_At the Graft Again._
I spent my first day in New York looking up my old pals and girls,
especially the latter. How I longed to exchange friendly words with a
woman! But the girls I knew were all gone, and I was forced to make new
acquaintances on the spot. I spent all the afternoon and most of the
evening with a girl I picked up on the Bowery; I thought she was the
most beautiful creature in the world; but when I saw her again weeks
afterwards, when women were not so novel to me, I found her almost
hideous. I must have longed for a young woman's society, for I did not
go to see my poor old mother until I had left my Bowery acquaintance.
And yet my mother had often proved herself my only friend! But I had
a long talk with her before I slept, and when I left her for a stroll
in the wonderful city before going to bed my resolution to be good was
keener than ever.
As I sauntered along the Bowery that night the desire to talk to an
old pal was strong. But where was I to find a friend? Only in places
where thieves hung out. "Well," I said to myself, "there is no harm in
talking to my old pals. I will tell them there is nothing in the graft,
and that I have squared it." I dropped into a music hall, a resort for
pickpockets, kept by an old gun, and there I met Teddy, whom I had not
seen for years.
"Hello, Jim," he said, giving me the glad hand, "I thought you were
dead."
"Not quite so bad as that, Teddy," I replied, "I am still in evidence."
We had a couple of beers. I could not quite make up my mind to tell him
I had squared it; and he put me next to things in town.
"Take my advice," he said, "and keep away from ---- ---- (naming
certain clubs and saloons where thieves congregated). The proprietors
of these places and the guns that hang out there, many of them anyway,
are not on the level. Some of the grafters who go there have the
reputation of being clever dips, but they have protection from the
Front Office men because they are rats and so can tear things open
without danger. By giving up a certain amount of stuff and dropping
a stall or two occasionally to keep up the flyman's reputation, they
are able to have a bank account and never go to stir. The flymen hang
out in these joints, waiting for a tip, and they are bad places for a
grafter who is on the level."
I listened with attention, and said, by force of habit:
"Put me next to the stool-pigeons, Teddy. You know I am just back from
stir."
"Well," he answered, "outside of so and so (and he mentioned
half-a-dozen men by name) none of them who hang out in those joints can
be trusted. Come to my house, Jim, and we'll have a long talk about old
times, and I will introduce you to some good people (meaning thieves)."
I went with him to his home, which was in a tenement house in the lower
part of the first ward. He introduced me to his wife and children and a
number of dips, burglars and strong-armed men who made his place a kind
of rendezvous. We talked old times and graft, and the wife and little
boy of eight years old listened attentively. The boy had a much better
chance to learn the graft than I had when a kid, for my father was an
honest man.
The three strong-arm men (highwaymen) were a study to me, for they were
Westerners, with any amount of nerve. One of them, Denver Red, a big
powerful fellow, mentioned a few bits he had done in Western prisons,
explained a few of his grafts and seemed to despise New York guns, whom
he considered cowardly. He said the Easterners feared the police too
much, and always wanted to fix things before they dared to graft.
I told them a little about New York State penitentiaries, and then
Ted said to Denver Red: "What do you think of the big fellow?" Denver
grinned, and the others followed suit, and I heard the latest story. A
well-known politician, leader of his district, a cousin of Senator Wet
Coin; a man of gigantic stature, with the pleasing name, I will say, of
Flower, had had an adventure. He is even better developed physically
than mentally, and virtually king of his district, and whenever he
passes by, the girls bow to him, the petty thief calls him "Mister"
and men and women alike call him "Big Flower." Well, one night not
long before the gathering took place in Teddy's house, Big Flower was
passing through the toughest portion of his bailiwick, humming ragtime,
when my new acquaintances, the three strong-arm workers from the West,
stuck him up with cannisters, and relieved him of a five carat diamond
stud, a gold watch and chain and a considerable amount of cash. The
next day there was consternation among the clan of the Wet Coins, for
Big Flower, who had been thus nipped, was their idol. We all laughed
heartily at the story, and I went home and to sleep.
The next day I found it a very easy thing to drift back to my old
haunts. In the evening I went to a sporting house on Twenty-seventh
Street, where a number of guns hung out. I got the glad hand and an
invitation to join in some good graft. I said I was done with the Rocky
Path. They smiled and gently said: "We have been there, too, Jim."
One of them added: "By the way, I hear you are up against the hop,
Jim." It was Billy, and he invited me home with him. There I met Ida,
as pretty a little shop girl as one wants to see. Billy said there
was always an opening for me, that times were pretty good. He and Ida
had an opium layout, and they asked me to take a smoke. I told them my
nerves were not right, and that I had quit. "Poor fellow," said Billy.
Perhaps it was the sight or smell of the hop, but anyway I got the
yen-yen and shook as in an ague. My eyes watered and I grew as pale as
a sheet. I thought my bones were unjointing and took a pint of whiskey;
it had no effect. Then Billy acted as my physician and prepared a pill
for me. So vanished one good resolution. My only excuse to myself was:
Human nature is weak, ain't it? No sooner had I taken the first pill
than a feeling of ecstasy came over me. I became talkative, and Billy,
noticing the effect, said: "Jim, before you try to knock off the hop,
you had better wait till you reach the next world." The opium brought
peace to my nerves and dulled my conscience and I had a long talk with
Billy and Ida about old pals. They told me who was dead, who were in
stir and who were good (prosperous).
Not many days after my opium fall I got a note from Ethel, who had
heard that I had come home. In the letter she said that she was not
happy with her husband, that she had married to please her father and
to get a comfortable home. She wanted to make an appointment to meet
me, whom, she said, she had always loved. I knew what her letter meant,
and I did not answer it, and did not keep the appointment. My relation
to her was the only decent thing in my life, and I thought I might
as well keep it right. I have never seen her since the last time she
visited me at Auburn.
For some time after getting back from stir I tried for a job, but the
effort was only half-hearted on my part, and people did not fall over
themselves in their eagerness to find something for the ex-convict to
do. Even if I had had the best intentions in the world, the path of the
ex-convict is a difficult one, as I have since found. I was run down
physically, and could not carry a hod or do any heavy labor, even if I
had desired to. I knew no trade and should have been forever distrusted
by the upper world. The only thing I could do well was to graft; and
the only society that would welcome me was that of the under world. My
old pals knew I had the requisite nerve and was capable of taking my
place in any good mob. My resolutions began to ooze away, especially as
at that time my father was alive and making enough money to support the
rest of the family. So I had only myself to look out for--and that was
a lot; for I had my old habits, and new ones I had formed in prison, to
satisfy. When I stayed quietly at home I grew intensely nervous; and
soon I felt that I was bound to slip back to the world of graft. I am
convinced that I would never have returned to stir or to my old trade,
however, if my environment had been different, on my release, from
what it had been formerly; and if I could have found a job. I don't
say this in the way of complaint. I now know that a man can reform
even among his old associates. It is impossible, as the reader will
see, I believe, before he finishes this book, for me ever to fall back
again. Some men acquire wisdom at twenty-one, some not till they are
thirty-five, and some never. Wisdom came to me when I was thirty-five.
If I had had my present experience, I should not have fallen after my
first bit; but I might not have fallen anyway, if I had been placed
in a better environment after my first term in prison. A man can stand
alone, if he is strong enough, and has sufficient reasons; but if he is
tottering, he needs outside help.
I was tottering, and did not get the help, and so I speedily began to
graft again. I started in on easy game, on picking pockets and simple
swindling. I made my first touch, after my return, on Broadway. One
day I met the Kid there, looking for a dollar as hard as a financier.
He asked me if I was not about ready to begin again, and pointed out
a swell Moll, big, breezy and blonde, coming down the street, with
a large wallet sticking out of her pocket. It seemed easy, with no
come-back in sight, and I agreed to stall for the Kid. Just as she went
into Denning's which is now Wanamaker's, I went in ahead of her, turned
and met her. She stopped; and at that moment the Kid nicked her. We
got away all right and found in the wallet over one hundred dollars and
a small knife. In the knife were three rivets, which we discovered on
inspection to be magnifying glasses. We applied our eyes to the same
and saw some pictures which would have made Mr. Anthony Comstock howl;
if he had found this knife on this aristocratic lady he would surely
have sent her to the penitentiary. It was a beautiful pearl knife,
gold tipped, and must have been a loss; and yet I felt I was justified
in taking that wallet. I thought I had done the lady a good turn. She
might have been fined, and why shouldn't I have the money, rather than
the magistrate?
The Kid was one of the cleverest dips I ever knew; he was delicate and
cunning, and the best stone-getter in the city. But he had one weakness
that made him almost a devil. He fell in love with every pretty face he
saw, and cared no more for leading a girl astray than I minded kicking
a cat. I felt sorry for many a little working girl he had shaken after
a couple of weeks; and I used to jolly them to cheer them up.
I once met Kate, one of them, and said, with a smile: "Did you hear
about the Kid's latest? Why don't you have him arrested for bigamy?"
She did not smile at first, but said: "He'll never have any luck. My
mother is a widow, and she prays to God to afflict him with a widow's
curse."
"One of the Ten Commandments," I replied, "says, 'thou shalt not take
the name of the Lord thy God in vain,' and between you and me, Kate,
the commandment does not say that widows have the monopoly on cursing.
It is a sin, anyway, whether it is a man, a girl or a widow."
This was too deep for Kate.
"Stop preaching, Jim," she said, "and give me a drink," and I did.
After she had drunk half-a-dozen glasses of beer she felt better.
Women are queer, anyway. No matter how bad they are, they are always
good. All women are thieves, or rather petty pilferers, bless them!
When I was just beginning to graft again, and was going it easy, I used
to work a game which well showed the natural grafting propensities of
women. I would buy a lot of Confederate bills for a few cents, and put
them in a good leather. When I saw a swell-looking Moll, evidently out
shopping, walking along the street, I would drop the purse in her path;
and just as she saw it I would pick it up, as if I had just found it.
Nine women out of ten would say, "It's mine, I dropped it." I would
open the leather and let her get a peep of the bills, and that would
set her pilfering propensities going. "It's mine," she would repeat.
"What's in it?" I would hold the leather carefully away from her, look
into it cautiously and say: "I can see a twenty dollar bill, a thirty
dollar bill, and a one hundred dollar bill, but how do I know you
dropped it?" Then she'd get excited and exclaim, "If you don't give it
to me quick I'll call a policeman." "Madam," I would reply, "I am an
honest workingman, and if you will give me ten dollars for a reward, I
will give you this valuable purse." Perhaps she would then say: "Give
me the pocket-book and I'll give you the money out of it." To that I
would reply: "No, Madam, I wish you to receive the pocket-book just as
it was." I would then hand her the book and she would give me a good
ten dollar bill. "There is a woman down the street," I would continue,
"looking for something." That would alarm her and away she would go
without even opening the leather to see if her money was all right.
She wouldn't shop any more that day, but would hasten home to examine
her treasure--worth, as she would discover to her sorrow, about thirty
cents. Then, no doubt, her conscience would trouble her. At least, she
would weep; I am sure of that.
When I got my hand in again, I began to go for stone-getting, which
was a fat graft in those days, when the Lexow committee was beginning
their reform. Everybody wore a diamond. Even mechanics and farmers
were not satisfied unless they had pins to stick in their ties. They
bought them on the installment plan, and I suppose they do yet. I could
always find a laborer or a hod-carrier that had a stone. They usually
called attention to it by keeping their hands carefully on it; and very
often it found its way into my pocket, for carelessness is bound to
come as soon as a man thinks he is safe. They probably thought of their
treasure for months afterwards; at least, whenever the collector came
around for the weekly installments of pay for stones they no longer
possessed.
It was about this time that I met General Brace and the Professor.
One was a Harvard graduate, and the other came from good old Yale; and
both were grafters. When I knew them they used to hang out in a joint
on Seventh Street, waiting to be treated. They had been good grafters,
but through hop and booze had come down from forging and queer-shoving
to common shop-lifting and petty larceny business. General Brace
was very reticent in regard to his family and his own past, but as I
often invited him to smoke opium with me, he sometimes gave me little
confidences. I learned that he came from a well-known Southern family,
and had held a good position in his native city; but he was a blood,
and to satisfy his habits he began to forge checks. His relatives
saved him from prison, but he left home and started on the downward
career of graftdom. We called him General Brace because he looked like
a soldier and was continually on the borrow; but a good story always
accompanied his asking for a loan and he was seldom refused. I have
often listened to this man after he had smoked a quantity of opium,
and his conversational powers were something remarkable. Many a gun and
politician would listen to him with wonder. I used to call him General
Brace Coleridge.
The Professor was almost as good a talker. We used to treat them both,
in order to get them to converse together. It was a liberal education
to hear them hold forth in that low-down saloon, where some of the
finest talks on literature and politics were listened to with interest
by men born and bred on the East Side, with no more education than
a turnip, but with keen wits. The graduates had good manners, and we
liked them and staked them regularly. They used to write letters for
politicians and guns who could not read or write. They stuck together
like brothers. If one of them had five cents, he would go into a morgue
(gin-mill where rot-gut whiskey could be obtained for that sum) and
pour out almost a full tumbler of booze. Just as he sipped a little
of the rot-gut, his pal would come in, as though by accident. If it
was the General who had made the purchase, he would say: "Hello, old
pal, just taste this fine whiskey. It tastes like ten-cent stuff." The
Professor would take a sip and become enthusiastic. They would sip and
exclaim in turn, until the booze was all gone, and no further expense
incurred. This little trick grew into a habit, and the bar-tender got
on to it, but he liked Colonel Brace and the Professor so much that he
used to wink at it.
I was in this rot-gut saloon one day when I met Jesse R----, with whom
I had spent several years in prison. I have often wondered how this man
happened to join the under world; for he not only came of a good family
and was well educated, but was also of a good, quiet disposition, a
prime favorite in stir and out. He was tactful enough never to roast
convicts, who are very sensitive, and was so sympathetic that many
a heartache was poured into his ear. He never betrayed a friend's
confidence.
I was glad to meet Jesse again, and we exchanged greetings in the
little saloon. When he asked me what I was doing, I replied that I had
a mortgage on the world and that I was trying to draw my interest from
the same. I still had that old dream, that the world owed me a living.
I confided in him that I regarded the world as my oyster more decidedly
than I had done before I met him in stir. I found that Jesse, however,
had squared it for good and was absolutely on the level. He had a good
job as shipping clerk in a large mercantile house; when I asked him if
he was not afraid of being tipped off by some Central Office man or by
some stool-pigeon, he admitted that that was the terror of his life;
but that he had been at work for eighteen months, and hoped that none
of his enemies would turn up. I asked him who had recommended him for
the job, and I smiled when he answered: "General Brace". That clever
Harvard graduate often wrote letters which were of assistance to guns
who had squared it; though the poor fellow could not take care of
himself.
Jesse had a story to tell which seemed to me one of the saddest I have
heard: and as I grew older I found that most all stories about people
in the under world, no matter how cheerfully they began, ended sadly.
It was about his brother, Harry, the story that Jesse told. Harry was
married, and there is where the trouble often begins. When Jesse was
in prison Harry, who was on the level and occupied a good position as a
book-keeper, used to send him money, always against his wife's wishes.
She also complained because Harry supported his old father. Harry
toiled like a slave for this woman who scolded him and who spent his
money recklessly. He made a good salary, but he could not keep up with
her extravagance. One time, while in the country, she met a sporting
man, Mr. O. B. In a few weeks it was the old, old story of a foolish
woman and a pretty good fellow. While she was in the country, her young
son was drowned, and she sent Harry a telegram announcing it. But she
kept on living high and her name and that of O. B. were often coupled.
Harry tried to stifle his sorrow and kept on sending money to the
bladder he called wife, who appeared in a fresh new dress whenever she
went out with Mr. O. B. One day Harry received a letter, calling him to
the office to explain his accounts. He replied that he had been sick,
but would straighten everything out the next day. When his father went
to awaken him in the morning, Harry was dead. A phial of morphine on
the floor told the story. Jesse reached his brother's room in time to
hear his old father's cry of anguish and to read a letter from Harry,
explaining that he had robbed the firm of thousands, and asking his
brother to be kind to Helene, his wife.
Then Jesse went to see the woman, to tell her about her husband's
death. He found her at a summer hotel with Mr. O. B., and heard the
servants talk about them.
"Jim," said Jesse to me, at this point in the story, "here is wise
council. Wherever thou goest, keep the portals of thy lugs open; as
you wander on through life you are apt to hear slander about your women
folks. What is more entertaining than a little scandal, especially when
it doesn't hit home? But don't look into it too deep, for it generally
turns out true, or worse. I laid a trap for my poor brothers wife,
and one of her letters, making clear her guilt, fell into my hands.
A telegram in reply from Mr. O. B., likewise came to me, and in a
murderous frame of mind, I read its contents, and then laughed like a
hyena: 'I am sorry I cannot meet you, but I was married this morning,
and am going on my wedding tour. _Au Revoir._' You ask me what became
of my sister-in-law? Jim, she is young and pretty, and will get along
in this world. But, truly, the wages of sin is to her Living Ashes."
It was not very long after my return home that I was at work again,
not only at safe dipping and swindling, but gradually at all my old
grafts, including more or less house work. There was a difference,
however. I grew far more reckless than I had been before I went to
prison. I now smoked opium regularly, and had a lay-out in my furnished
room and a girl to run it. The drug made me take chances I never used
to take; and I became dead to almost everything that was good. I went
home very seldom. I liked my family in a curious way, but I did not
have enough vitality or much feeling about anything. I began to go out
to graft always in a dazed condition, so much so that on one occasion
a pal tried to take advantage of my state of mind. It was while I was
doing a bit of house-work with Sandy and Hacks, two clever grafters.
We inserted into the lock the front door key which we had made, threw
off the tumblers, and opened the door. Hacks and I stalled while Sandy
went in and got six hundred dollars and many valuable jewels. He did
not show us much of the money, however. The next day the newspapers
described the "touch," and told the amount of money which had been
stolen. Then I knew I had been "done" by Sandy and Hacks, who stood
in with him, but Sandy said the papers were wrong. The mean thief,
however, could not keep his mouth shut, and I got him. I am glad
I was not arrested for murder. It was a close shave, for I cut him
unmercifully with a knife. In this I had the approval of my friends,
for they all believed the worst thing a grafter could do was to sink a
pal. Sandy did not squeal, but he swore he would get even with me. Even
if I had not been so reckless as I was then, I would not have feared
him, for I knew there was no come-back in him.
Another thing the dope did was to make me laugh at everything. It was
fun for me to graft, and I saw the humor of life. I remember I used to
say that this world is the best possible; that the fine line of cranks
and fools in it gives it variety. One day I had a good laugh in a
Brooklyn car. Tim, George and I got next to a Dutchman who had a large
prop in his tie. He stood for a newspaper under his chin, and his stone
came as slick as grease. A minute afterwards he missed his property,
and we did not dare to move. He told his wife, who was with him, that
his stone was gone. She called him a fool, and said that he had left
it at home, in the bureau drawer, that she remembered it well. Then
he looked down and saw that his front was gone, too. He said to his
wife: "I am sure I had my watch and chain with me," but his wife was
so superior that she easily convinced him he had left it at home. The
wisdom of women is beyond finding out. But I enjoyed that incident. I
shall never forget the look that came over the Dutchman's face when he
missed his front.
I was too sleepy those days to go out of town much on the graft; and
was losing my ambition generally. I even cared very little for the
girls, and gave up many of my amusements. I used to stay most of the
time in my furnished room, smoking hop. When I went out it was to get
some dough quick, and to that end I embraced almost any means. At night
I often drifted into some concert hall, but it was not like the old
days when I was a kid. The Bowery is far more respectable now than it
ever was before. Twenty years ago there was no worse place possible for
ruining girls and making thieves than Billy McGlory's joint on Hester
Street. About ten o'clock in the morning slumming parties would chuckle
with glee when the doors at McGlory's would be closed and young girls
in scanty clothing, would dance the can-can. These girls would often
fight together, and frequently were beaten unmercifully by the men
who lived on them and their trade. Often men were forcibly robbed in
these joints. There was little danger of an arrest; for if the sucker
squealed, the policeman on the beat would club him off to the beat of
another copper, who would either continue the process, or arrest him
for disorderly conduct.
At this time, which was just before the Lexow Committee began its work,
there were at least a few honest coppers. I knew one, however, that
did not remain honest. It happened this way. The guns had been tearing
open the cars so hard that the street car companies, as they had once
before, got after the officials, who stirred up Headquarters. The riot
act was read to the dips. This meant that, on the second offense, every
thief would be settled for his full time and that there would be no
squaring it. The guns lay low for a while, but two very venturesome
grafters, Mack and Jerry, put their heads together and reasoned thus:
"Now that the other guns are alarmed it is a good chance for us to get
in our fine work."
Complaints continued to come in. The police grew hot and sent Mr.
F----, a flyman, to get the rascals. Mr. F---- had the reputation of
being the most honest detective on the force. He often declared that
he wanted promotion only on his merits. Whenever he was overheard in
making this remark there was a quiet smile on the faces of the other
coppers. F---- caught Mack dead to rights, and, not being a diplomat,
did not understand when the gun tried to talk reason to him. Even a
large piece of dough did not help his intellect, and Mack was taken to
the station-house. When a high official heard about it he swore by all
the gods that he would make an example of that notorious pickpocket,
Mack; but human nature is weak, especially if it wears buttons. Mack
sent for F----'s superior, the captain, and the following dialogue took
place:
_Captain_: What do you want?
_Mack_: I'm copped.
_Captain_: Yes, and you're dead to rights.
_Mack_: I tried to do business with F----. What is the matter with him?
_Captain_: He is a policeman. He wants his promotion by merit. (Even
the Captain smiled.)
_Mack_: I'd give five centuries (five hundred dollars) if I could get
to my summer residence in Asbury Park.
_Captain_: How long would it take you to get it?
_Mack_: (He, too, was laconic.) I got it on me.
_Captain_: Give it here.
_Mack_: It's a sure turn-out?
_Captain_: Was I ever known to go back on my word?
Mack handed the money over, and went over to court in the afternoon
with F----. The Captain was there, and whispered to F----: "Throw him
out." That nearly knocked F---- down, but he and Mack took a car, and
he said to the latter: "In the name of everything how did you hypnotize
the old man?" Mack replied, with a laugh: "I tried to mesmerize you in
the same way; but you are working on your merits."
Mack was discharged, and F---- decided to be a diplomat henceforth.
From an honest copper he became as clever a panther as ever shook coin
from a gun. Isn't it likely that if a man had a large income he would
never go to prison? Indeed, do you think that well-known guns could
graft with impunity unless they had some one right? Nay! Nay! Hannah.
They often hear the song of split half or no graft.
But at that time I was so careless that I did not even have enough
sense to save fall-money, and after about nine months of freedom I fell
again. One day three of us boarded a car in Brooklyn and I saw a mark
whom I immediately nicked for his red super, which I passed quickly
to one of my stalls, Eddy. We got off the car and walked about three
blocks, when Eddy flashed the super, to look at it. The sucker, who had
been tailing, blew, and Eddy threw the watch to the ground, fearing
that he would be nailed. A crowd gathered around the super, I among
them, the other stall, Eddy having vamoosed, and the sucker. No man in
his senses would have picked up that gold watch. But I did it and was
nailed dead to rights. I felt that super belonged to me. I had nicked
it cleverly, and I thought I had earned it! I was sentenced to four
years in Sing Sing, but I did not hang my head with shame, this time,
as I was taken to the station. It was the way of life and of those
I associated with, and I was more a fatalist than ever. I hated all
mankind and cared nothing for the consequences of my acts.