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TIN-TYPES
TAKEN IN
THE STREETS OF NEW YORK
_A SERIES OF STORIES AND SKETCHES
PORTRAYING MANY SINGULAR PHASES
OF METROPOLITAN LIFE_
BY
LEMUEL ELY QUIGG
_With Fifty-three Illustrations by Harry Beard_
NEW YORK:
CASSELL PUBLISHING COMPANY
104 & 106 FOURTH AVENUE
COPYRIGHT,
1890,
By O. M. DUNHAM,
_All rights reserved._
Press W. L. Mershon & Co.,
Rahway, N. J.
CONTENTS.
PAGE
I. MR. RICKETTY, 1
II. MR. JAYRES, 20
III. BLUDOFFSKI, 43
IV. MAGGIE, 65
V. THE HON. DOYLE O'MEAGHER, 87
VI. THE SAME (_concluded_), 107
VII. MR. GALLIVANT, 126
VIII. TULITZ, 148
IX. MR. MCCAFFERTY, 170
X. MR. MADDLEDOCK, 189
XI. MR. WRANGLER, 211
XII. MR. CINCH, 242
XIII. GRANDMOTHER CRUNCHER, 271
TIN-TYPES.
I.
MR. RICKETTY.
Mr. Ricketty is composed of angles. From his high silk hat worn into
dulness, through his black frock coat worn into brightness, along each
leg of his broad-checked trowsers worn into rustiness, down into his
flat, multi-patched boots, he is a long series of unrelieved angles.
Tipped on the back of his head, but well down over it, he wears an
antique high hat, which has assumed that patient, resigned expression
occasionally to be observed in the face of some venerable mule, which,
having long and hopelessly struggled to free herself of a despicable
bondage, at last bows submissively to the inevitable and trudges bravely
on till she dies in her tracks.
Everything about Mr. Ricketty, indeed, appears to have an individual
expression. His heavily lined, indented brow comes out in a sharp angle
over his snappy black eyes, which, sunk far within their sockets, look
just like black beans in an elsewise empty eggshell.
His nose is sharp, thin, pendent, and exceedingly ample in its
proportions, and it comes inquiringly out from his face as if employed
by the rest of his features as a sort of picket sentinel.
It is that uncommonly knowing nose to which the prudent observer of Mr.
Ricketty would give his closest attention. He would look at the acute
interior angle which it formed at the eyes, and think it much too acute
to be pleasant and much too interior to be pretty. He would look at the
obtuse exterior angle which it formed on its bridge, and wonder how any
humane parent could have permitted such a development to grow before his
very eyes when by one quick and dexterous strike with a flat-iron it
might have been remedied. He would look at the angle of incidence made
by the sun's rays on one side of his nose and then at the angle of
reflection on the other, and find himself lost in amazement that
anything so thin could produce so dark a shadow.
[Illustration: MR. RICKETTY.]
It is a most uncomfortable nose. It had a way of hanging protectingly
over his heavy dark-brown mustache, which, in its turn, hangs
protectingly over his thin, wide lips, so as to make it disagreeably
certain that they can open and shut, laugh, snap, and sneer without any
one being the wiser.
Upon lines almost parallel with those of his nose, his sharp chin
extends out and down, fitting by means of another angle upon his long
neck, wherein his Adam's apple, like the corner of a cube, wanders up
and down at random. Under his side-whiskers the outlines of his square
jaws are faintly to be traced, holding in position a pair of hollow
cheeks that end directly under his eyes in a little knob of ruddy flesh.
Mr. Ricketty is walking along the Bowery. His step is light and easy,
and an air pervades him betokening peace and serenity of mind. In one
hand he carries a short rattan stick, which he twirls in his fingers
carelessly. His little black eyes travel further and faster than his
legs, and rove up and down and across the Bowery ceaselessly. He stops
in front of a building devoted, according to the signs spread numerously
about it, to a variety of trade.
The fifth floor is occupied by a photographer, the fourth by a dealer in
picture frames, the third and the second are let out for offices. Over
the first hangs the gilded symbol of the three balls and the further
information, lettered on a signboard, "Isaac Buxbaum, Money to Loan."
The basement is given over to a restaurant-keeper whose identity is
fixed by the testimony of another signboard, bearing the two words,
"Butter-cake Bob's." Mr. Ricketty's little black eyes wander for an
instant up and down the front of the building, and then he trips lightly
down the basement steps into the restaurant.
A score or more of small tables fastened securely to the floor--for
many, as Bob often said, "comes here deep in liquor an' can't tell a
white-pine table from a black felt hat"--were disposed about the room at
measured distances from each other, equipped with four short-legged
stools, a set of casters, and a jar of sugar, all so firmly fixed as to
baffle both cupidity and nervousness. On walls, posts, and pillars were
hung a number of allusions to the variety and excellence of Bob's
larder.
It was represented that coffee and cakes could be obtained for the
trifling sum of ten cents, that corned-beef hash was a specialty, and
that as for Bob's chicken soup it was the best in the Bowery. Apparently
attracted by this statement, Mr. Ricketty sat down, and intimated to a
large young man who presented himself that he was willing to try the
chicken soup together with a cup of coffee.
The young man lifted his head and shouted vociferously toward the
ceiling, "Chicken in de bowl, draw one!"
"My friend," said Mr. Ricketty, "what a noble pair of lungs you've got
and what a fine quality of voice."
The young man grinned cheerfully.
"I am tempted to lavish a cigar on you," continued Mr. Ricketty, "in
token of my regard for those lungs. A cigar represents to me a large
amount of capital, but it shall all be yours if you'll just step
upstairs and see if my old friend, Ike Buxbaum, is in."
"He aint in," said the waiter.
"How do you know?"
"I jist seen him goin' down de street."
"Who runs his business when he adjourns to the street."
"Dunno. Guess it's his wife."
"Aha! the beauteous Becky?"
"I dunno; I've seen a woman in dere."
"You're sure Ike has gone off, are you?"
"Didn't I say I seen him?"
"True. I am answered. My friend, there's the cigar. There, too, are the
fifteen cents wherewith to pay for my frugal luncheon. Look upon the
luncheon when it comes as yours. I bethink me of an immediate
engagement," and rising abruptly Mr. Ricketty hastened out of the
restaurant into the street.
[Illustration: "CHICKEN IN DE BOWL, DRAW ONE!"]
He glanced quickly through the pawnshop window and made out the figure
of a woman standing within among the shadows. He adjusted his hat to his
head and a winsome smile to his countenance, and entered.
"Good-morning!" he said, breezily, to the young woman who came forward,
"where's Ike?"
"Gone out," she answered, looking him over carefully.
"Tut, tut, tut," said Mr. Ricketty, as if utterly annoyed and
disappointed. "That's too bad. Will he be gone long?"
"All the morning."
"Will he now? Well, I'll call again," and Mr. Ricketty started for the
door. He stopped when he had gone a step or two, however, and, wheeling
about, looked earnestly at Becky.
"Let me see," he said, "you must be Ike's wife. You must be the fair and
radiant Becky. There's no doubt of it, not the least, now, is there?"
"Well, what if there aint?" said Becky, coolly.
"Why if there aint you ought to know me. You ought to have heard Ike
speaking of his friend Ricketty. You ought to have heard him telling of
what a good-for-nothing old fool I am. If you are Becky, then you and I
are old friends."
"S'posin' we be," said Becky, "what then?"
"To be sure," Mr. Ricketty replied, "what then? Then, Becky, fair
daughter of Israel, I've a treasure for you. I always lay my treasure at
the feet of my friends. This may not be wise; it may not be the way to
grow rich; but it is Steve Ricketty's way, and he can't help it. I have
a treasure here now for you. It has taken months of suffering and sorrow
to induce me to part with it. Around it cluster memories of other and
brighter days. Look!"
Mr. Ricketty produced a string of large and beautiful pearls. They were
evidently of the very finest quality, and Becky's black eyes sparkled as
she caught their radiance.
"See," said Mr. Ricketty, "see the bedazzling heirloom. Full oft, sweet
Jewess, have I held it to my bosom, have I bedewed it with my tears--"
"Oh, yes," interrupted Becky, with a satirical smile, "that's what's
made the colors so fine, I suppose."
"Becky, do not taunt me," Mr. Ricketty answered, reproachfully. "This is
a sad hour to me. What'll you give for it?"
"Where did it come from?" asked Becky, shrewdly. "We like to know what
we're doing when we buy pearl necklaces at retail."
"It was my mother's," replied Mr. Ricketty, touching his handkerchief to
his eyes. "When she breathed her last she placed these pearls about my
neck. 'Stephen,' she said, 'keep them for my sake.'"
Becky hesitated. Not that she was at all impressed with this story of
how the necklace came into Mr. Ricketty's possession. She was fully
alive to the risk she ran in entering into any bargain with gentlemen of
Mr. Ricketty's appearance, but the luster of the pearls burned in
Becky's eyes.
"Well," she said, with a vast assumption of indifference, "I'll give you
fifty dollars for them."
Mr. Ricketty cast forth at her one long, scornful look and then started
to go out.
"Oh, well," she called after him, "I'll be liberal. I'll make it a
hundred."
"No, Becky, you wont. You'll not get that glorious relic for the price
of a champagne supper. I will die. I will take my pearls and go and jump
off the bridge, and together we'll float with the turning tide out into
the blue sea. Adieu, Rebecca, so beautiful and yet so cold, adieu! How
could Heaven have made thy face so fair, thine eyes so full of light,
thy ruddy lips so merry, but thy heart so hard! I press thy hand for
the last time, fair Rebecca--"
"Well, I like that," cried Becky; "seeing that it's the first. You're
very gay for a man of your years, and you'd best keep your fine words
for them that wants 'em,--_I_ don't"; and Becky withdrew her hand,
detaining, however, the pearls within it.
Becky was not ill-favored. Her black, silky hair, as fine as a Skye
terrier's, curled around a comely head. Her complexion was soft and
dark, and her figure light and easy in its movement. These
peculiarities, together with her way of fondling the pearls, did not
escape Mr. Ricketty's calculating observation.
"Becky," he began blandly.
"Who told you to call me 'Becky'?" she angrily demanded.
"Daughter of Canaan, lend me thine ear, itself as fair as any of these
gems of the Southern Sea."
"Oh, come off!" said Becky.
"It has cost me many pangs to bring these jewels here--"
"And you're going to sell them at so much the pang, I s'pose."
"For hours together have I walked up and down the Bowery, trying to
rouse my feeble courage. But when I would stop under the three golden
balls, I seemed to see a sneer on every passer's lips. They were all
saying, 'There goes Steve Ricketty, about to sell his fond mother's
pearls.' The thought choked me, Becky, it burned my filial heart."
"Don't seem as if it did your cheek no harm," observed Becky dryly.
"But when I saw your face through the window there, so beautiful and
sympathetic, I said to myself, 'There is a true woman. She will feel for
me and my grief.' Suppose we make it two hundred and fifty. Come, Becky,
the pearls are yours for two hundred and fifty."
"I wont."
"Am I deceived? No, no, it can't be true. I will not believe--"
"I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll give you two hundred to get rid of
you."
Mr. Ricketty picked up a little hand-glass that lay upon the counter and
placed it before her face.
"Look there," he said, "and tell me what it is that makes Rebecca so
heartless. Not those lustrous eyes, so frank and warm; not that--"
"Oh, now, stop that."
"Not that sensitive, shapely nose--"
"Well, I thank goodness it's got no such bulge on it as yours."
"Not those refined lips, arched like the love-god's bow and many times
as dangerous; not those cheeks--those soft peach-tinted cheeks, telling
in dainty blushes--"
"Oh, six bright stars!"
"Of a soul pure as a sunbeam--"
"Now, I want you to stop and go 'way. I wont take your old pearls at any
price."
"Not that brow--that fair, enameled brow--nor yet that creamy throat.
Think, sweet Becky, just how these pearls would look clasped with their
diamond catch about that creamy throat. I fear to show you lest their
luster pale. But yet, I will! See!" and catching up the jewels he threw
them about her neck and held the glass steadily before her.
Becky looked. It was evidently not a new idea to Becky. She had all
along been considering just the situation Mr. Ricketty proposed, and
when he finally dropped the pearls and struck an attitude of profound
admiration, Becky snatched the prize from her neck, slid it into a
drawer under the counter, and drew a leather purse from the safe behind
her. She had begun to count out the money, when a figure passing the
window caught her eye.
"There!" she said sharply. "You've been bothering me so long that Ike's
come back, and we've got to go through a scene. Two hundred and fifty
dollars! It'll break Ike's heart."
Mr. Ricketty snatched the pocket-book from her hands, coolly extracted
bills to the amount of two hundred and fifty dollars, returned the book,
and whipped out his handkerchief. As the Jew entered he beheld a man
leaning against his counter holding a wad of greenbacks in his hand and
sobbing violently.
Apparently summoning all his resolution, Mr. Ricketty dried his eyes and
fervently grasped the money-lender's hand.
"Ikey, my boy," he said, "I leave my all with you. I go from your door,
Ikey, like one who treads alone some banquet hall deserted. I have sold
you my birthright, dear boy, for a mess of pottage--a mere mess of
pottage--a paltry two hundred and fifty dollars."
Ikey turned pale. "Pecky!" he cried, "who vas der fool mans und vat he
means apoudt der dwo huntered und feefty tollars, hey?"
"Well may you call me a fool, Ikey; I can't deny it. I can't even lift
my voice in protest. No man in his sober senses would have sold that
necklace of glorious gems for such a miserable pittance. Here, Ikey,
take back your money and give me my pearls."
[Illustration: BECKY.]
He held out the greenbacks with one hand, while with the other he placed
his handkerchief to his eyes, of which with great dexterity he reserved
a considerable corner for the purposes of observation. At the same
time, Becky, well knowing that she had bought the pearls for a sum
which, though probably more than her husband would have consented to
give, was still far less than their value, handed him the necklace.
The pawnbroker looked from money to jewels and from jewels to money with
an expression of curiously mingled grief and greed. Finally, taking
Ricketty by the coat-tails, he dragged him towards the door, saying, "I
nefer go pack by anydings vat mine vife does, meester, but ven you haf
shewels some more, yust coom along ven I vas der shtore py mineselluf,
hey?"
Mr. Ricketty shook his hand effusively. "I will, Ikey, I will. These
women are very unsatisfactory to deal with. Au revoir, Ikey! Au revoir,
madam!" and bowing with the utmost urbanity to the genial Becky, he
strode into the street.
It was easy to see, as Mr. Ricketty wandered aimlessly down the Bowery,
that his humor was entirely amiable. The knobs of ruddy flesh under his
twinkling black eyes were encircled by a set of merry wrinkles, and his
mustache had expanded far across his face.
[Illustration: THE PAWNBROKER.]
He had gone as far as Canal Street, and was just about to turn the
corner, when he heard a low, chirping sort of whistle. All in a second
his face changed its expression. The merry wrinkles melted and his
mustache drew itself compactly together. But he did not turn his head or
alter his gait. He walked on for several steps until he heard the
whistle again, and this time its tone was sharp. He stopped, wheeled
around, and encountered two men.
One of these was a darkly tinted, strongly built man, with big brown
eyes, tremendous arms, and an oppressive manner. To him Mr. Ricketty at
once addressed himself.
"Ah, my dear Inspector!" he cried gayly. "I'm amazingly happy to see
you. You're looking so well and hearty."
"Yes, Steve," replied the darkly tinted man, "I'm feeling fairly well,
Steve, and how is it with you?"
"So, so."
"I haven't happened to meet you recently, Steve."
"Well, no, Inspector. I've been West, but my brother's death--"
"I never knew you had a brother, Steve?"
"Oh, yes, Inspector; and a charming fellow he was. He died last week
and--"
"Was he honest, Steve?"
"As honest as a quart measure."
"And did he tell the truth?"
"Like a sun-dial."
"Then it's an almighty pity he died, for you need that kind of man in
your family, Steve."
Mr. Ricketty closed one of his little black eyes, and drew down the ends
of his mustache, but beyond this indirect method of communicating his
thoughts he made no reply to this observation.
"I suppose you're not contemplating a very long stay in the city,
Steve?" suggested the Inspector.
"N--n--no," said Mr. Ricketty.
"You seem in doubt?"
"No, I guess I'll return to the West this afternoon."
"Well, on the whole, I shouldn't wonder if that wouldn't be best. Your
brother's estate can be settled up, I fancy, without you?"
"It aint very large."
"Well, then, good-by, Steve, and, mind now, this afternoon."
"All right, Inspector; good-by!"
As Mr. Ricketty disappeared down Canal Street, the inspector of police
turned to his friend and said: "That fellow was a clergyman once, and
they say he used to preach brilliant sermons."
II.
MR. JAYRES.
[Illustration: B]
Bootsey Biggs was a Boy. From the topmost hair of his shocky head to the
nethermost sole of his tough little feet, Bootsey Biggs was a Boy.
Bootsey was on his way to business. He had come to his tenement home in
Cherry Street, just below Franklin Square, to partake of his noonday
meal. He had climbed five flights of tenement-house stairs, equal to
about thirty flights of civilized stairs, and procuring the key of his
mother's room from Mrs. Maguinness, who lived in the third room beyond,
where it was always left when Mrs. Biggs went out to get her papers, he
had entered within the four walls that he called his home.
Spread upon the little pine table that stood in one corner was his
luncheon all ready for him, and after clambering into the big dry-goods
box originally purchased for a coal-bin, but converted under the stress
of a recent emergency into the baby's crib, and after kissing and poking
and mauling and squeezing the poor little baby into a mild convulsion,
Bootsey had gone heartily at work upon his luncheon.
He was now satisfied. His stomach was full of boiled cabbage, and his
soul was full of peace. He clambered back into the dry-goods box and
renewed his guileless operations on the baby. By all odds the baby was
the most astonishing thing that had ever come under Bootsey's
observation, and the only time during which Bootsey was afforded a fair
and uninterrupted opportunity of examining the baby was that period of
the day which Mr. Jayres, Bootsey's employer, was wont to term "the
noonday hour."
Long before Bootsey came home for his luncheon, Mrs. Biggs was off for
her stand in front of "The Sun" building, where she conducted a large
and, let us hope, a lucrative business in the afternoon newspapers, so
that Bootsey and the baby were left to enjoy the fulness of each other's
society alone and undisturbed.
To Bootsey's mind the baby presented a great variety of psychological
and other problems. He wondered what could be the mental operation that
caused it to kink its nose in that amazing manner, why it should
manifest such a persistent desire to swallow its fist, what could be the
particular woe and grievance that suddenly possessed its little soul and
moved it to pucker up its mouth and yell as though it saw nothing but
despair as its earthly portion?
Bootsey had debated these and similar questions until two beats upon the
clock warned him that, even upon the most liberal calculation, the
noonday hour must be looked upon as gone. Then he rolled the baby up in
one corner of the box and started back to the office.
It was Mr. Absalom Jayres's office to which Bootsey's way tended, and a
peculiarity about it that had impressed both Mr. Jayres and Bootsey was
that Bootsey could perform a given distance of which it was the
starting-point in at least one-tenth the time required to perform the
same distance of which it was the destination. This was odd, but true.
After taking leave of the baby and locking it in, all snugly smothered
at the bottom of its dry-goods box, Bootsey delivered the key of the
room to Mrs. Maguinness and descended into the court. Here he found two
other boys involved in a difficulty. Things had gone so far that
Bootsey saw it would be a waste of time to try to ascertain the merits
of the controversy--his only and obvious duty being to hasten the
crisis.
"Hi! Shunks!" he cried, "O'll betcher Jakey kin lick ye!"
The rapidity with which this remark was followed by offensive movements
on Shunks's part proved how admirably it had been judged.
"Kin he!" screamed Shunks. "He's nawfin' but a Sheeny two-fer!"
Jakey needed no further provocation, and with great dexterity he crowded
his fists into Shunks's eyes, deposited his head in Shunks's stomach,
and was making a meritorious effort to climb upon Shunks's shoulders,
when a lordly embodiment of the law's majesty hove gracefully into
sight. Bootsey yelled a shrill warning, and himself set the example of
flight.
While passing under the Brooklyn Bridge Bootsey met a couple of
Chinamen, and moved by a sudden inspiration he grabbed the cue of one of
them, and both he and the Chinaman precipitately sat down. Bootsey
recovered quickly and in a voice quivering with rage he demanded to know
what the Chinaman had done that for. A large crowd immediately assembled
and lent its interest to the solution of this question. It was in vain
that the Chinaman protested innocence of any aggressive act or
thought. The crowd's sympathies were with Bootsey, and when he insisted
that the Mongol had tangled him up in his pig-tail, the aroused populace
with great difficulty restrained its desire to demolish the amazed
heathens. At last, however, they were permitted to go, followed by a
rabble of urchins, and Bootsey proceeded on his way to the office.
[Illustration: HE GRABBED THE CUE OF ONE OF THEM.]
Many other interruptions retarded his progress. He had not gone far
before he was invited into a game of ball, and this, of course, could
not be neglected. The game ending in a general conflict of the players,
caused by Bootsey's falling on top of another boy, whom he utterly
refused to let up unless it should be admitted that the flattened
unfortunate was "out," he issued from the turmoil in time to join in an
attack upon a peanut roaster and to avail himself largely of the spoils.
Enriched with peanuts, he had got as far as the City Hall Park when a
drunken man attracted his attention, and he assisted actively in an
effort to convince the drunken man that the Mayor's office was the ferry
to Weehawken. It was while engaged in giving these disinterested
assurances that he felt himself lifted off his feet by a steady pull at
his ears, and looking up he beheld Mr. Jayres.
"You unmitigated little rascal!" cried Mr. Jayres, "where've you been?"
"Nowhere," said Bootsey, in an injured tone.
"Didn't I tell you to get back promptly?"
"Aint I a-getting' back?"
"Aint you a-get--whew!" roared Mr. Jayres, with the utmost exasperation,
"how I'd like to tan your plaguey little carcass till it was black and
blue! Come on, now," and Mr. Jayres strode angrily ahead.
Bootsey followed. He offered no reply to this savage expression, but
from his safe position in the rear he grinned amiably.
Mr. Jayres was large and dark and dirty. His big fat face, shaped like a
dumpling, wore a hard and ugly expression. Small black eyes sat under
his low, expansive forehead. His cheeks and chin were supposed to be
shaven, and perhaps that experience may occasionally have befallen them.
His costume was antique. Around his thick neck he wore a soiled choker.
His waistcoat was low, and from it protruded the front of a fluted
shirt. A dark-blue swallow-tail coat with big buttons and a high collar
wrapped his huge body, and over his shoulders hung a heavy mass of black
hair, upon which his advanced age had made but a slight impression.
[Illustration: "WE'VE CALLED," SAID THE MAN, SLOWLY.]
His office was upon the top floor of a building in Murray Street. It
was a long, low room. Upon its door was fastened a battered tin sign
showing the words: "Absalom Jayres, Counsellor." The walls and ceiling
were covered with dusty cobwebs. In one end of the room stood an old
wood stove, and near it was a pile of hickory sticks. A set of shelves
occupied a large portion of the wall, bearing many volumes, worn, dusty,
and eaten with age.
Among them were books of the English peerage, records of titled
families, reports of the Court of Chancery in hundreds of testamentary
cases, scrap-books full of newspaper clippings concerning American
claimants to British fortunes, lists of family estates in Great Britain
and Ireland, and many other works bearing upon heraldry, the laws of
inheritance, and similar subjects.
Upon the walls hung charts showing the genealogical trees of illustrious
families, tracing the descent of Washington, of Queen Victoria, and of
other important personages. There was no covering on the floor except
that which had accumulated by reason of the absence of broom and mop. A
couple of tables, a few dilapidated chairs, a pitcher and a basin, were
about all the furniture that the room contained.
Being elderly and huge, it required far more time for Mr. Jayres to make
the ascent to his office than for Bootsey. Having this fact in mind,
Bootsey sat down upon the first step of the first flight, intending to
wait until Mr. Jayres had at least reached the final flight before he
started up at all. He failed to communicate his resolution, however, and
when Mr. Jayres turned about upon the third floor, hearing no footsteps
behind him, he stopped. He frowned. He clinched his fist and swore.
"There'll be murder on me," he said, "I know there will, if that Boy
don't do better! Now, where the pestering dickens can he be?"
Mr. Jayres leaned over the bannister and started to call. "Boo--" he
roared, and then checked himself. "Drat such a name as that," he said.
"Who ever heard of a civilized Boy being called Bootsey? What'll people
think to see a man of my age hanging over a bannister yelling 'Bootsey'!
No, I must go down and hunt him up. I wonder why I keep that Boy? I
wonder why I do it?"
Mr. Jayres turned, and with a heavy sigh he began to descend to the
street. On the second landing he met Bootsey smoking a cigarette and
whistling. Mr. Jayres did not fly into a passion. He did not grow red
and frantic. He just took Bootsey by the hand and led him, step by step,
up the rest of the way to the office. He drew him inside, shut the door,
and led him over to his own table. Then he sat down, still holding
Bootsey's hand, and waited until he had caught his breath.
"Now, then," he said, at last.
"Yez'r," said Bootsey.
"You're a miserable little rogue!" said Mr. Jayres.
Bootsey held his peace.
"I've stood your deviltries till I've got no patience left, and now I'm
going to discharge you!"
"Aw, don't," said Bootsey.
"Yes," said Mr. Jayres, "I will; if I don't, the end of it all will be
murder. Some time or other I'll be seized of a passion, and there's no
telling what'll happen. There's your two dollars to the end of the
week--now, go!"
"Aw, now," said Bootsey, "wot's de use? I aint done nawfin'. 'Fi gets
bounced mom'll drub me awful! You said you wanted me to take a letter up
to Harlem dis afternoon."
"Yes, you scamp! And here's the afternoon half gone."
"O'll have it dere in less 'n no time," pleaded Bootsey.
Mr. Jayres scowled hard at Bootsey and hesitated. But finally he drew
the letter from the drawer of his table and handed it over, saying as he
did so, "If you aint back here by 5 o'clock, I'll break every bone in
your body!"
Bootsey left the office with great precipitation, and as he closed the
door behind him, Mr. Jayres glared morosely at a knot-hole in the floor.
"Funny about that boy!" he said reflectively. "I don't know as I ever
gave in to any living human being before that Boy came along in all my
life."
Mr. Jayres turned to his table and began to write, but was almost
immediately interrupted by a knock upon the door. He called out a
summons to enter, and two people, a man and a woman, came in. The man
was large, stolid, and rather vacant in his expression. The woman was
small and quick and sharp.
"Well, sir," said Mr. Jayres.
The woman poked the man and told him to speak.
"We've called--" said the man slowly.
"About your advertisement in the paper," added the woman quickly.
"Which paper?" asked Mr Jayres.
"Where's the paper?" asked the man, turning to the woman.
"Here," she replied, producing it.
"Oh, yes, I see," said Mr. Jayres, "it's about the Bugwug estate. What
is your name, sir?"
"His name is Tobey, and I'm Mrs. Tobey, and we keeps the Gallinipper
Laundry, sir, which is in Washington Place, being a very respectable
neighborhood, though the prices is low owing to competition of a party
across the street."
"Now, Maggie," said the man, "let me talk."
"Who's hindering you from talking, Tobey? I'm not, and that's certain.
The gentleman wanted to know who we were, and I've told him. He'd been a
week finding out from you."
"Come, come," said Mr. Jayres sharply, "let's get to business."
"That's what I said," replied Mrs. Tobey, "while I was putting on my
things to come down town. 'Tobey,' says I, 'get right to business. Don't
be wasting the gentleman's time,' which he always does, sir, halting and
hesitating and not knowing what to say, nor ever coming to the point.
'It's bad manners,' says I, 'and what's more, these lawyers,' says I,
'which is very sharp folks, wont stand it,' says I. But I don't suppose
I done him much good, for he's always been that way, sir, though I'm
sure I've worked my best to spur him up. But a poor, weak woman can't do
everything, though you'd think he thought so, if--"
"Oh, now stop, stop, stop!" cried Mr. Jayres, "you mustn't run on so.
Your name is Tobey and you have called about the Bugwug property. Well,
now, what of it?"
"I want to know is there any money in it," answered Mr. Tobey.
"Now, if you please, sir, just listen to that," cried Mrs. Tobey
pityingly. "He wants to know is there money in it! Why, of course,
there's money in it, Tobey. You're a dreadful trial to me, Tobey. Didn't
the gentleman's advertisement say there was 500,000 pounds in it? Aint
that enough? Couldn't you and me get along on 500,000 pounds, or even
less, on a pinch?"
"But the question is," said Mr. Jayres, "what claim you have on the
Bugwug property. Are you descended from Timothy Bugwug, and if so, how
directly and in what remove?"
"That's what we wants you to tell us, sir," replied Mr. Tobey.
"Why, we supposed you'd have it all settled," added his wife. "Aint you
a lawyer?"
"Oh, yes, I'm a lawyer," Mr. Jayres suavely replied, "and I can tell you
what your claim is if I know your relationship to Timothy Bugwug. He
died in 1672, leaving four children, Obediah, Martin, Ezekiel, and
Sarah. Obediah died without issue. Martin and Sarah came to America, and
Ezekiel was lost at sea before he had married. Now then, where do you
come in?"
"My mother--" said Mr. Tobey.
"Was a Bugwug," said Mrs. Tobey. "There's no doubt at all but what all
that money belongs to us, and if you've got it you must pay it right
away to us, for plenty of use we have for it with six young children
a-growing up and prospects of another come April, which as regards me is
terrible to think of, though, I suppose, I shouldn't repine, seeing that
it's the Lord's will that woman should suffer, which, I must say, it
seems to me that they have more than their fair share. However, I don't
blame Tobey, for he's a fine man, and a hard-working one, if he hasn't
got the gift of speech and is never able to come to the point, though
that's not for the lack of having it dinged into his ears, for if I says
it once I says it fifty times a day, 'Tobey, will you come to the
point?'"
Mr. Jayres took up his pen. "Well, let's see," he said. "What is your
full name, Mr. Tobey?"
"William Tobey, sir. I am the son of--"
"Jonathan Tobey and Henrietta Bugwug," continued the lady, "it being so
stated in the marriage license which the minister said was for my
protection, and bears the likeness of Tobey on one side and mine on the
other and clasped hands in the center signifying union, and is now in
the left-hand corner of the sixth shelf from the bottom in the china
closet and can be produced at any time if it's needful. I've kept it
very careful."
"Whose daughter was Henrietta Bugwug?" asked Mr. Jayres.
"Tobey's grandfather's, sir, a very odd old gentleman, though blind,
which he got from setting off fireworks on a Fourth of July, and nearly
burned the foot off the blue twin, called blue from the color of his
eyes, the other being dark-blue, which is the only way we have of
telling 'em apart, except that one likes cod liver oil and the other
don't, and several times when the blue twin's been sick the dark-blue
twin has got all the medicine by squinting up his eyes so as I couldn't
make him out and pretending it was him that had the colic, and Mr.
Bugwug, that's Tobey's grandfather, lives in Harlem all by himself,
because he says there's too much noise and talking in our flat, and I
dare say there is, though I don't notice it."
"In Harlem, eh? When did you first hear that you had an interest in the
Bugwug estates?"
"Oh, ever so long, and we'd have had the money long ago if it hadn't
been that a church burned down a long time ago somewhere in Virginia
where one of the Bugwugs married somebody and all the records were lost,
though I don't see what that had to do with it, because Tobey's here all
ready to take the property, and it stands to reason that he wouldn't
have been here unless that wedding had 'a' happened without they mean to
insult us, which they'd better not, and wont, if they know when they are
well off," and at the very thought of such a thing Mrs. Tobey tossed her
head angrily.
"I see," said Mr. Jayres, "I see. And you want me to take the matter in
hand, I suppose, and see if I can recover the money, eh?"
"Oh, dear!" said Mrs. Tobey, in a disappointed tone, "I thought from the
piece in the paper that the money was all ready for us."
"You mustn't be so impatient," soothingly responded Mr. Jayres, laying
his fat finger on his fat cheek and smiling softly. "All in good time.
All in good time. The money's where it's safe. You only need to
establish your right to it. We must fetch a suit in the Court of
Chancery, and that I'll do at once upon looking up the facts. Of
course--er--there'll be a little fee."
"A little what?" said Mr. Tobey.
"A little which?" said Mrs. Tobey.
[Illustration: "A LITTLE FEE," SAID MR. JAYRES, SMILING SWEETLY.]
"A little fee," said Mr. Jayres, smiling sweetly. "A mere trifle, I
assure you; just enough to defray expenses--say--er--a hundred dollars."
"Oh, dear me!" cried Mrs. Tobey. "This is vexing. To think of coming
down town, Tobey, dear, with the expectations of going back rich, and
then going back a hundred dollars poorer than we were. I really don't
think we'd better do it, Tobey?"
"Ah," said Mr. Jayres, "but think also of the fortune. Two millions and
a half! Isn't that worth spending a few hundred dollars for? Just put
your mind on it, ma'am."
"I've had my mind on it ever since I seen your piece in the paper,"
replied Mrs. Tobey, "and a hundred dollars does seem, as you say, little
enough to pay for two millions and a half, which would be all I'd ask or
wish for, and would put us where we belong, Tobey, which is not in the
laundry line competing with an unscrupulous party across the street,
though I don't mention names, which perhaps I ought, for the public
ought to be warned. It's a party that hasn't any honor at all--"
"I'm sure not," said Mr. Jayres sympathetically. "He is, without doubt,
a dirty dog."
"Oh, it isn't a he," Mrs. Tobey replied, "the party is a her."
[Illustration: "THE PARTY IS A HER," SAID MRS. TOBEY.]
"Of course, of course," said Mr. Jayres. "And to think that you have to
put up with the tricks of a female party directly across the street.
Why, it's shameful, ma'am! But if you had that two millions, as you just
observed, all that would be over."
"Two million and a half I thought you said it was," said Mrs. Tobey
rather sharply.
"Oh, yes, and a half--and a half," the lawyer admitted in a tone of
indifference, as much as to say that there should be no haggling about
the odd $500,000. "What a pretty pile it is, Mrs. Tobey?"
"I don't know, Tobey, but what we'd better do it," Mrs. Tobey said after
a pause. "It aint so very much when you think of what we're to get for
it."
"That's the right way to look at it, ma'am. I'll just draw up the
receipt, and to-morrow I'll call at the Gallinipper Laundry to get some
further particulars necessary to help me make out the papers."
Mr. Tobey seemed to be somewhat at a loss to know precisely what was the
net result of the proceedings in which he had thus far taken so small a
part, but upon being directed by Mrs. Tobey to produce the hundred
dollars, he ventured a feeble remonstrance. This was immediately checked
by Mrs. Tobey, who assured him that he knew nothing whatever about such
matters and never could come to the point, which he ought to be able to
do by this time, for nobody could say but that she had done her part. At
last two fifty-dollar bills were deposited in Mr. Jayres's soft palm and
a bit of writing was handed over to Mrs. Tobey in exchange for them; and
followed by Mr. Jayres's warm insistence that they had never done a
better thing in their lives, the Tobeys withdrew.
It was nearly six o'clock when the door of Mr. Jayres's office opened
again and the shocky head of Bootsey appeared. Mr. Jayres was waiting
for him.
"Here you are at last, you wretched little scamp!" he cried. "Didn't I
tell you I'd whale you if you weren't back by five o'clock?"
"I come jest as soon 's I could," said Bootsey. "He was a werry fly ole
gen'l'man."
"What did he say?"
"He said he didn't hev no doubts but wot you was a reg'lar villyum an'
swin'ler, an' cheat an' blackmailer, an' ef he had de user his eyes an'
legs he'd come down yere an' han' you over ter de coppers; dat you aint
smart enuff ter get no money outer him, fer he's bin bled by sich coveys
like you all he's a-going ter bleed, an' dat he don't b'lieve dere is
any sech ting as de Bugwug estate nohow, an' ef yer wants ter keep
outen jail yer'd better let him an' his folks alone."
Mr. Jayres scowled until it seemed as if his black eyebrows would meet
his bristly upper lip, and then he said: "Bootsey, before you come to
the office to-morrow morning you'd better go to the Gallinipper Laundry
in Washington Place, and tell a man named Tobey who keeps it,
that--er--that I've gone out of town for a few days, Bootsey, on a
pressing matter of business."
III.
BLUDOFFSKI.
The friends of Mr. Richard O'Royster always maintained that he was the
best of good fellows. Many, indeed, went so far as to say he had no
faults whatever; and while such an encomium seems, on the face of it, to
be extravagant, its probability is much strengthened by the fact that
whatever he had they always came into the possession of sooner or later.
If he had any faults, therefore, they must have known it. They would
never have allowed anything so valuable as a fault to escape them.
Mr. O'Royster was sitting, one afternoon, in the private office of his
bankers, Coldpin & Breaker. Mr. Coldpin sat with him, discussing the
advisability of his investing $250,000 in the bonds of the East and West
Telegraph Company. It was a safe investment, in Mr. Coldpin's judgment,
and Mr. O'Royster was about to order the transaction carried out, when
the office door was thrust open and a long, black-bearded, wiry-haired,
savage-looking man walked in.
[Illustration: BLUDOFFSKI.]
His head was an irregular hump set fixedly on his shoulders so that
one almost expected to hear it creak when he moved it. His eyes were
little, and curiously stuck on either side of his thick, stumpy nose, as
if it were only by the merest accident that they hadn't taken a position
back of his ears or up in his forehead or down in his hollow cheeks. His
entrance put a sudden and disagreeable stop to the conversation. Mr.
O'Royster adjusted his eyeglass and looked with a sort of serene
curiosity at the man. Mr. Coldpin moved nervously in his chair.
"Vell," the fellow said, after a pause, "I haf come to sbeak mit you."
"You come very often," replied Mr. Coldpin in a mildly remonstrative
tone.
No answer was returned to this suggestion. The intruder simply settled
himself on his feet in an obstinate sort of way.
Mr. Coldpin produced a dollar-bill and handed it over, remarking
testily, "There, now, I'm very busy!"
"Nein, nein!" said the man. "It vas not enough!"
"Not enough?"
"I vants dwenty tollar."
"Oh, come now; this wont do at all. You mustn't bother me so. I can't
be--"
The man did something with his mouth. Possibly he smiled. Possibly he
was malevolently disposed. At all events, whatever his motive or his
humor, he did something with his mouth, and straightway his two rows of
teeth gleamed forth, his eyes changed their position and also their hue,
and the hollows in his cheeks became caverns.
"Great Caesar!" cried Mr. O'Royster. "Look here, my good fellow, now
don't! If you must have the money, we'll try to raise it. Don't do that.
Take in your teeth, my man, take 'em in right away, and we'll see what
we can do about the twenty."
He composed his mouth, reducing it to its normal dimensions and
arranging it in its normal shape, whereupon Mr. O'Royster, drawing a
roll of bills from his pocket, counted out twenty dollars.
Mr. Coldpin interposed. "You may naturally think, O'Royster," he
observed quietly, "that this man has some hold upon me by which he is in
a position to extort money. There is no such phase to this remarkable
case. I owe him nothing. He is simply in the habit of coming here and
demanding money, which I have let him have from time to time in small
sums to--well, get rid of him. I think, though, that it's time to stop.
You must not give him that $20. I won't permit it. Put it back in--"
[Illustration: "IT WOULDN'T HURT HIM TO SHOOT HIM."]
The man did something else in a facial way just as defiant of analysis
as his previous contortion and equally effective on Mr. O'Royster's
nerves. He moved toward Mr. O'Royster and held up his hand for the
money. It was slowly yielded up, and without so much as an
acknowledgment, the man thrust it into his pocket and stalked out.
Mr. O'Royster watched his misshapen body as it disappeared through the
entry. Then he gazed at the banker and finally remarked: "Can't say that
your friend pleases me, Coldpin."
"To tell the truth, O'Royster, I live in mortal terror of that creature.
He followed me into this room from the street one day and demanded,
rather than begged, some money. I scarcely noticed him, telling him I
had nothing, when he did something that attracted my attention, and the
next minute my flesh began to creep, my backbone began to shake, and I
thought I should have spasms. I gave him a handful of change and off he
went. Since then, as I told you, he has been coming here every month or
so. I'm going to move next May into a building where I can have a more
guarded office."
"Odd tale!" said Mr. O'Royster, "deuced odd. Why don't you get a
pistol?"
"Well, I have a sort of feeling that it wouldn't hurt him to shoot him.
Of course it would, you know, but still--"
"Yes, I know what you mean. He certainly does look as if a pistol would
be no adequate defense against him. What you want is a nice,
self-cocking, automatic thunderbolt."
They changed the subject, returning to their interrupted business, and
having concluded that they talked on until it had grown quite late.
"By Jove!" cried Mr. O'Royster, glancing at his watch, "it's half-past
six, and I've a dinner engagement at the club at seven. I must be off.
Ring for a cab, wont you?"
The cab arrived in a few moments and Mr. O'Royster hurried out. "Drive
me to the Union Club," he said, "and whip up lively."
He sprang in, the cab started off with a whirl, and he turned in his
seat to let down the window. A startled look came into his face.
"It's too dark to see well," he said to himself, "and this thing bounces
like a tugboat in a gale, but if that ourang-outang wasn't standing
under that gaslight yonder, I'll be hanged!"
Mr. O'Royster's was the sort of mind that dwelt lightly and briefly on
subjects affecting it disagreeably, and long before he reached the club
it had left the ourang-outang far in the distance. In the presence of a
jolly company, red-headed duck, burgundy and champagne, it had room for
nothing but wit and frolic, to which its inclinations always strongly
tended.
The night had far advanced when Mr. O'Royster left the club. He turned
into Fifth Avenue, journeying toward Twenty-third Street, and had walked
about half the distance when he felt a touch upon his arm. Mr. O'Royster
was in that condition when his mental senses acted more quickly than his
physical senses. Bringing his eyes to bear upon the spot where he felt
the touch, he made out the shape of a big, dirty hand, and following it
and the arm above it, he presently ascertained that a man was close at
his elbow. He spent several minutes scrutinizing the man's face, and
finally he said:
"Ah, I shee. Beg pawdon, dear boy, f'not 'bsherving you b'fore. Mos'
happy to renew zhe 'quaintance so auspishously begun 'saffer-noon.
H--hic!--'ope you're feeling well. By zhe way, ol' f'llaw, wha' zhure
name?"
"Bludoffski."
"Razzer hard name t' pronounce, but easy one t' 'member. Glad 'tain't
Dobbins. 'F zenny sing I hate, 's name like Dobb'ns, 'r Wobb'ns, 'r
Wigg'ns. Some-pin highly unconventional in name of Bludoffski. Mr.
Bludoffski, kindly 'cept 'shurances of my--rhic!--gard!"
Mr. Bludoffski executed a facial maneuver intended possibly for a smile.
It excited Mr. O'Royster's attention directly.
"Doffski!" he said, stopping shortly and balancing himself on his legs,
"are you sure you're feelin' quite well?"
"Yah, puty vell."
"Zere's no great sorrer gnawin' chure vitals, is zere, Moffski?"
"I vas all ride."
"Not sufferin' f'om any mad r'gret, 'r misplaced love, 'rensing zat
kind, eh, Woffski?"
"No."
"Feeling jush sames' ushyal?"
"Yah."
"Zen 'sall right. Don't 'pol'gize, 's all right. Zere was somepin' 'n
you're looksh made me shink p'raps yu's feeling trifle in'sposed. I am,
an' didn't know but what you might be same way. You may've noticed 't
I'm jush trifle--er, well, some people ud shay zhrunk, Toffski--rude 'n'
dish'gree'ble people dshay zhrunk. P'raps zere 'bout half right,
Woffski, but it's zhrude way of putting it. Now, zhen, I want t'ask you
queshun. I ask ash frien'. Look 't me carefully and shay, on y'r honor,
Loffski, where d'you shin' I'm mos' largely 'tossicated?"
"In der legs," replied Mr. Bludoffski, promptly.
"Shank you. 'S very kind. 'T may not be alt'gesser dignified to be
'tossicated in zhe legs, but 's far besser'n if 'twas in zhe eyes.
'Spise a man 'at looks drunk in's eyes. Pos'ively 'sgusting!"
They had now reached Twenty-third Street, and following his companion's
lead, O'Royster crossed unsteadily into Madison Square and through one
of the park walks. Presently he halted.
"By zhe way, Woffski," he said, "do you know where we're goin'?"
"Yah."
"Well, zat's what I call lucky. I'm free t' confesh I haven't gotter
shingle idea. But 'f you know, 's all right. W'en a man feels himself
slightly 'tossicated, 's nozzin' like bein' in comp'ny of f'law 'at
knows where 's goin'. 'Parts a highly 'gree'ble feelin' 'f conf'dence.
Don't wanter 'splay any 'pert'nent cur'osity, Boffski, but p'raps 's no
harm in askin' where 'tis 'at you know you're goin'?"
"Home."