the city in which I never remember having previously been.
[Illustration: “’EXCUSE ME, SIR,’ HE SAID, WITH MUCH POLITENESS, AT
THE SAME TIME SLIGHTLY RAISING HIS HAT, ‘BUT I BELIEVE THIS IS YOUR
HANDKERCHIEF.’”]
Then suddenly he halted in front of a most respectable-looking whisky
shop--in England we call them public-houses--situated in a broad
thoroughfare, busy with plenty of pedestrian and vehicular traffic.
It did not strike me as being a particularly “quiet” place; in fact,
whilst it may have been comfortable enough inside, its exterior
surroundings were not likely to recommend it to those in search of
solitude.
“Here we are, my young friend,” he said, with that smile which had now
become almost irresistible to me.
The inside fittings of the place were what may be termed “flashy,”
immense gilded mirrors and crimson-covered seats being the outstanding
features in the general scheme of furnishing and decoration. A
mahogany, tumbler-laden bar, with shelves of massed bottles in the
background, ran the whole length of the apartment, whilst on the other
side were a range of what I can best describe as cubicles, though in
public-house parlance I suppose they would be called “snugs.” There was
a door to each of these box-like apartments, though the ceiling of the
saloon was common to them all.
“Come in here,” urged my friend, tugging at my coat-sleeve. “It will be
quieter, and no one will disturb us.”
We entered the “snug,” which contained a long narrow table, with
horsehair-padded seats on either side, an oblong window, half screened,
serving to let in a rather subdued light.
Scarcely had I got both my feet inside when I observed with surprise
that the place had already an occupant, a benevolent-looking old
gentleman, who at that moment was studiously engaged in perusing the
columns of a newspaper.
My companion, noticing my hesitation, exclaimed in a cheery voice,
“It’s all right, my boy; I’m sure our friend won’t object.”
Looking up from his paper “our friend” adjusted his spectacles and
regarded us both with a quizzical expression.
“Come in; don’t mind me,” he said at length, as if satisfied with our
appearance, and we sat down at the table, my companion on one side, I
on the other, the first occupant taking no further notice of us.
“I’m going to have a toothful of whisky,” said my fashionably-dressed
_vis-à-vis_. “Will you have the same?”
I diffidently demurred at the proposal, as all alcoholic beverages were
then to me as a sealed book, and in the end a bottle of lemonade was
ordered for me.
And there I sat, sipping the lemonade and nervously fingering the
bundle of notes in my trousers pocket.
I had found my friend very agreeable, very pleasant, and very
entertaining, and would not have objected to remaining a little longer
with him, but that I felt my employer would be expecting my return with
the money he had sent me out to collect. Accordingly, drinking up my
beverage, I presently rose and said I was afraid I must be going.
“Oh, there is no hurry, my boy,” he said, with such cordiality that I
sat down again--but it should be only for a couple of minutes, I told
myself.
“That’s right; make yourself comfortable, and we’ll have another drink
in.”
I protested that I had had quite sufficient and that I must not linger,
as I was expected back.
“A few minutes more or less will hardly make any difference,” he
remarked, “and, besides, if you will only wait I shall be coming your
way, for you know you promised to show me the way to Hope Street.”
I am afraid my resolutions about going were somewhat feeble, for he
again persuaded me to sit down.
Meanwhile the old gentleman at the other end of the narrow table went
on reading his paper. He might have had the place to himself for all
the notice he took of us.
Suddenly my companion ceased speaking to me (the conversation had by
some means or other turned on the subject of trains), and diving his
hand into a side pocket produced a new railway-carriage key, very
bright and very shiny.
I wondered what he intended to do with it, and even got so far as
speculating upon whether he was a manufacturer of this class of goods,
or travelled for the people who made them.
Then he tapped the key lightly on the edge of the table, and,
addressing the old gentleman, said, politely: “Is this article of any
service to you, sir? Excuse the apparent liberty, but I can offer you
these keys at the small sum of sixpence each.”
I looked in the direction of the old gentleman and saw that he had put
his paper on one side and was regarding my companion with a pleasant
smile.
“I am much obliged to you, sir,” he replied, softly; “but as I very
rarely travel I have no use for such a key.”
“Never mind,” remarked the other; “I’ll tell you what we’ll do--we’ll
just ‘cut’ for it,” and without any further explanation at the moment
he drew from his breast pocket what I took to be three ordinary
playing-cards. The same pattern embellished the back of each, but when
they were turned face upwards I observed that two of them were blanks,
whilst on the other was a highly-coloured representation of a lady’s
head and shoulders. I recollect that the hues in which the charms of
this female were depicted were very varied, so that in combination they
presented a dazzling picture.
Although the word “cut” had been made use of as applicable to the
cards, it was rather a misnomer. “Double shuffle,” with a peculiar
movement, would more fittingly describe what subsequently happened.
“Now, whichever of you two can first tell me where the lady is I will
present with this key as a prize,” said the young man. As he spoke
he made a pretence of shuffling the cards up in his hands, and then
proceeded to lay them face downwards on the table, but before he
finally allowed them to remain he exhibited the face of each card, so
that I thought nothing could possibly be easier than to indicate where
the lady’s head lay.
“You try first, sir,” said my friend to the old gentleman, and he
singled out the card which I was absolutely certain was the wrong one,
and so it was, as it turned out.
“Your turn, my boy,” cried the stranger, having rearranged the cards,
and without the slightest hesitation I displayed the female’s head to
view.
“Very good; here’s your prize,” and he pushed the key across the table
to me.
“Just by way of a change, I will bet each of you sixpence that neither
of you can pick out the lady’s head _this_ time,” he said; but hardly
had the words been spoken than the door of the “snug” was quietly
opened and an elderly man stood framed in the open space.
“I beg your pardon, gentlemen,” he apologized; “I didn’t mean to
intrude.”
“Won’t you come in and join us, sir?” cried my companion,
insinuatingly. “Just a quiet little game together; only sixpenny
stakes.”
“Oh, well, I don’t mind if I do,” replied the new-comer, and without
further ceremony he seated himself on the other side of me and fixed
his eyes intently on the cards, which the other was manipulating with
both hands.
By this time the old gentleman gave every sign of being deeply
interested in the proceedings, and had taken a number of sixpences from
his pocket, which he placed in a little heap at his side.
The new-comer and I also produced the necessary coin and staked it on
the “lady.”
The old gentleman was the first to try his luck, but he failed to
locate the whereabouts of the fair one.
Then the cards were taken up and rearranged, when the new arrival had a
flutter, but he likewise parted with his sixpence.
“How stupid these men must be!” I thought, as the cards were being
prepared for a third set out, when, of course, I immediately spotted
the “lady” and was paid over the sixpence.
“Double stakes now,” cried the manipulator.
Nothing loath, I put my shilling down, and again I was the only victor.