_When the Graft Was Good._
I stayed in the House of Refuge until I was eighteen, and when
released, went through a short period of reform. I "lasted," I think,
nearly three weeks, and then started in to graft again harder than
ever. The old itch for excitement, for theatres, balls and gambling,
made reform impossible. I had already formed strong habits and desires
which could not be satisfied in my environment without stealing. I was
rapidly becoming a confirmed criminal. I began to do "house-work,"
which was mainly sneak work up town. We would catch a basement open
in the day time, and rummage for silverware, money or jewels. There
is only a step from this to the business of the genuine burglar, who
operates in the night time, and whose occupation is far more dangerous
than that of the sneak thief. However, at this intermediate kind of
graft, our swag, for eighteen months, was considerable. One of our
methods was to take servant girls to balls and picnics and get them
to tip us off to where the goods were and the best way to get them.
Sometimes they were guilty, more often merely suckers.
During the next three years, at the expiration of which I made my first
trip to Sing Sing, I stole a great deal of money and lived very high.
I contracted more bad habits, practically ceased to see my family at
all, lived in a furnished room and "hung out" in the evening at some
dance-hall, such as Billy McGlory's Old Armory, George Doe's or "The"
Allen's. Sheenie Annie was my sweetheart at this period, and after we
had made a good touch what times we would have at Coney Island or at
Billy McGlory's! Saturday nights in the summer time a mob of three or
four of us, grafters and girls, would go to the island and stop at a
hotel run by an ex-gun. At two or three o'clock in the morning we'd
all leave the hotel, with nothing on but a quilt, and go in swimming
together. Sheenie Annie, Blonde Mamie and Big Lena often went with
us. At other times we took respectable shop-girls, or even women who
belonged to a still lower class. What boy with an ounce of thick blood
in his body could refuse to go with a girl to the Island?
And Billy McGlory's! What times we had there, on dear old Saturday
nights! At this place, which contained a bar-room, dance-room,
pool-room and a piano, congregated downtown guns, house-men and thieves
of both sexes. No rag-time was danced in those days, but early in the
morning we had plenty of the cancan. The riots that took place there
would put to shame anything that goes on now.[A] I never knew the town
so tight-shut as it is at present. It is far better, from a moral point
of view than it has ever been before; at least, in my recollection.
"The" Allen's was in those days a grade more decent than McGlory's; for
at "The's" nobody who did not wear a collar and coat was admitted. I
remember a pal of mine who met a society lady on a slumming expedition
with a reporter. It was at McGlory's. The lady looked upon the grafter
she had met as a novelty. The grafter looked upon the lady in the same
way, but consented to write her an article on the Bowery. He sent her
the following composition, which he showed to me first, and allowed me
to copy it. I always did like freaks. I won't put in the bad grammar
and spelling, but the rest is:
"While strolling, after the midnight hour, along the Lane, that
historic thoroughfare sometimes called the Bowery, I dropped into a
concert hall. At a glance, I saw men who worked hard during the week
and needed a little recreation. Near them were their sisters (that
is, if we all belong to the same human family), who had fallen by the
wayside. A man was trying to play a popular song on a squeaky piano,
while another gent tried to sing the first part of the song, when the
whole place joined in the chorus with a zest. I think the song was most
appropriate. It was a ditty of the slums entitled, 'Dear Old Saturday
Night.'"
When I was about nineteen I took another and important step in the
world of graft. One night I met a couple of swell grafters, one of
whom is at the present time a Pinkerton detective. They took me to
the Haymarket, where I met a crowd of guns who were making barrels of
money. Two of them, Dutch Lonzo and Charlie Allen, became my friends,
and introduced me to Mr. R----, who has often kept me out of prison.
He was a go-between, a lawyer, and well-known to all good crooks. If
we "fell" we had to notify him and he would set the underground wires
working, with the result that our fall money would need replenishing
badly, but that we'd escape the stir.
That I was not convicted again for three years was entirely due to my
fall money and to the cleverness of Mr. R----. Besides these expenses,
which I considered legitimate, I used to get "shaken down" regularly by
the police and detectives. The following is a typical case:
I was standing one day on the corner of Grand Street and the Bowery
when a copper who knew me came up and said: "There's a lot of knocking
(complaining) going on about the Grand Street cars being torn open. The
old man (the chief) won't stand for it much longer."
"It wasn't me," I said.
"Well, it was one of the gang," he replied, "and I will have to make an
arrest soon, or take some one to headquarters for his mug," (that is,
to have his picture taken for the rogues' gallery).
I knew what that meant, and so I gave him a twenty dollar bill. But
I was young and often objected to these exorbitant demands. More than
anybody else a thief hates to be "touched," for he despises the sucker
on whom he lives. And we were certainly touched with great regularity
by the coppers.
Still, we really had nothing to complain of in those days, for we made
plenty of money and had a good time. We even used to buy our collars,
cuffs and gloves cheap from grafters who made it their business to
steal those articles. They were cheap guns,--pipe fiends, petty larceny
thieves and shop-lifters--but they helped to make our path smoother.
After I met the Haymarket grafter I used to jump out to neighboring
cities on very profitable business. A good graft was to work the fairs
at Danbury, Waverly, Philadelphia and Pittsburg, and the foot-ball
games at Princeton. I always travelled with three or four others, and
went for gatherings where we knew we would find "roofers," or country
gentlemen. On my very first jump-out I got a fall, but the copper was
open to reason. Dutch Lonzo and Charlie Allen, splendid pickpockets,
(I always went with good thieves, for I had become a first-class dip
and had a good personal appearance) were working with me in Newark,
where Vice-President Hendricks was to speak. I picked a watch in the
crowd, and was nailed. But Dutch Lonzo, who had the gift of gab better
than any man I ever met, took the copper into a saloon. We all had a
drink, and for twenty-five dollars I escaped even the station-house.
Unfortunately, however, I was compelled to return the watch; for the
copper had to "square" the sucker. Then the copper said to Dutch
Lonzo, whom he knew: "Go back and graft, if you want, but be sure
to look me up." In an hour or two we got enough touches to do us for
two weeks. Senator Wet Coin was at this speech with about two hundred
Tammany braves, and we picked so many pockets that a newspaper the next
day said there must have been at least one hundred and ninety-nine
pickpockets in the Tammany delegation. We fell quite often on these
trips, but we were always willing to help the coppers pay for their
lower flats. I sometimes objected because of their exorbitant demands,
but I was still young. I knew that longshoremen did harder work for
less pay than the coppers, and I thought, therefore, that the latter
were too eager to make money on a sure-thing graft. And I always hated
a sure-thing graft.
But didn't we strike it rich in Connecticut! Whether the people of that
State suffer from partial paralysis or not I don't know, but certainly
if all States were as easy as Connecticut the guns would set up as
Vanderbilts. I never even got a tumble in Connecticut. I ripped up the
fairs in every direction, and took every chance. The inhabitants were
so easy that we treated them with contempt.
After a long trip in Connecticut I nearly fell on my return, I was that
raw. We were breech-getting (picking men's pockets) in the Brooklyn
cars. I was stalling in front, Lonzo was behind and Charlie was the
pick. Lonzo telephoned to me by gestures that Charlie had hold of
the leather, but it wouldn't come. I was hanging on a strap, and,
pretending to slip, brought my hand down heavily on the sucker's hat,
which went over his ears. The leather came, was slipped to me, Lonzo
apologized for spoiling the hat and offered the sucker a five dollar
bill, which he politely refused. Now that was rough work, and we would
not have done it, had we not been travelling so long among the Reubs
in Connecticut. We could have made our gets all right, but we were so
confident and delayed so long that the sucker blew before we left the
car, and Lonzo and Charlie were nailed, and the next morning arraigned.
In the meantime, however, we had started the wires working, and
notified Mr. R.---- and Lonzo's wife to "fix" things in Brooklyn. The
reliable attorney got a bondsman, and two friends of his "fixed" the
cops, who made no complaint. Lonzo's wife, an Irishwoman and a handsome
grafter, had just finished a five year bit in London. It cost us six
hundred dollars to "fix" that case, and there was only two hundred and
fifty dollars in the leather.
That made Lonzo's wife exceedingly angry.
"Good Lord," she said. "There's panthers for you in New York! There's
the blokes that shakes you down too heavy. I'd want an unlimited cheque
on the Bank of England if you ever fell again."
A little philosophy on the same subject was given me one day by an
English Moll, who had fallen up-State and had to "give up" heavily.
"I've been in a good many cities and 'amlets in this country," said
she, "but gad! blind me if I ever want to fall in an 'amlet in this
blooming State again. The New York police are at least a little
sensible at times, but when these Rufus's up the State get a Yorker or
a wise guy, they'll strip him down to his socks. One of these voracious
country coppers who sing sweet hymns in jail is a more successful gun
than them that hit the rocky path and take brash to get the long green.
It is only the grafter that is supposed to protect the people who makes
a success of it. The hypocritical mouthings of these people just suit
the size of their Bibles."
Lonzo and I, and Patsy, a grafter I had picked up about this time,
made several fat trips to Philadelphia. At first we were leary of the
department stores, there had been so many "hollers," and worked the
"rattlers" (cars) only. We were told by some local guns that we could
not "last" twenty-four hours in Philadelphia without protection, but
that was not our experience. We went easy for a time, but the chances
were too good, and we began voraciously to tear open the department
stores, the churches and the theatres; and without a fall. Whenever
anybody mentioned the fly-cops (detectives) of Philadelphia it reminded
us of the inhabitants of Connecticut. They were not "dead": such a
word is sacred. Their proper place was not on the police force, but
on a shelf in a Dutchman's grocery store labelled the canned article.
Philadelphia was always my town, but I never stayed very long, partly
because I did not want to become known in such a fat place, and partly
because I could not bear to be away from New York very long; for,
although there is better graft in other cities, there is no such place
to live in as Manhattan. I had no fear of being known in Philadelphia
to the police; but to local guns who would become jealous of our
grafting and tip us off.
On one of my trips to the City of Brotherly Love I had a poetical
experience. The graft had been good, and one Sunday morning I left Dan
and Patsy asleep, and went for a walk in the country, intending, for a
change, to observe the day of rest. I walked for several hours through
a beautiful, quiet country, and about ten o'clock passed a country
church. They were singing inside, and for some reason, probably because
I had had a good walk in the country, the music affected me strangely.
I entered, and saw a blind evangelist and his sister. I bowed my head,
and my whole past life came over me. Although everything had been
coming my way, I felt uneasy, and thought of home for the first time
in many weeks. I went back to the hotel in Philadelphia, feeling very
gloomy, and shut myself up in my room. I took up my pen and began
a letter to a Tommy (girl) in New York. But I could not forget the
country church, and instead of writing to the little Tommy, I wrote the
following jingles:
"When a child by mother's knee
I would watch, watch, watch
By the deep blue sea,
And the moon-beams played merrily
On our home beside the sea.
CHORUS.
"The Evening Star shines bright-i-ly
Above our home beside the sea,
And the moon-beams danced beamingly
On our home beside the sea.
But now I am old, infirm and grey
I shall never see those happy days;
I would give my life, all my wealth, and fame
To hear my mother gently call my name."
Towards evening Patsy and Dan returned from a good day's work. Patsy
noticed I was quiet and unusually gloomy, and asked:
"What's the matter? Didn't you get anything?"
"No," I replied, "I'm going back to New York."
"Where have you been?" asked Dan.
"To church," I replied.
"In the city?" he asked.
"No," I replied, "in the country."
"I cautioned you," said Dan, "against taking such chances. There's
no dough in these country churches. If you want to try lone ones on a
Sunday take in some swell church in the city."
The following Sunday I went to a fashionable church and got a few
leathers, and afterwards went to all the swell churches in the city. I
touched them, but they could not touch me. I heard all the ministers
in Philadelphia, but they could not move me the way that country
evangelist did. They were all artificial in comparison.
Shortly after my poetical experience in Philadelphia I made a trip up
New York State with Patsy, Dan and Joe, and grafted in a dozen towns.
One day when we were on the cars going from Albany to Amsterdam, we saw
a fat, sleepy-looking Dutchman, and I nicked him for a clock as he was
passing along the aisle to the end of the car. It took the Dutchman
about ten minutes after he had returned to his seat to blow that his
super was gone, and his chain hanging down. A look of stupid surprise
spread over his innocent countenance. He looked all around, picked up
the end of his chain, saw it was twisted, put his hand in his vest
pocket, then looked again at the end of the chain, tried his pocket
again, then went through all of his pockets, and repeated each of these
actions a dozen times. The passengers all got "next," and began to
grin. "Get on to the Hiker," (countryman) said Patsy to Joe, and they
both laughed. I told the Dutchman that the clock must have fallen down
the leg of his underwear; whereupon the Reuben retired to investigate,
searched himself thoroughly and returned, only to go through the same
motions, and then retire to investigate once more. It was as good as a
comedy. But it was well there were no country coppers on that train.
They would not have cared a rap about the Dutchman's loss of his
property, but we four probably should have been compelled to divide
with them.
Grafters are a superstitious lot. Before we reached Buffalo a feeling
came over me that I had better not work in that town; so Joe, Dan and
an English grafter we had picked up, named Scotty, stopped at Buffalo,
and Patsy and I went on. Sure enough, in a couple of days Joe wired
me that Scotty had fallen for a breech-kick and was held for trial.
I wired to Mr. R----, who got into communication with Mr. J----, a
Canadian Jew living in Buffalo, who set the wires going. The sucker
proved a very hard man to square, but a politician who was a friend
of Mr. J---- showed him the errors of his way, and before very long
Scotty returned to New York. An English Moll-buzzer, a girl, got hold
of him and took him back to London. It was just as well, for it was
time for our bunch to break up. We were getting too well-known; and
falls were coming too frequent. So we had a general split. Joe went to
Washington, Patsy down East, Scotty to "stir" in London and I stayed in
Manhattan, where I shortly afterwards met Big Jack and other burglars
and started in on that dangerous graft. But before I tell about my
work in that line, I will narrate the story of Mamie and Johnny, a
famous cracksman, whom I met at this time. It is a true love story of
the Under World. Johnny, and Mamie, who by the way is not the same as
Blonde Mamie, are still living together in New York City, after many
trials and tribulations, one of the greatest of which was Mamie's
enforced relation with a New York detective. But I won't anticipate on
the story, which follows in the next chapter.
FOOTNOTE:
[A] Summer of 1902