_Mixed-Ale Life in the Fourth and Seventh Wards._
For a time--a short time--after I left the Tombs I was quiet. My
relatives threw the gallows "con" into me hard, but at that time I
was proof against any arguments they could muster. They were not able
to show me anything that was worth while; they could not deliver the
goods, so what was the use of talking?
Although I was a disgrace at home, I was high cock-a-lorum among the
boys in the neighborhood. They began to look up to me, as I had looked
up to the grafters at the corner saloon. They admired me because I was
a fighter and had "done time." I went up in their estimation because
I had suffered in the good cause. And I began to get introductions to
the older grafters in the seventh ward--grafters with diamond pins and
silk hats. It was not long before I was at it harder than ever, uptown
and downtown. I not only continued my trade as Moll-buzzer, but began
to spread myself, got to be quite an adept in touching men for vests
and supers and fronts; and every now and then "shoved the queer" or
worked a little game of swindling. Our stamping-ground for supers and
vests at that time was Fulton, Nassau, Lower Broadway and Wall Streets,
and we covered our territory well. I used to work alone considerably.
I would board a car with a couple of newspapers, would say, "News,
boss?" to some man sitting down, would shove the paper in front of his
face as a stall, and then pick his super or even his entire "front"
(watch and chain). If you will stand for a newspaper under your chin
I can get even your socks. Many is the "gent" I have left in the car
with his vest entirely unbuttoned and his "front" gone. When I couldn't
get the chain, I would snap the ring of the watch with my thumb and
fore-finger, giving the thief's cough to drown the slight noise made
by the breaking ring, and get away with the watch, leaving the chain
dangling. Instead of a newspaper, I would often use an overcoat as a
stall.
It was only when I was on the "hurry-up," however, that I worked alone.
It is more dangerous than working with a mob, but if I needed a dollar
quick I'd take any risk. I'd jump on a car, and tackle the first sucker
I saw. If I thought it was not diplomatic to try for the "front," and
if there was no stone in sight, I'd content myself with the "clock"
(watch). But it was safer and more sociable to work with other guys.
We usually went in mobs of three or four, and our methods were much
more complicated than when we were simply moll-buzzing. Each thief had
his special part to play, and his duty varied with the position of the
sucker and the pocket the "leather" was in. If the sucker was standing
in the car, my stall would frequently stand right in front, facing him,
while I would put my hand under the stall's arm and pick the sucker's
leather or super. The other stalls would be distracting the attention
of the sucker, or looking out for possible interruptions. When I had
got possession of the leather I would pass it quickly to the stall
behind me, and he would "vamoose." Sometimes I would back up to the
victim, put my hand behind me, break his ring and pick the super, or I
would face his back, reach round, unbutton his vest while a pal stalled
in front with a newspaper, a bunch of flowers, a fan, or an overcoat,
and get away with his entire front.
A dip, as I have said, pays special attention to his personal
appearance; it is his stock in trade; but when I began to meet boys
who had risen above the grade of Moll-buzzers, I found that the dip, as
opposed to other grafters, had many other advantages, too. He combines
pleasure and instruction with business, for he goes to the foot-ball
games, the New London races, to swell theatres where the graft is good,
and to lectures. I have often listened to Bob Ingersoll, the greatest
orator, in my opinion, that ever lived. I enjoyed his talk so much
that I sometimes forgot to graft. But as a general rule, I was able to
combine instruction with business. I very seldom dropped a red super
because of an oratorical flourish; but the supers did not come my way
all the time, I had some waiting to do, and in the meantime I improved
my mind. Then a dip travels, too, more than most grafters; he jumps
out to fairs and large gatherings of all descriptions, and grows to be
a man of the world. When in the city he visits the best dance halls,
and is popular because of his good clothes, his dough, and his general
information, with men as well as women. He generally lives with a Moll
who has seen the world, and who can add to his fund of information. I
know a dip who could not read or write until he met a Moll, who gave
him a general education and taught him to avoid things that interfered
with his line of graft; she also took care of his personal appearance,
and equipped him generally for an A No. 1 pickpocket. Women are much
the same, I believe, in every rank of life.
It was at this time, when I was a kid of fifteen, that I first met
Sheenie Annie, who was a famous shop-lifter. She was twenty-one years
old, and used to give me good advice. "Keep away from heavy workers,"
(burglars) she would say; "there is a big bit in that." She had lived
in Graftdom ever since she was a tid-bit, and she knew what she was
talking about. I did not work with her until several years later,
but I might as well tell her sad story now. I may say, as a kind of
preface, that I have always liked the girl grafter who could take care
of herself instead of sucking the blood out of some man. When I find
a little working girl who has no other ambition than to get a little
home together, with a little knick-knack on the wall, a little husband
and a little child, I don't care for her. She is a nonentity. But such
was not Sheenie Annie, who was a bright, intelligent, ambitious, girl;
when she liked a fellow she would do anything for him, but otherwise
she wouldn't let a man come near her.
The little Jewish lassie, named Annie, was born in the toughest part
of New York. Later on, as she advanced in years and became an expert
pilferer, she was given the nickname of "Sheenie." She was brought
up on the street, surrounded by thieves and prostitutes. Her only
education was what she received during a year or two in the public
school. She lived near Grand Street, then a popular shopping district.
As a very little girl she and a friend used to visit the drygoods
stores and steal any little notion they could. There was a crowd of
young pickpockets in her street, and she soon got on to this graft,
and became so skilful at it that older guns of both sexes were eager
to take her under their tuition and finish her education. The first
time I met her was in a well-known dance-hall--Billy McGlory's--and we
became friends at once, for she was a good girl and full of mischief.
She was not pretty, exactly, but she was passable. She was small, with
thick lips, plump, had good teeth and eyes as fine and piercing as any
I ever saw in man or woman. She dressed well and was a good talker, as
nimble-witted and as good a judge of human nature as I ever met in her
sex.
Sheenie Annie's graft broadened, and from dipping and small
shop-lifting she rose to a position where she doubled up with a mob
of clever hotel workers, and made large amounts of money. Here was a
girl from the lowest stratum of life, not pretty or well shaped, but
whom men admired because of her wit and cleverness. A big contractor
in Philadelphia was her friend for years. I have seen letters from him
offering to marry her. But she had something better.
For she was an artist at "penny-weighting" and "hoisting." The police
admitted that she was unusually clever at these two grafts, and they
treated her with every consideration. Penny-weighting is a very "slick"
graft. It is generally worked in pairs, by either sex or both sexes.
A man, for instance, enters a jewelry store and looks at some diamond
rings on a tray. He prices them and notes the costly ones. Then he
goes to a fauny shop (imitation jewelry) and buys a few diamonds which
match the real ones he has noted. Then he and his pal, usually a woman,
enter the jewelry store and ask to see the rings. Through some little
"con" they distract the jeweler's attention, and then one of them (and
at this Sheenie Annie was particularly good) substitutes the bogus
diamonds for the good ones; and leaves the store without making a
purchase.
I can give an example of how Sheenie Annie "hoisted," from my own
experience with her. On one occasion, when I was about eighteen years
old, Sheenie and I were on a racket together. We had been "going it"
for several days and needed some dough. We went into a large tailoring
establishment, where I tried on some clothes, as a stall. Nothing
suited me.--I took good care of that--but in the meantime Annie had
taken two costly overcoats, folded them into flat bundles, and, raising
her skirt quickly, had hidden the overcoats between her legs. We left
the store together. She walked so straight that I thought she had got
nothing, but when we entered a saloon a block away, and the swag was
produced, I was forced to laugh. We "fenced" the overcoats and with the
proceeds continued our spree.
Once Sheenie "fell" at this line of graft. She had stolen some costly
sealskins from a well-known furrier, and had got away with them. But
on her third visit to the place she came to grief. She was going out
with a sealskin coat under her skirt when the office-boy, who was
skylarking about, ran into her, and upset her. When the salesman,
who had gone to her rescue, lifted her up, she lost her grip on
the sealskin sacque, and it fell to the floor. It was a "blow," of
course, and she got nailed, but as she had plenty of fall-money, and a
well-known politician dead to rights, she only got nine months in the
penitentiary.
Sheenie Annie was such a good shop-lifter that, with only an
umbrella as a stall, she could make more money in a week than a poor
needle-woman could earn in months. But she did not care for the money.
She was a good fellow, and was in for fun. She was "wise," too, and
I liked to talk to her, for she understood what I said, and was up to
snuff, which was very piquant to me. She had done most of the grafts
that I had done myself, and her tips were always valuable.
To show what a good fellow she was, her sweetheart, Jack, and another
burglar named Jerry were doing night work once, when they were unlucky
enough to be nailed. Sheenie Annie went on the stand and swore perjury
in order to save Jack. He got a year, but Jerry, who had committed the
same crime, got six. While he was in prison Annie visited him and put
up a plan by which he escaped, but he would not leave New York with
her, and was caught and returned to "stir." Annie herself fell in half
a dozen cities, but never received more than a few months. After I
was released from serving my second bit in the "pen," I heard Annie
had died insane. An old girl pal of hers told me that she had died a
horrible death, and that her last words were about her old friends and
companions. Her disease was that which attacks only people with brains.
She died of paresis.
Two other girls whom I knew when I was fifteen turned out to be
famous shop-lifters--Big Lena and Blonde Mamie, who afterwards married
Tommy, the famous cracksman. They began to graft when they were about
fourteen, and Mamie and I used to work together. I was Mamie's first
"fellow," and we had royal good times together. Lena, poor girl, is
now doing five years in London, but she was one of the most cheerful
Molls I ever knew. I met her and Mamie for the first time one day as
they were coming out of an oyster house on Grand Street. I thought
they were good-looking tid-bits, and took them to a picnic. We were
so late that instead of going home Mamie and I spent the night at the
house of Lena's sister, whose husband was a receiver of stolen goods,
or "fence," as it is popularly called. In the morning Lena, Mamie and I
made our first "touch" together. We got a few "books" uptown, and Mamie
banged a satchel at Sterns. After that we often jumped out together,
and took in the excursions. Sometimes Mamie or Lena would dip and I
would stall, but more frequently I was the pick. We used to turn our
swag over to Lena's sister's husband, Max, who would give us about
one-sixth of its value.
These three girls certainly were a crack-a-jack trio. You can't find
their likes nowadays. Even in my time most of the girls I knew did not
amount to anything. They generally married, or did worse. There were
few legitimate grafters among them. Since I have been back this time
I have seen a great many of the old picks and night-workers I used to
know. They tell the same story. There are no Molls now who can compare
with Big Lena, Blonde Mamie, and Sheenie Annie. Times are bad, anyway.
After my experience in the Tombs I rose very rapidly in the world of
graft, and distanced my old companions. Zack, the lad with whom I had
touched my first Moll, soon seemed very tame to me. I fell away from
him because he continued to eat bolivers (cookies), patronize the free
baths, and stole horse-blankets and other trivial things when he could
not get "leathers." He was not fast enough for me. Zack "got there,"
nevertheless, and for little or nothing, for several years later I
met him in State's prison. He told me he was going to Colorado on his
release. I again met him in prison on my second bit. He was then going
to Chicago. On my third hit I ran up against the same old jail-bird,
but this time his destination was Boston. To-day he is still in prison.
As I fell away from the softies I naturally joined hands with
more ambitious grafters, and with those with brains and with good
connections in the upper world. As a lad of from fifteen to eighteen
I associated with several boys who are now famous politicians in
this city, and "on the level," as that phrase is usually meant. Jack
Lawrence was a well-educated boy, and high up as far as his family
was concerned. His father and brothers held good political positions,
and it was only a taste for booze and for less genteel grafting that
held Jack back. As a boy of sixteen or seventeen he was the trusted
messenger of a well-known Republican politician, named J. I. D. One
of Jacks pals became a Federal Judge, and another, Mr. D----, who was
never a grafter, is at present a city magistrate in New York.
While Jack was working for J. I. D., the politician, he was arrested
several times. Once he abstracted a large amount of money from the vest
pocket of a broker as he was standing by the old _Herald_ building.
He was nailed, and sent word to his employer, the politician, who went
to police headquarters, highly indignant at the arrest of his trusted
messenger. He easily convinced the broker and the magistrate that Jack
was innocent; and as far as the Republican politician's business was
concerned, Jack was honest, for J. I. D. trusted him, and Jack never
deceived him. There are some thieves who will not "touch" those who
place confidence in them, and Jack was one of them.
After he was released, the following conversation, which Jack related
to me, took place between him and the politician, in the latter's
office.
"How was it?" the Big One said, "that you happened to get your fingers
into that man's pocket?"
Jack gave the "innocent con."
"None of that," said J. I. D., who was a wise guy, "I know you have a
habit of taking small change from strangers' pockets."
Jack then came off his perch and gave his patron a lesson in the art
of throwing the mit (dipping). At this the politician grinned, and
remarked: "You will either become a reputable politician, for you have
the requisite character, or you will die young."
Jack was feared, hated and envied by the other young fellows in
J. I. D.'s office, for as he was such a thorough rascal, he was a
great favorite with those high up. But he never got J. I. D.'s full
confidence until after he was tested in the following way. One day the
politician put his gold watch on a table in his office. Jack saw it,
picked it up and put it in the Big One's drawer. The latter entered the
room, saw that the watch was gone, and said: "I forgot my watch. I must
have left it home."
"No," said Jack, "you left it on the table, and I put it in your desk."
A smile spread over the patron's face.
"Jack, I can trust you. I put it there just to test your honesty."
The boy hesitated a moment, then, looking into the man's face, replied;
"I know right well you did, for you are a wise guy."
After that J. I. D. trusted Jack even with his love affairs.
As Jack advanced in life he became an expert "gun," and was often
nailed, and frequently brought before Magistrate D----, his old friend.
He always got the benefit of the doubt. One day he was arraigned before
the magistrate, who asked the flyman the nature of the complaint. It
was the same as usual--dipping. Jack, of course, was indignant at such
an awful accusation, but the magistrate told him to keep still, and,
turning to the policeman, asked the culprit's name. When the copper
told him, the magistrate exclaimed: "Why, that is not his name. I knew
him twenty years ago, and he was a d---- rascal then; but that was not
his name."
Jack was shocked at such language from the bench, and swore with
such vehemence that he was innocent, that he again got the benefit of
the doubt, and was discharged, and this time justly, for he had not
made this particular "touch." He was hounded by a copper looking for
a reputation. Jack, when he was set free, turned to the magistrate,
and said: "Your honor, I thank you, but you only did your duty to an
innocent man." The magistrate had a good laugh, and remarked: "Jack, I
wouldn't believe you if you swore on a stack of Bibles."
A curious trait in a professional grafter is that, if he is "pinched"
for something he did not do, although he has done a hundred other
things for which he has never been pinched, he will put up such a wail
against the abominable injustice that an honest man accused of the
same offense would seem guilty in comparison. The honest man, even if
he had the ability of a Philadelphia lawyer, could not do the strong
indignation act that is characteristic of the unjustly accused grafter.
Old thieves guilty of a thousand crimes will nourish revenge for years
against the copper or judge who sends them up to "stir" on a false
accusation.
When I was from fifteen to seventeen years old, I met the man who,
some think, is now practically leader of Tammany Hall. I will call him
Senator Wet Coin. At that time he was a boy eighteen or nineteen and
strictly on the level. He knew all the grafters well, but kept off the
Rocky Path himself. In those days he "hung out" in an oyster shanty
and ran a paper stand. It is said he materially assisted Mr. Pulitzer
in making a success of the _World_, when that paper was started. He
never drank, in spite of the name I have given him. In fact, he derived
his real nickname from his habit of abstinence. He was the friend of
a Bowery girl who is now a well-known actress. She, too, was always
on the level in every way; although her brother was a grafter; this
case, and that of Senator Wet Coin prove that even in an environment of
thieves it is possible to tread the path of virtue. Wet Coin would not
even buy a stolen article; and his reward was great. He became captain
of his election district, ran for assemblyman, was elected, and got as
high a position, with the exception of that of Governor, as is possible
in the State; while in the city, probably no man is more powerful.
Senator Wet Coin made no pretensions to virtue; he never claimed to
be better than others. But in spite of the accusations against him,
he has done far more for the public good than all the professional
reformers, religious and other. He took many noted and professional
criminals in the prime of their success, gave them positions and by his
influence kept them honest ever since. Some of them are high up, even
run gin-mills to-day. I met one of them after my second bit, who used
to make his thousands. Now he has a salary of eighteen dollars a week
and is contented. I had known him in the old days, and he asked:
"What are you doing?"
"The same old thing," I admitted. "What are you up to?"
"I have squared it, Jim," he replied earnestly. "There's nothing in the
graft. Why don't you go to sea?"
"I'd as lief go to stir," I replied.
We had a couple of beers and a long talk, and this is the way he gave
it to me:
"I never thought I could live on eighteen dollars a week. I have to
work hard but I save more money than I did when I was making hundreds
a week; for when it comes hard, it does not go easy. I look twice at my
earnings before I part with them. I live quietly with my sister and am
happy. There's nothing in the other thing, Jim. Look at Hope. Look at
Dan Noble. Look at all the other noted grafters who stole millions and
now are willing to throw the brotherly hand for a small borrow. If I
had the chance to make thousands to-morrow in the under world, I would
not chance it. I am happy. Better still, I am contented. Only for Mr.
Wet Coin I'd be splitting matches in the stir these many years. Show
me the reformer who has done as much for friends and the public as Wet
Coin."
* * * * *
A "touch" that pleased me mightily as a kid was made just before my
second fall. Superintendent Walling had returned from a summer resort,
and found that a mob of "knucks" (another name for pick-pockets) had
been "tearing open" the Third Avenue cars outside of the Post Office.
About fifty complaints had been coming in every day for several weeks;
and the Superintendent thought he would make a personal investigation
and get one of the thieves dead to rights. He made a front that
he was easy and went down the line. He did not catch any dips, but
when he reached police head-quarters he was minus his gold watch and
two hundred and fifty dollars in money. The story leaked out, and
Superintendent Walling was unhappy. There would never have been a
come-back for this "touch" if an old gun, who had just been nailed,
had not "squealed" as to who touched the boss. "Little Mick" had done
it, and the result was that he got his first experience in the House of
Refuge.
It was only a short time after Little Mick's fall that it came my turn
to go to the House of Refuge. I had grown tougher and much stuck on
myself and was taking bigger risks. I certainly had a swelled head in
those days. I was seventeen years old at the time, and was grafting
with Jack T----, who is now in Byrnes's book, and one of the swellest
"Peter" men (safe-blowers) in the profession. Jack and I, along with
another pal, Joe Quigley, got a duffer, an Englishman, for his "front,"
on Grand Street, near Broadway. It was a "blow," and I, who was the
"wire," got nailed. If I had not given my age as fifteen I should have
been sent to the penitentiary. As it was I went to the House of Refuge
for a year. Joe Quigley slipped up on the same game. He was twenty, but
gave his age as fifteen. He had had a good shave by the Tombs barber,
there was a false date of birth written in his Aunt's Bible, which was
produced in court by his lawyer, and he would probably have gone with
me to the House of Refuge, had not a Central Office man who knew him,
happened in; Joe was settled for four years in Sing Sing.
When I arrived at the House of Refuge, my pedigree was taken and my
hair clipped. Then I went into the yard, looked down the line of boys
on parade and saw about forty young grafters whom I knew. One of them
is now a policeman in New York City, and, moreover, on the level.
Some others, too, but not many, who were then in the House of Refuge,
are now honest. Several are running big saloons and are captains of
their election districts, or even higher up. These men are exceptions,
however, for certainly the House of Refuge was a school for crime.
Unspeakably bad habits were contracted there. The older boys wrecked
the younger ones, who, comparatively innocent, confined for the crime
of being orphans, came in contact with others entirely hardened. The
day time was spent in the school and the shop, but there was an hour
or two for play, and the boys would arrange to meet for mischief in the
basement.
Severe punishments were given to lads of fifteen, and their tasks
were harder than those inflicted in State's prison. We had to make
twenty-four pairs of overalls every day; and if we did not do our work
we were beaten on an unprotected and tender spot until we promised to
do our task. One morning I was made to cross my hands, and was given
fifteen blows on the palms with a heavy rattan stick. The crime I had
committed was inattention. The principal had been preaching about the
Prodigal Son. I, having heard it before, paid little heed; particularly
as I was a Catholic, and his teachings did not count for me. They
called me a "Papist," and beat me, as I described.
I say without hesitation that lads sent to an institution like the
House of Refuge, the Catholic Protectory, or the Juvenile Asylum, might
better be taken out and shot. They learn things there they could not
learn even in the streets. The newsboy's life is pure in comparison. As
for me, I grew far more desperate there than I had been before: and I
was far from being one of the most innocent of boys. Many of the others
had more to learn than I had, and they learned it. But even I, hard as
I already was, acquired much fresh information about vice and crime;
and gathered in more pointers about the technique of graft.