THE BARREL THIEF
While Mike Donovan was engaged in his contest with Paul, his companion
had quietly walked off with the shirt. It mattered very little to him
which party conquered, as long as he carried off the spoils. His conduct
in the premises was quite as unsatisfactory to Mike as it was to Paul.
When Mike found himself in danger of being overpowered, he appealed
to his companion for assistance, and was incensed to see him coolly
disregarding the appeal, and selfishly appropriating the booty.
“The mane thafe!” he exclaimed after the fight was over, and he was
compelled to retreat. “He let me be bate, and wouldn't lift his finger
to help me. I'd like to put a head on him, I would.”
Just at that moment Mike felt quite as angry with his friend, Jerry
McGaverty, as with his late opponent.
“The shirt's mine, fair,” he said to himself, “and I'll make Jerry give
it to me.”
But Jerry had disappeared, and Mike didn't know where to look for him.
In fact, he had entered a dark alleyway, and, taking the shirt from the
paper in which it was wrapped, proceeded to examine his prize.
The unusual size struck him.
“By the powers,” he muttered, “it's big enough for me great-grandfather
and all his children. I wouldn't like to pay for the cloth it tuck to
make it. But I'll wear it, anyway.”
Jerry was not particular as to an exact fit. His nether garments were
several sizes too large for him, and the shirt would complete his
costume appropriately. He certainly did need a new shirt, for the one
he had on was the only article of the kind he possessed, and was so far
gone that its best days, if it ever had any, appeared to date back to
a remote antiquity. It had been bought cheap in Baxter street, its
previous history being unknown.
Jerry decided to make the change at once. The alley afforded a
convenient place for making the transfer. He accordingly pulled off the
ragged shirt he wore and put on the article he had purloined from Paul.
The sleeves were too long, but he turned up the cuffs, and the ample
body he tucked inside his pants.
“It fits me too much,” soliloquized Jerry, as he surveyed himself after
the exchange. “I could let out the half of it, and have enough left for
meself. Anyhow, it's clane, and it came chape enough.”
He came out of the alley, leaving his old shirt behind him. Even if it
had been worth carrying away, Jerry saw no use in possessing more than
one shirt. It was his habit to wear one until it was ready to drop
off from him, and then get another if he could. There is a practical
convenience in this arrangement, though there are also objections which
will readily occur to the reader.
On the whole, though the shirt fitted him too much, as he expressed it,
he regarded himself complacently.
The superabundant material gave the impression of liberal expenditure
and easy circumstances, since a large shirt naturally costs more than
a small one. So Jerry, as he walked along the Bowery, assumed a jaunty
air, precisely such as some of my readers may when they have a new suit
to display. His new shirt was quite conspicuous, since he was encumbered
neither with vest nor coat.
Mike, feeling sore over his defeat, met Jerry the next morning on
Chatham street. His quick eye detected the improved state of his
friend's apparel, and his indignation rose, as he reflected that Jerry
had pocketed the profits while the hard knocks had been his.
“Jerry!” he called out.
Jerry did not see fit to heed the call. He was sensible that Mike had
something to complain of, and he was in no hurry to meet his reproaches.
“Jerry McGaverty!” called Mike, coming near.
“Oh, it's you, Mike, is it?” answered Jerry, unable longer to keep up
the pretense of not hearing.
“Yes, it's me,” said Mike. “What made you leave me for last night?”
“I didn't want to interfere betwane two gintlemen,” said Jerry, with a
grin. “Did you mash him, Mike?”
“No,” said Mike, sullenly, “he mashed me. Why didn't you help me?”
“I thought you was bating him, so, as I had some business to attind to,
I went away.”
“You went away wid the shirt.”
“Yes, I took it by mistake. Ain't it an illigant fit?”
“It's big enough for two of you.”
“Maybe I'll grow to it in time,” said Jerry.
“And how much are you goin' to give me for my share?” demanded Mike.
“Say that ag'in,” said Jerry.
Mike repeated it.
“I thought maybe I didn't hear straight. It ain't yours at all. Didn't I
take it?”
“You wouldn't have got it if I hadn't fit with Paul.”
“That ain't nothin' to me,” said Jerry. “The shirt's mine, and I'll kape
it.”
Mike felt strongly tempted to “put a head on” Jerry, whatever that may
mean; but, as Jerry was a head taller already, the attempt did not seem
quite prudent. He indulged in some forcible remarks, which, however, did
not disturb Jerry's equanimity.
“I'll give you my old shirt, Mike,” he said, “if you can find it. I left
it in an alley near the Old Bowery.”
“I don't want the dirty rag,” said Mike, contemptuously.
Finally a compromise was effected, Jerry offering to help Mike on the
next occasion, and leave the spoils in his hands.
I have to chronicle another adventure of Jerry's, in which he was
less fortunate than he had been in the present case. He was a genuine
vagabond, and lived by his wits, being too lazy to devote himself to
any regular street employment, as boot blacking or selling newspapers.
Occasionally he did a little work at each of these, but regular,
persistent industry was out of his line. He was a drone by inclination,
and a decided enemy to work. On the subject of honesty his principles
were far from strict. If he could appropriate what did not belong to him
he was ready to do so without scruple. This propensity had several times
brought him into trouble, and he had more than once been sent to reside
temporarily on Blackwell's Island, from which he had returned by no
means improved.
Mike was not quite so much of a vagabond as his companion. He could work
at times, though he did not like it, and once pursued the vocation of a
bootblack for several months with fair success.
But Jerry's companionship was doing him no good, and it seemed likely
that eventually he would become quite as shiftless as Jerry himself.
Jerry, having no breakfast, strolled down to one of the city markets. He
frequently found an opportunity of stealing here, and was now in search
of such a chance. He was a dexterous and experienced barrel thief,
a term which it may be necessary to explain. Barrels, then, have a
commercial value, and coopers will generally pay twenty-five cents
for one in good condition. This is enough, in the eyes of many a young
vagabond, to pay for the risk incurred in stealing one.
Jerry prowled round the market for some time, seeking a good opportunity
to walk off with an apple or banana, or something eatable. But the
guardians of the stands seemed unusually vigilant, and he was compelled
to give up the attempt, as involving too great risk. Jerry was hungry,
and hunger is an uncomfortable feeling. He began to wish he had remained
satisfied with his old shirt, dirty as it was, and carried the new one
to some of the Baxter street dealers, from whom he could perhaps have
got fifty cents for it. Now, fifty cents would have paid for a breakfast
and a couple of cigars, and those just now would have made Jerry happy.
“What a fool I was not to think of it!” he said. “The old shirt would do
me, and I could buy a bully breakfast wid the money I'd get for this.”
Just at this moment he espied an empty barrel--a barrel apparently quite
new and in an unguarded position. He resolved to take it, but the affair
must be managed slyly.
He lounged up to the barrel, and leaned upon it indolently. Then, in
apparent unconsciousness, he began to turn it, gradually changing its
position. If observed, he could easily deny all felonious intentions.
This he kept up till he got round the corner, when, glancing around to
see if he was observed, he quickly lifted it on his shoulder and marched
off.
All this happened without his being observed by the owner of the barrel.
But a policeman, who chanced to be going his rounds, had been a witness
of Jerry's little game. He remained quiet till Jerry's intentions became
evident, then walked quietly up and put his hand on his shoulder.
“Put down that barrel!” he said, authoritatively.
Jerry had been indulging in visions of the breakfast he would get with
the twenty-five cents he expected to obtain for the barrel, and the
interruption was not an agreeable one. But he determined to brazen it
out if possible.
“What for will I put it down?” he said.
“Because you have stolen it, that's why.”
“No,” said Jerry, “I'm carrying it round to my boss. It's his.”
“Where do you work?”
“In Fourth street,” said Jerry, at random.
“What number?”
“No. 136.”
“Then your boss will have to get some one in your place, for you will
have to come with me.”
“What for?”
“I saw you steal the barrel. You're a barrel thief, and this isn't the
first time you've been caught at it. Carry back the barrel to the place
you took it from and then come with me.”
Jerry tried to beg off, but without avail.
At that moment Mike Donovan lounged up. When he saw his friend in
custody, he felt a degree of satisfaction, remembering the trick Jerry
had played on him.
“Where are you goin', Jerry?” he asked, with a grin, as he passed him.
“Did ye buy that barrel to kape your shirt in?”
Jerry scowled but thought it best not to answer, lest his unlawful
possession of the shirt might also be discovered, and lead to a longer
sentence.
“He's goin' down to the island to show his new shirt,” thought Mike,
with a grin. “Maybe he'll set the fashion there.”
Mike was right. Jerry was sent to the island for two months, there
introducing Mr. Preston's shirt to company little dreamed of by its
original proprietor.