Tim Bolton's Saloon.
Not far from Houston Street, on the west side of the Bowery, is an
underground saloon, with whose proprietor we are already acquainted.
It was kept by Tim Bolton, whose peculiar tastes and shady
characteristics well fitted him for such a business.
It was early evening, and the gas jets lighted up a characteristic
scene.
On the sanded floor were set several tables, around which were seated
a motley company, all of them with glasses of beer or whiskey before
them.
Tim, with a white apron on, was moving about behind the bar,
ministering to the wants of his patrons. There was a scowl upon his
face, for he was not fond of work, and he missed Dodger's assistance.
The boy understood the business of mixing drinks as well as he, and
often officiated for hours at a time, thus giving his guardian and
reputed father a chance to leave the place and meet outside
engagements.
A tall, erect gentleman entered the saloon, and walked up to the bar.
"Good-evening, colonel," said Tim.
"Good-evening, sir," said the newcomer, with a stately inclination of
the head.
He was really a colonel, having served in the Civil War at the head of
a Georgia regiment.
He had all the stately courtesy of a Southern gentleman, though not
above the weakness of a frequent indulgence in the strongest fluids
dispensed by Tim Bolton.
"What'll you have, colonel?"
"Whiskey straight, sir. It's the only drink fit for a gentleman. Will
you join me, Mr. Bolton?"
"Of course, I will," said Tim, as, pouring out a glass for himself, he
handed the bottle to the colonel.
"Your health, sir," said the colonel, bowing.
"Same to you, colonel," responded Tim, with a nod.
"Where's the boy?"
Col. Martin had always taken considerable notice of Dodger, being
naturally fond of boys, and having once had a son of his own, who was
killed in a railroad accident when about Dodger's age.
"Danged if I know!" answered Tim, crossly.
"He hasn't left you, has he?"
"Yes; he's cleared out, the ungrateful young imp! I'd like to lay my
hands on the young rascal."
"Was he your son?"
"He was my--stepson," answered Tim, hesitating.
"I see, you married his mother."
"Yes," said Tim, considering the explanation satisfactory, and
resolved to adopt it. "I've always treated him as if he was my own
flesh and blood, and I've raised him from a young kid. Now he's gone
and left me."
"Can you think of any reason for his leaving you?"
"Not one. I always treated him well. He's been a great expense to me,
and now he's got old enough to help me he must clear out. He's the
most ungrateful cub I ever seen."
"I am sorry he has gone--I used to like to have him serve me."
"And now what's the consequence? Here I am tied down to the bar day
and night."
"Can't you get some one in his place?"
"Yes, but I'd likely be robbed; I had a bartender once who robbed me
of two or three dollars a day."
"But you trusted the boy?"
"Yes, Dodger wouldn't steal--I can say that much for him."
"There's one thing I noticed about the boy," said the colonel,
reflectively. "He wouldn't drink. More than once I have asked him to
drink with me, but he would always say, 'Thank you, colonel, but I
don't like whiskey.' I never asked him to take anything else, for
whiskey's the only drink fit for a gentleman. Do you expect to get the
boy back?"
"If I could only get out for a day I'd hunt him up; but I'm tied down
here."
"I seed him yesterday, Tim," said a red-nosed man who had just entered
the saloon, in company with a friend of the same general appearance.
Both wore silk hats, dented and soiled with stains of dirt, coats long
since superannuated, and wore the general look of barroom loafers.
They seldom had any money, but lay in wait for any liberal stranger,
in the hope of securing a free drink.
"Where did you see him, Hooker?" asked Tim Bolton, with sudden
interest.
"Selling papers down by the Astor House."
"Think of that, colonel!" said Tim, disgusted. "Becomin' a common
newsboy, when he might be in a genteel employment! Did you speak to
him, Hooker?"
"Yes, I asked him if he had left you."
"What did he say?"
"That he had left you for good--that he was going to grow up
respectable!"
"Think of that!" said Tim, with renewed disgust. "Did he say where he
lived?"
"No."
"Did he ask after me?"
"No, except he said that you were no relation of his. He said he
expected you stole him when he was a kid, and he hoped some time to
find his relations."
Tim Bolton's face changed color, and he was evidently disturbed. Could
the boy have heard anything? he wondered, for his suspicions were very
near the truth.
"It's all nonsense!" he said, roughly. "Next time you see him, Hooker,
foller him home, and find out where he lives."
"All right, Tim. It ought to be worth something," he insinuated, with
a husky cough.
"That's so. What'll you take?"
"Whiskey," answered Hooker, with a look of pleased anticipation.
"You're a gentleman, Tim," he said, as he gulped down the contents of
a glass without winking.
Briggs, his dilapidated companion, had been looking on in thirsty
envy.
"I'll help Hooker to look for Dodger," he said.
"Very well, Briggs."
"Couldn't you stand a glass for me, too, Tim?" asked Briggs, eagerly.
"No," answered Bolton, irritably. "I've been at enough expense for
that young rascal already."
But the colonel noticed the pathetic look of disappointment on the
face of Briggs, and he was stirred to compassion.
"Drink with me, sir," he said, turning to the overjoyed Briggs.
"Thank you, colonel. You're a gentleman!"
"Two glasses, Tim."
So the colonel drained a second glass, and Briggs, pouring out with
trembling fingers as much as he dared, followed suit.
When the last drop was drunk, he breathed a deep sigh of measureless
enjoyment.
"If either of you bring that boy in here," said Tim, "I'll stand a
couple of glasses for both."
"We're your men, Tim," said Hooker. "Ain't we, Briggs?"
"That's so, Hooker. Shake!"
And the poor victims of drink shook hands energetically. Long since
they had sunk their manhood in the intoxicating cup, and henceforth
lived only to gratify their unnatural craving for what would sooner or
later bring them to a drunkard's grave.
As they left the saloon, the colonel turned to Tim, and said:
"I like whiskey, sir; but I'll be hanged if I can respect such men as
those."
"They're bums, colonel, that's what they are!"
"How do they live?"
"Don't know. They're in here about every day."
"If it's drink that's brought them where they are, I'm half inclined
to give it up; but, after all, it isn't necessary to make a beast of
yourself. I always drink like a gentleman, sir."
"So you do, colonel."
At that moment a poor woman, in a faded calico dress with a thin shawl
over her shoulders, descended the steps that led into the saloon, and
walked up to the bar.
"Has my husband been here to-night?" she asked.
Tim Bolton frowned.
"Who's your husband?" he asked, roughly.
"Wilson."
"No, Bill Wilson hasn't been here to-night. Even if he had you have no
business to come after him. I don't want any sniveling women here."
"I couldn't help it, Mr. Bolton," said the woman, putting her apron to
her eyes. "If Bill comes in, won't you tell him to come home? The
baby's dead, and we haven't a cent in the house!"
Even Tim was moved by this.
"I'll tell him," he said. "Take a drink yourself; you don't look
strong. It shan't cost you a cent."
"No," said the woman, "not a drop! It has ruined my happiness, and
broken up our home! Not a drop!"
"Here, my good lady," said the colonel, with chivalrous deference,
"you have no money. Take this," and he handed the astonished woman a
five-dollar bill.
"Heaven bless you, sir!" she exclaimed, fervently.
"Allow me to see you to the street," and the gallant Southern
gentleman escorted her up to the sidewalk.
"I'd like to horsewhip that woman's husband. Don't you sell him
another drop!" he said, when he returned.