THE LAKE SHORE PUSH.
Previous to my experience in a railroad police force, I was employed by
the same railroad company in making an investigation of the tramp
situation on the lines under their management. The object of the
investigation was to find out whether the policy pursued by the company
was going to be permanently successful in keeping tramps and
"train-riders" off the property, and to discover how neighbouring roads
dealt with trespassers. Incidentally, I was also to interview tramps
that I met, and ask their opinion of the methods used by the railroad
for which I worked. The first month of the investigation was given up to
roads crossing and recrossing the lines in which I was particularly
interested, and I lived and travelled during this period like a
professional tramp. While on my travels I made the acquaintance of a
very interesting organisation of criminal tramps, which is continually
troubling railroads in the middle West. As I also had to keep watch of
it while on duty as a patrolman, an account of my experience with some
of its members seems to fall within the scope of this book.
One night, after I had been out about a week on the preliminary
investigation for the railroad, I arrived at Ashtabula, Ohio, on the
Lake Shore and Michigan Southern Railroad, in company with a little
Englishman, who, when we registered at the police station where we went
to ask for shelter, facetiously signed himself, George the Fourth. There
are four "stops," as the tramp says, in Ashtabula, three police stations
and the sand-house of the Lake Shore Railroad, and after we had used up
our welcome in the police stations we went to the sand-house. Later,
when we were sure that the police had forgotten us, we returned to the
"calabooses," and made another round of them, but we also spent several
nights at the sand-house. On our first night at the sand-house we
arrived there before the other lodgers had finished their hunt for
supper, and on the principle of "first come first served" we picked out
the best places in the sand. It was early in April, and in Ashtabula at
this season of the year the sand nearest the fire is the most
comfortable. During the evening other men and boys came in, but they
recognised that our early arrival entitled us to the good places, and
they picked out the next best. About ten o'clock we all fell asleep,
leaving barely enough room for the sand-house attendant to move about
and attend to his duties. A little after midnight I was awakened by loud
voices scolding and cursing, and heard a man, whom I could not see,
however, say:
"Kick the fellow's head off. It's your place right 'nough, teach 'im a
lesson."
Somebody struck a match then, and I saw two burly men standing over the
little Englishman. They were the roughest-looking customers I have ever
seen anywhere. More matches were struck in different parts of the
sand-house, and I heard men whispering to one another that the two
disturbers were "Lake Shore Push people," and that there was going to be
a fight.
"Get up, will ye?" one of them said, in a brutal voice to my companion.
"It's a wonder ye wouldn't find a place o' yer own."
"Hit 'im with the poker," the other advised. "Stave his slats in."
Then the first speaker made as if he were going to kick the Englishman
in the head with his big hobnailed boot. The Englishman could stand it
no longer, and jumping to his feet and snatching up an empty
sand-bucket, he took a defensive position, and said:
"Come on, now, if you blokes want a scrap. One o' ye'll go down."
The crowd seemed only to need this exhibition of grit on the part of the
Britisher to make them rally to his side, and one of them set a ball of
newspapers afire for a light, and the rest grabbed sand-buckets and
pieces of board and made ready to assist the Britisher in "doing up" the
two bullies. The latter wisely decided that fifteen to two was too much
of a disadvantage, and left, threatening to come back with the "push"
and "clean out the entire house," which they failed to do, however, that
night or on any other night that the Englishman and I spent at the
sand-house.
After they had gone, the crowd gathered around the Englishman, and he
was congratulated on having "put up such a good front" against the two
men. Then began a general discussion of the organisation, or "push," as
it was called, which I could only partially follow. I had been out of
Hoboland for a number of years previous to this experience, and the
"push" was a new institution to me. It was obvious, however, that it
played a very prominent part in the lives of the men at the sand-house,
for each one present had a story to tell of how he had been imposed upon
by it, either on a freight-train or at some stopping-place, in more or
less the same way as the Englishman had been. Had it not been that
questions on my part would have proven me to be a "tenderfoot," which it
was bad policy for one in my position to admit as possible, I should
have made inquiries then and there, for it was plain that the "push" was
an association that ought to interest me also; but all that I learned
that night was that there was a gang of wild characters who were trying
to run the Lake Shore Railroad, so far as Hoboland was concerned,
according to their own wishes and interests, and that there were
constant clashes between them and such men as were gathered together in
the sand-house. There was no mention made of their strength or identity;
the conversation was confined to accounts of their persecutions and
crimes, and to suggestions as to how they could be made to disband. One
man, I remember, said that the only thing to do was to shoot them, one
at a time, on sight, and he declared that he would join a "push" which
would make this task its object as an organisation. "They're the
meanest push this country has ever seen," he added, "an' workin' men as
well as 'boes ought to help do 'em up. They hold up ev'rybody, an' it's
got so that it's all a man's life's worth to ride on this road."
The following morning, while reading the newspaper, a week or so old, in
which a baker had wrapped up some rolls which I had purchased of him, I
came across a paragraph in the local column, which read something like
this: "A middle-aged man was found dead yesterday morning, lying in the
bushes near the railroad track between Girard and Erie. His neck was
broken, and it is thought that he is another victim of the notorious
'Lake Shore gang.' The supposition is that he was beating his way on a
freight-train when the gang overtook him, and that, after robbing him,
they threw him off the train."
After reading this paragraph, I strolled down the Lake Shore tracks to
the west, until I came to the coal-chutes, where tramp camps are to be
found the year round. As many as fifty men can be seen here on
occasions, sitting around fires kept up by the railroad company's coal,
and "dope" from the wheel-boxes of freight-cars. I found two camps on
the morning in question, one very near the coal chutes, and the other
about a quarter of a mile farther on. There were about a dozen men at
the first, and not quite thirty at the second. I halted at the first,
thinking that both were camps where all roadsters would be welcome. I
had hardly taken a seat on one of the ties, and said, "How are you?"
when a dirty-looking fellow of about fifty years asked me, in sarcasm,
as I afterward learned, if I had a match. "S'pose y' ain't got a piece
o' wood with a little brimstone on the end of it, have ye?" were his
words. I replied that I had, and was about to hand him one, when a
general grin ran over the faces of the men, and I heard a man near me,
say, "Tenderfoot, sure." It was plain that there was something either in
my make-up or manner which was not regular, but I was not left long in
suspense as to what it was. The dirty man with the gray hair explained
the situation. "This is our fire, our camp, an' our deestrict," he said
in a gruff voice, "an' you better go off an' build one o' yer own. Ye've
got a match, ye say?" the intonation of his voice sneeringly suggesting
the interrogation. There was nothing to do but go, and I went, but I
gave the camp a minute "sizing up" as I left. The men were having what
is called in tramp parlance a "store-made scoff." They had bought eggs,
bread, butter, meat, and potatoes in Ashtabula, and were in the midst of
their breakfast when I came upon them. In looks they were what a tramp
companion of mine once described as "blowed in the glass stiffs." It is
not easy to explain to one who has never been in Hoboland and learned
instinctively to appraise roadsters what this expression signifies, but
in the present instance it means that depravity was simply dripping off
them. Their faces were "tough" and dirty, their clothes were tattered
and torn, their voices were rasping and coarse, and their general
manner was as mean as human nature is capable of. To compare them to a
collection of rowdies with which the reader is acquainted, I would say
that they resembled very closely the tramps pictured in the illustrated
edition of Mark Twain's "The Prince and the Pauper." Their average age
was about thirty-five years, but several were fifty and over, and others
were under twenty. The clever detective would probably have picked them
out for what they were, "hobo guns,"--tramp thieves and "hold-up"
men,--but the ordinary citizen would have classified them merely as
"dirty tramps," which would also have been the truth, but not the whole
truth.
I learned more definitely about them at the second camp, where a welcome
was extended to everybody. "Got the hot-foot at the other camp, I
guess?" a young fellow said to me as I sat down beside him, and I
admitted the fact. "Those brutes wouldn't do a favour to their own
mothers," he went on. "We've jus' been chewin' the rag 'bout goin' over
an' havin' a scrap with 'em. There's enough of us this mornin' to lay
'em out."
"Who are they?"
"Some o' the Lake Shore gang. They jump in an' out o' here ev'ry few
days. There's a lot more o' them down at Painesville. They're scattered
all along the line. Las' night some of 'em held up those two
stone-masons settin' over there on that pile o' ties. Took away their
tools, an' made 'em trade clothes. Caught 'em in a box-car comin' East.
Shoved guns under their noses, an' the masons had to cough up."
A few nights after this experience, and again in company with my friend,
George the Fourth, I applied for lodging at the police station at
Ashtabula Harbour. We made two of the first four to be admitted on the
night in question, and picked out, selfishly, it is true, but entirely
within our rights, two cells near the fire. We had made up our beds on
the cell benches out of our coats and newspapers, and were boiling some
coffee on the stove preparatory to going to sleep, when four newcomers,
whom I had seen at the "push's" camp, were ushered in. They went
immediately to the cells we had chosen, and, seeing that our things were
in them, said: "These your togs in here?" We "allowed" that they were.
"Take 'em out, then, 'cause these are our cells."
"How your cells?" asked George.
"See here, young fella, do as yer told. See?"
"No, I don't see. You're not so warm." And George drew out his razor.
The men must have seen something in his eyes which cowed them, for they
chose other cells. I expected that they would maul us unmercifully
before morning, but we were left in peace.
One more episode: One afternoon George and I decided that it was time
for us to be on the move again, and we boarded a train of empty cars
bound West. We had ridden along pleasantly enough for about ten miles,
taking in the scenery through the slats of the car, when we saw three
men climb down the side of the car. George whispered "Lake Shore Push"
to me the minute we saw them, and we both knew that we were to be "held
up," if the fellows ever got at us. It was a predicament which called
for a cool head and quick action, and George the Fourth had both. He
addressed the invaders in a language peculiar to men of the road and
distinctive mainly on account of its expletives, and wound up his
harangue with the threat that the first man who tried to open the door
would have his hand cut off. And he flashed his ubiquitous razor as
evidence of his ability to carry out the threat. The engineer
fortunately whistled just then for a watering-tank, and the men
clambered back to the top of the car, and we saw them no more.
So much for my personal experience with the "Lake Shore Push" as a
possible victim; they failed to do me any harm, but it was not their
fault. They interested me so much that I spent two weeks on the Lake
Shore Railroad in order to learn the truth concerning them. I reasoned
that if such an organisation as they seemed to be was possible on one
railroad property, it might easily develop on another, and I deemed it
worth while to inform myself in regard to their origin, strength, and
purpose. Nearly every other newspaper that I came across, while
travelling in this district, made some reference to them, but always in
an indefinite way which showed that even the police reporter had not
been able to find out much about them. They were always spoken of as the
"infamous" or "notorious Lake Shore gang," and all kinds of crimes were
supposed to have been committed by them, but there was nothing in any of
the newspaper paragraphs which gave me any clue as to their identity. In
the course of my investigations I ran across a man by the name of Peg
Kelley, who had known me years before in the far West, and with whom I
had tramped at different times. We went over in detail, I romancing a
little, our experiences in the interval of time since our last meeting,
and he finally confessed to me that he was a member of the "Lake Shore
Push," and added that he was prepared to suggest my name for membership.
From him I got what he claims are the facts in regard to the "push." To
the best of my knowledge, never before in our history has an association
of outlaws developed on the same lines as has the "Lake Shore Push," and
it stands alone in the purpose for which it now exists.
In the early seventies, some say in 1874, and others a little earlier,
there lived in a row of old frame houses standing on, or near, the site
of the present Lake View Park in Cleveland, Ohio, a collection of
professional criminals, among whom were six fellows called New Orleans
Tom, Buffalo Slim, Big Yellow, Allegheny B., Looking Glass Jack, and
Garry. The names of these particular men are given, because Peg Kelley
believes that they constituted the nucleus of the present "Lake Shore
Push." They are probably all dead by this time; at any rate, the word
"push" was not current tramp slang in their day, and they referred to
themselves merely as the "gang." Cleveland was their headquarters, and
it is reported that the town was a sort of Mecca for outlaws throughout
the neighbouring vicinity. The main "graft," or business, of the gang,
was robbing merchandise cars, banks, post-offices, and doing what is
called "slough work," robbing locked houses. The leader of the company,
if such men can be said to have a leader, was New Orleans Tom, who is
described as a typical Southern desperado. He had been a sailor before
joining the gang, and claimed that during the Civil War he was captured
by Union soldiers and sailors, while on the _Harriet Lane_, lying off
Galveston. The gang grew in numbers as the years went on, and there is a
second stage in its development when Danny the Soldier, as he was
called, seems to have taken Slim's place in leadership. By 1880,
although still not called "The Lake Shore Push," the gang had made a
name for itself, or, rather, a "record," to use the word which the men
themselves would have preferred, and had become known to tramps and
criminals throughout northern Ohio and southern Michigan. The police got
after them from time to time, and there were periods when they were
considerably scattered, but whenever they came together again, even in
twos and threes, it was recognised that pals were meeting pals. When
members of the gang died or were sent to limbo, it was comparatively
easy to fill their places either with "talent" imported from other
districts, or with local fellows who were glad to become identified with
a mob. There has always been a rough element in such towns as Cleveland,
Toledo, Erie, and Buffalo, from which gangs could be recruited; it is
composed largely of "lakers," men who work on the lakes during the open
season, and live by their wits in winter time. This class has
contributed its full share to the criminal population of the country,
and has always been heavily represented in mobs and gangs along the lake
shore.
Opinions differ, Peg Kelley claims, as to when the name "Lake Shore
Push" was first used by the gang, as well as to who invented it, but it
is his opinion, and I have none better to offer, that it was late in the
eighties when it was first suggested, and that it was outsiders, such
as transient roadsters, who made the expression popular. He says, in
regard to this point:
"The gang was known to hang out along the lake shore, an' mainly on the
Lake Shore Road, an' 'boes from other States kep' seein' 'em an' hearin'
about 'em when they came this way. Well, ye know how 'boes are. If they
see a bloke holdin' down a district they give 'im the name o' the place,
an' that's the way the gang got its monikey (nickname). The 'boes kep'
talkin' about the push holdin' down the Lake Shore Road, an' after
awhile they took to callin' it the 'Lake Shore Push.'
"Ev'ry 'bo in the country knows the name now. Way out in 'Frisco, 'f
they know 't ye've come from 'round here they'll ask ye 'bout the push,
if it's what it's cracked up to be, an' all that kind o' thing. It's got
the biggest rep of any 'bo push in the country."
The story of how the "push" got its "rep" is best told by Peg, and in
his own words. I have been at considerable pains to verify his
statements, and have yet to discover him in wilful misrepresentation. He
admits that the "push" has done some dastardly deeds, and appreciates
perfectly why it is so hated by out-of-works who have to "beat" their
way on trains which run through its territory, but he believes that it
could not have been otherwise, considering the purpose for which the
"push" was organised.
"Ye can't try to monopolise anythin', Cigarette," he said to me,
"without gettin' into a row with somebody, an' that's been the
'xperience o' the push. When there was jus' that Cleveland gang, nobody
said nothin', 'cause they didn't try to run things, but the minute the
big push came ev'rybody was talkin', an' they're chewin' the rag yet."
"Who first thought of organising the big push?"
"I don't know 't any one bloke thought of it. It was at the time that
trusts an' syndicates an' that kind o' thing was beginnin' to be
pop'lar, an' the blokes had been readin' 'bout 'em in the newspapers. I
was out West then,--it was in '89,--an' didn't know 'bout the push one
way or the other, but from what the blokes tell me the idea came to all
of 'em 'bout the same time. Ye see, that Cleveland gang had kep' growin'
an' growin' an' spreadin' out, an' after awhile there was a big mob of
'em floatin' up an' down the road here. Blokes from other places had got
into it, an' they'd got to be the biggest push on the line. There was no
partickler leader, the way the James and Dalton gangs had leaders, an'
there never has been. 'Course the newspapers try to make out that this
fella an' that fella runs the thing, but they don't know what they're
talkin' 'bout. The bigger the gang got, the more room it wanted, an'
pretty soon they began to get a grouch on against the gay-cats that kep'
comin' to their camps. Ye know how it is yourself. When ye've got
'customed to a push, ye don't want to have to mix with a lot o'
strangers, an' that's the way the gang felt, an' they got to drivin' the
gay-cats away from their camps. That started 'em to wonderin' why they
shouldn't have the Lake Shore Road all to themselves. As I was tellin'
ye, trusts an' syndicates was gettin' into the air 'bout that time, an'
the push didn't see why it couldn't have one too; an' they begun to have
reg'lar fights with the gay-cats. I came into the push jus' about the
time the scrappin' began. I ain't speshully fond o' scrappin', but I did
like the idea o' dividin' up territory. There's no use talkin', Cig, if
all the 'boes in the country 'ud do what we been tryin' to do, there'd
be a lot more money in the game. Take the Erie Road, the Pennsy, the
Dope,[1] an' the rest of 'em. Ye know as well as I do, 't if the 'boes
on those lines 'ud organise an' keep ev'ry bum off of 'em 't wasn't in
the push, an' 'ud keep the push from gettin' too large, they'd be a lot
better off. 'Course there's got to be scrappin' to do the thing, but
that don't need to interfere. See how the trusts an' syndicates scrap
till they get what they want, an' see how many throats they cut. We've
thrown bums off trains, I won't deny it, an' we hold up ev'ry one of
'em 't we can get hold of, but ain't that what the trusts are doin',
too?"
I asked him whether the "push" distinguished or not in the people it
halted.
"If a reg'lar 'bo, a fella 't we know by name," he went on, "will open
up an' tell us who he is, an' his graft, we'll let 'im go, but we tell
'im that the world's gettin' smaller 'n' smaller, 'n' 't he'd better get
a cinch on a part of it, too. That don't mean 't he can join the push,
an' he knows it. He understan's what we're drivin' at. He can ride on
the road 'f he likes, but he'll get sick o' bein' by himself all the
time, an' 'll take a mooch after awhile. 'Course all don't do it, ye've
seen yerself that there's hunderds runnin' up an' down the line 't we
ain't got rid of, an' p'r'aps never will. I ain't so dead sure that the
thing's goin' to work, but the coppers'll never break us up, anyhow.
They've been tryin' now for years, an' they've got some of the blokes
settled, but we can fill their places the minute they've gone."
"How many are in the push?"
"'Bout a hunderd an' fifty. Sometimes there's more an' sometimes
there's less, but it aver'ges 'bout that."
"Do all the fellows come from around here?"
"No, not half of 'em. There's fellas from all over; a lot of 'em are
Westerners."
"What is the main graft?"
"Well, we're diggin' into these cars right along. We got plants all
along the road, from Buffalo to Chi. I can fit ye out in a new suit o'
clothes to-morrow, 'f ye want to go up the line with me."
"Don't the railroad people trouble you?"
"O' course, they ain't lookin' on while we're robbin' 'em, but they
can't do very much. We got the trainmen pretty well scared, an' when
they get too rambunctious we do one of 'em up."
"Do you ever shift to other roads?"
"Lately we've branched out a little over on the Dope an' the Erie, but
the main hang-outs are on the Shore. We know this road down to the
ground, an' we ain't so sure o' the others. Most o' the post-office
work, though, is done off this road."
"What kind of work is that?"
"Peter-work,[2] o' course, what d'ye think?"
"Pan out pretty well?"
"Don't get much cash, but the stamps are jus' about as good. Awhile ago
I was payin' fer ev'rythin' in stamps. Felt like one o' the old
fourth-class postmasters."
"Doesn't the government get after you?"
"Oh, it's settled some of us, but as I was tellin' ye, there's always
fellas to take the empty places."
"Got much fall money?"
"No, not a bit. We don't save anythin', it all goes fer booze an' grub.
I've seen a big box o' shoes go fer two kegs o' beer, an' ye can't get
much fall money out o' that kind o' bargaining. We have a good time,
though, an' we're the high-monkey-monks o' this road."
Later he introduced me to some of his companions. They were the same
kind of men with whom the Englishman and I had had the disagreeable
encounters,--rough and vicious-looking. "They're not bad fellas, are
they?" Peg asked, when we were alone again. "You'd tie up to them, Cig,
'f ye was on the Shore, I know ye would."
It was useless to argue with him, and we separated, he to join a
detachment of the "push" in western New York, and I to continue on my
way westward. Since the meeting with Peg I have been back several times
in the "push's" territory, and have continued to make acquaintances in
it. In the tramp's criminal world it stands for the most successful form
of syndicated lawlessness known up to date, and, unless soon broken up
and severely dealt with, it will serve as a pattern for other
organisations. Whether it is copied or not, however, when the history of
crime in the United States is written, and a very interesting history it
will be, the "Lake Shore Push" must be given by the historian a
prominent place in his classification of criminal mobs.
FOOTNOTES:
[1] Baltimore and Ohio Railroad.
[2] A "Peter-man" is a safe-"blower," and Peter-work is safe-breaking.