closely, is the wife of a defaulter, who was caught in the act. Three
days ago she held her head as high as any. Now it is bent low and hidden
with shame. Yonder, terrified and broken-hearted, is the sister of a man
who shot another. He is no criminal. There was a quarrel about a matter
of money. The lie was given, a blow followed, and then a shot. Her
brother a murderer! Her brother, all kindness, docility, and goodness,
locked up in a place like this with thieves and hardened convicts! It
was a fatal shot--ah, me, so very fatal, so widely fatal!
Many of them, though, are laughing and joking with each other. They have
got acquainted coming here to look after their husbands, lovers,
brothers, fathers, and sons. They bow cheerily as they come in, and say
what a fine day it is, and how they missed you yesterday, and they hope
nothing was the matter at home. Among them are brazen jades who chatter
saucily with the guards, and these are the best treated of all. They are
asked no gruff, surly questions, but with a wink and a jest in they go.
On the outer edge of the crowd, among those who waited till the first
rush was over, stood a dark, wiry little woman with a face remarkable
alike for its resolution and its innocence. She could not have been more
than twenty-five years old. She looked as if she had seen much of the
world, but had illy learned the lessons of her experience. This
combination of strength and simplicity had wrought a curious effect upon
her manner. There was no timidity about her, but much gentleness. She
was modest and clothed with repose, and yet the outlines of her face
plainly informed you that in the presence of a sufficient emergency she
was quite prepared to go anywhere or do anything.
"I want to see Monsieur Tulitz," she said to the entry clerk, when her
opportunity came.
He gave her a ticket without asking any questions, except the formal
ones, and then turned her over to the matron.
The matron of the Tombs has been there many years, and she knows how to
read faces.
"Your ticket says you are Madame Tulitz?" said the matron.
"Yes."
"I must search you."
"Very well."
"It must be thorough."
"Very well."
[Illustration: "I WANT TO SEE MONSIEUR TULITZ," SHE SAID.]
"Please take off your hat and let down your hair."
She did as she was bidden, and a great mass of dark hair tumbled nearly
to her feet. The matron immediately and with practiced dexterity twisted
it up again. Then her shoes, dress, and corsets were removed, until the
matron was enabled to tell that nothing could by any possibility be
concealed about her.
"It's all right," said the matron. "I'm sorry to trouble you so much,
but I have to be very careful."
"You needn't apologize. Now can I go?"
"Yes."
She adjusted her hat and proceeded through the long corridors out into
the prison yard, and thence into the old prison where Tulitz was
confined. The guard who had sent her Tulitz's letter led her to his
cell, and brought a stool for her to sit upon outside his grated iron
door.
"My _ravissante_ Corinne!" cried Tulitz.
She put her fingers through the bars, and he bent to kiss them, coming,
as he did so, in contact with two little files of the hardest steel.
"_Diable!_" he said.
"I had them in my hat. I made them serve as the stems of these lilies."
"Ze woman she make ze wily t'ing. How young and _charmante_ she seem
for one so like ze fox! Ah, Corinne, my sweetest lofe--"
"You don't mean that."
"Not mean him! _Mon Dieu!_ How can you haf ze heart to say ze cruel
word. Corinne, you are ze only frient I haf in ze whole bad worlt."
"Yes, I know that. But not the only wife."
"Why you torture me so, Corinne?"
"I wont. We'll let it go. You need me, I suppose?"
"You use all ze cold word, Corinne. I neet you! _Oui, oui_, I efer neet
you. I neet you ven I stay from you ze longest. I neet you ven ze bad
come into my heart and drive out ze good and tender, and leave only ze
hard, and make me crazy and full of dream of fortune. Zen I am out of
myself and den I neet you ze most, Corinne. Zat I haf been cruel and
vicked, I know, but I am punish now. Now, I neet you in my despair, but
if you come to speak bitter, I am sorry to haf send for you."
"I'll not be bitter, Tulitz. I don't believe you love me, and I never
will believe it again. So don't say tender things. They only make me
sad. Tell me what--"
"You do pelief I lofe you."
"No."
"_Cherie._"
"Don't, Tulitz!"
"You know I haf a so hot blood. It tingle viz lofe for you and I am
sane. Zen I dream. I see some strange sight--power, money, ze people at
my feet--ze people I hate, bah! I see zem all bend. Zen I am insane and
my very lofe make me vorse. Ah, Corinne, if you see my heart, you vould
not speak so cold. If I could preak zis iron door zat bar me from you
and draw you close to me, Corinne, vere you could feel ze quick beat zat
say, 'lofe! lofe! lofe!'--if I could take your hand and kees--"
"Tulitz!"
"My sveetheart!"
"Hush, please, Tulitz. Don't say those things now. I can't stand them. I
shall scream. Tulitz, I love you so!"
"Ah, I know zat. You haf no dream zat rob you of your mind. And I shall
haf no more soon. Ven ze trial come, and ze shury make me guilty, and ze
shudge--"
"No! no! You must escape."
"Ze reech escape, little von. Ze poor nefer. Zat is law. Ha! ha! you
know not law. Law is ze science by vich a man who has money do as he tam
please and snap his finger--so! and shrug his shoulder--so! and say,
'You not like it? Vat I care, Monsieur?' and by vich ze poor man, vedder
he guilty or not, haf no single chance, not von, to escape. I haf not
efen ze two huntret tollaire zat gif me my liberty till ze trial come."
"Neither have I, Tulitz, and the only way I can get it is to part with
something I love better than--never mind, you shall have the two hundred
dollars."
"You mean our ring, Corinne?"
"Yes."
"You shall not sell ze ring. Nefer!"
"But I must. We will get it back."
"No, I forbid! I stay here first." Corinne's face fairly glowed with
tenderness.
"Let me do as I think best, darling," she said. "The first thing is to
get you out of this wretched place. Now tell me all about it."
He told her all, or, at least, all he needed to tell, and she left him
with the understanding that she should meet the guard in the City Hall
Park two hours later and arrange about the bail-bond with a man whom he
should present to her. She hurried up-town and collected in her lodgings
half a dozen valuable pieces of jewelry. These she took to a pawnshop
and upon them she realized something more than the sum necessary to
obtain Tulitz's bondsman. At the appointed hour she was walking
leisurely through the Park, and soon found herself approaching two men.
One she recognized as the guard. The other was an elderly man dressed
in a black suit of broadcloth which, in its time, had been very fine
indeed. But it was made for him when he was younger and less corpulent
than now, and he bulged it out in a way that was trying to the stitches
and the buttons. His silk hat was shiny, but exceedingly worn, and the
boots upon his feet, despite his creditable efforts to make them appear
at all possible advantage, were in a rebellious humor, like a glum
soldier in need of sleep. His hair was bushy and gray, and his mustache
meant to be gray, too, but his habit of chewing the ends of his cigars
had resulted in its taking on a yellow border.
"Dis is the gen'l'man wot'll go on Mr. Tulitz's bond, mum," said the
guard. "His name's Rivers."
"Madam Tulitz, I am your humble and obedient servant. Colonel Rivers,
Colonel Edward Lawrence Rivers, and most happy in this unfortunate
emergency to serve you. I have read in the papers of M. Tulitz's
disagreeable--er--situation. It is a gross outrage. The bail is $5000,
this gentleman tells me. Infamous, perfectly infamous! The idea of
requiring such a bond for so trivial an affair. When I was in Congress I
introduced an Amendment to the Constitution providing that no bail
should be demanded in excess of $500. It didn't get through; the
capitalistic influence was too much for me. However, I'd just as lief,
to tell the truth, go on M. Tulitz's bond for five thousand as for one.
I know he'll be where he's wanted when the time comes, and if he isn't,
the bail-bond will. They'll have that to console themselves with,
anyway."
[Illustration: "MADAME TULITZ, I AM YOUR HUMBLE AND OBEDIENT SERVANT."]
"Where are we to go?" asked Corinne.
"To the police court. I'll show you; but when we get there you mustn't
ask me any questions. Ask anybody else but me. I'm always very ignorant
in the police court--never know anything, except my answers to the
surety examination. Those I always learn by heart. Now--" he turned to
the guard, and said parenthetically, "All right, my boy," whereupon the
guard disappeared. "Now, just take my arm, if you please; you needn't be
afraid, ha! ha! I'm old, and wont hurt you. You see, we must be friends,
old friends. Bless you, my child, I've known you from a baby, knew your
father before you, dear old boy, and promised him on his dying bed I'd
be a father to his--er--by the way, my dear, what's your name?"
"Corinne. Do you want my maiden name?"
"No, never mind that. I always supply a maiden name myself when I deal
with ladies, on the ground, you see, that it's much better to keep real
names out of bail-bonds, even where they don't signify. In fact, the
less real you put in, anyhow, the better. My signature must be on as
many as a thousand bail-bonds first and last, in this city, Boston,
Chicago, San Francisco, and other places, and I've never yet experienced
the slightest trouble. I think my good fortune is almost wholly due to
the circumstance that I never repeat myself. I always tell a new story
every time."
"Do they know you at the place where we're going?"
"I fervently hope they don't, my dear. It wouldn't do M. Tulitz any
good, or me either, if they did. No, no, you must introduce me. I am
your friend, your lifelong friend, Colonel Edward Lawrence Rivers. I am
a retired merchant. Formerly I dealt in hides--perhaps you had better
say in skins, my dear; on second thought, it might be more appropriate
to say in skins, and then again it would be more accurate. I like to
tell the truth when I can conveniently and without prejudice to the
rights of the defendant. If I haven't dealt in skins as much as any
other man on the face of the earth, then I don't know what a skin is.
Ha! ha! my dear, I think that's pretty good for an old man whose wits
are nearly given out with the work that has been imposed upon them. Let
me say right here that the clerk of the court is a knowing fellow, and
you want to mind your p's and q's. You want to be very confiding and
affectionate in your manner toward me, and I'll do all the rest."
"Is there any danger, sir? Will we be found out? Oh dear! I'm dreadfully
nervous."
"Well, now, you needn't be, my child, you needn't be. I've had a great
deal of experience in delicate matters of this kind, and I guess we'll
fetch your husband out all right. As for the danger, it's all mine, and
as for getting found out, that will come in due time, probably; but when
it comes we'll all of us endeavor to view it from a remote standpoint,
where we can do so, I dare say, with comparative equanimity. So keep up
your spirits, my dear, and trust to your old friend, the friend of your
childhood, Colonel the Hon. Edward Lawrence Rivers, formerly a dealer in
skins. Ah, here we are! Just take a look at my necktie, child. Is it
tied all right? And is my diamond pin there? No? Well, where the
mischief can it be? Ah, yes, here it is in my pocket. My jewel cases are
all portable. There! Now, we're ready. Look timid, my child, but
confident in the final triumph of your just and righteous cause. Come
on."
They entered the court-room. Seated in an inclosure in the custody of an
officer was the Baron Tulitz. His sharp face lighted when he saw them
approaching, and, as Corinne took her seat by his side, he pressed her
hand. Presently his case was called, and his lawyer arose to offer bail.
He presented Colonel Rivers. The old man was a spectacle of grave
decorum. He answered the questions put to him about his residence, his
family, his place of business and his property, which he conveniently
located in Staten Island, Niagara County, Jersey City, and Morrisania.
He was worth $300,000. He owed nothing. He displayed his deeds. He had
never been a bondsman before. He didn't know Tulitz, but was willing to
risk the bail to restore peace to the troubled mind of this poor little
child, the orphan of his old friend and neighbor. Never was there a
bondsman offered more unfamiliar with the forms and ceremonies necessary
to the record of the recognizance. He had to be told where he should
sign, and even then he started to put his name in the wrong place. But
at last it was done, and Tulitz was free.
Corinne's eyes were full of tears when the old man gently drew her arm
within his and led her from the court-room, with Tulitz and his lawyer
following. He walked with them as far as Broadway, and then he turned
to say good-by. He kissed her hand gallantly, and called Tulitz aside.
"Skip!" he said, "and be quick about it!"
IX.
MR. McCAFFERTY.
An incident of the late municipal election has recently come within my
knowledge, which I hasten to communicate to the public, in the hope that
an investigation will be ordered by the Legislature, and, if the facts
be as they are represented here (this being a faithful record of what I
have been credibly told), in the further hope that the men who have
tampered with the honor of Dennie McCafferty and his friend, The Croak,
will speedily be brought to justice.
Late one night toward the close of September Dennie was walking down
Houston Street toward the Bowery, when he suddenly espied The Croak
walking up Houston Street toward Broadway. As suddenly The Croak espied
him, and both stopped short. They looked at one another long and
intently, and then Dennie wheeled around and without a word led the way
into a saloon near at hand.
"Dice!" said he to the bartender. He rattled the box and threw. "Three
fives!" he cried.
[Illustration: DENNIE M'CAFFERTY.]
The Croak handled the dice-box with great deliberation. Presently he
rolled the ivories out. "Three sixes," he said slowly, "an' I'll take a
pony er brandy."
"That settles it!" cried Dennie joyously. "It's you, Croaker, sure pop.
My eyes did not deceive me. I thought they had, Croaker. I thought I
must be laboring under a mental strain. When I saw you coming up the
street I says to myself, 'That's The Croak.' Then I took another look,
and says, 'No, it can't be. The Croak's in Joliet doing three years for
working the sawdust.' Then I looked again and I says, 'It must be The
Croak. There's his cock-eye looking straight at me through the wooden
Indian in front of the cigar-store across the street.' Then I looked
once more, and says, 'But it can't be. Three years can't have passed
since The Croak and I were dealing faro in old McGlory's.' Once again I
looked, and I says, 'If it's The Croak, he'll chuck a bigger dice than
mine and stick me for drinks, and he'll take a pony of brandy.' There's
the dice, there's the pony, and there's The Croak. Drink hearty!"
They lifted their glasses and poured down the liquor, and Dennie
continued, "How'd you get out, Croaker?"
"Served me term," said The Croak shortly.
[Illustration: TOZIE MONKS, THE CROAK.]
"What! Then is it three years? Well, well, how the snows and the
blossoms come and go. We're growing old, Croaker. We're nearing the time
when the fleeting show will have flet. And hanged if I can see that
we're growing any wiser, or better, or richer--hey? Thirty cents! Ye
gods, Croaker, that man says thirty cents! Thirty cents, and my entire
capital is a lonely ten-cent piece that I kept for luck. Thirty cents,
and my last collateral security hocked and the ticket lost! Croaker, I'm
in despair."
The Croak dived into his trowsers pocket, took out a small roll of
bills, handed one to the bartender and another--a ten-dollar
greenback--to Dennie.
"Dear boy!" said Dennie, expanding into smiles. "What an uncommon
comfort you are, Croaker. Virtues such as yours reconcile me to a
further struggle with this cold and selfish world. It has used me pretty
hard since I saw you last, Croaker. Not long after you left for
the--er--West I met an elderly gentleman from Bumville, whom I thought I
recognized as a Mr. Huckster. I spoke to him, but found myself in error.
He said his name wasn't Huckster, of Bumville, but Bogle, of Bogle's
Cross Roads. I apologized, left him, and at the corner whom should I see
but Tommy, the Tick. Incidentally I mentioned to Tommy the curious
circumstance of my having mistaken Mr. Bogle, of Bogle's Cross Roads,
for Mr. Huckster, of Bumville.
"'Bogle!' said Tommy. 'Bogle! Why, I know Bogle well. He's a great
friend of my uncle's.' Whereupon Tommy hurried off after Bogle. I am not
even yet informed as to what took place between Bogle and Tommy, further
than that they struck up a warm and agreeable acquaintance; that they
stopped in at a dozen places on their way up-town; that poor old Bogle
got drunk and happy; that they went somewhere and took chances in a
raffle, and that they got into a dispute over $2000 which Bogle said
Tommy had helped to cheat him out of. A couple of Byrnes's malignant
minions arrested Tommy, and not satisfied with that act of tyranny and
oppression, they actually came to my lonely lodgings and arrested me.
What for? you ask in blank amazement. Has an honest and industrious
American citizen no rights? Must it ever be that the poor and
downtrodden are sacrificed to glut the maw of that ten-fold tyrant at
Police Headquarters? They charged me with larceny, with working the
confidence game, and despite my protestations and the eloquence of my
learned counsel, who cost me my last nickel, a hard-hearted and idiotic
jury convicted me, and that sandy-haired old flint at the General
Sessions gave me a year and six months in Sing Sing. Now, Croaker, when
you live in a land where such outrages are committed upon a man simply
because he is poor, you wonder what your fathers fought and bled and
died for, don't you, Croaker?"
"I dunno 'bout dat, Dennie, but 'f I cud talk like er you I'd bin an
Eyetalian Prince by dis time, wid a title wot ud reach across dis room
an' jewels ter match," and The Croak looked at his friend in undisguised
admiration.
But Dennie's humor was pensive. "Croaker," said he, drawing the
ten-dollar bill out of his pocket and nodding suggestively to the
bartender, "look out there in the street. See that banner stretched from
house to house. It reads: 'Liberty and Equality! Labor Must Have the
Fruits of Labor!' Now what infernal lies those are! There's no liberty
here; and as for equality, that cop blinking in here through the window
really believes he owns the town. That stuff about labor is all
humbug--molasses for flies. They're going to have an election to choose
a President shortly. What's an election, Croaker? It's political faro,
that's all. The politicians run the bank. Honest fellows, like you and
me, run up against it and get taken in. The crowd that does the most
cheating gets the pot. Ah, Croaker, what are we coming to?" This
thought was too much for Dennie. He threw back his head and solaced
himself with brandy.
"As I remarked a moment ago, Croaker," he said, "I have just returned
from--er--up the river. You have just returned from--er--the West. Our
bosoms are heaving with hopes for the future. We want to earn an honest
living. But when we come to think of what there is left for us to do by
which we can regain the proud position we once had in the community, we
find ourselves enveloped in clouds."
"I was t'inking er sumpin', Dennie," The Croak replied, reflectively,
"jess when I caught sight er you. Your speakin' bout polertics makes me
t'ink of it some more. W'y not get up a 'sociashun?"
"A what?"
"A 'sociashun. Ev'rybody's workin' de perlitical racket now; w'y not
take a hack at it, too?"
"Anything, Croaker, anything to give me an honest penny. But I don't
quite catch on."
"Dey's two coveys runnin' fer Alderman over on de Eas' Side. One of
'em's Boozy--you knows Boozy. He keeps a place in de Bowery. De udder's
a Dutchman, name er Bockerheisen. Boozy's de County Democracy man,
Bockerheisen's de Tammany. Less git up a 'sociashun. You'll be
president an' do de talkin.' I'll be treasurer an' hol' de cash."
"Croaker, you may not be eloquent, but you have a genius all your own. I
begin dimly to perceive what you are driving at. I must think this over.
Meet me here to-morrow at noon."
The district in which the great fight between Boozy and Bockerheisen was
to occur was close and doubtful. Great interests were at stake in the
election. Colonel Boozy and Mr. Bockerheisen were personal enemies.
Their saloons were not far apart as to distance, and each felt that his
business, as well as his political future, depended on his success in
this campaign. A third candidate, a Republican, was in the field, but
small attention was paid to him. A few days after Dennie and The Croak
had their chance meeting in Houston Street, Dennie walked into Colonel
Boozy's saloon. Boozy stood by the bar in gorgeous array.
"How are you, Colonel?" said Dennie.
"It's McCafferty!" cried the Colonel, "an' as hearty as ever. As
smilin', too, an' ready, I'm hopin', ter take a han' in the fight fer
his ould frind."
"I am that, Colonel. How's it going?"
"Shmokin' hot, Dennie, an' divil a wan o' me knows whose end o' the
poker is hottest."
[Illustration: COLONEL BOOZY.]
"It's your end, Colonel, that generates the heat, and Dutchy's end that
does the burning."
"There's poorer wit than yours, Dennie, out of the insane asylums. I'll
shtow that away in me mind an' fire it off in the Boord the nexht time I
make a speech. If I had your brains, lad, I'd a made more out av 'em
than you have."
"You've done well enough with your own," said Dennie. "They tell me it's
been a good year for business in the Board, Colonel."
"Not over-good, Dennie. The office aint what it was once. It useter be
that ye cud make a nate pile in wan terrum, but now wid the assessmints
an' the price of gettin' there, yer lucky if ye come out aven."
"The trouble is that you fool away your money, Colonel. You ought not to
hand over to every bummer that comes along. You should be discreet.
There's a big floating vote in this district, and you can float still
more into it if you go about it the right way."
The Colonel looked curiously into Dennie's ingenuous blue eyes, and said
with an indifferent air, "Ye mought be right, and then agin ye
moughtn't."
"Oh, certainly, we don't know as much before election as we do after."
"Is yer mind workin', Dennie? Air ye figgerin' at somethin'?"
"Oh, no; I happened to meet The Croak this morning--you know The Croak,
he's in the green-goods line?"
"Do I know him? Me name's kep' on his bail-bond as reg'lar as on the
parish book."
"Yes, of course; well, I met him, as I was saying, and, to make a long
story short, I found that Bockerheisen had got hold of him, and they've
packed a lot of tenement-houses with Poles and Italians and organized an
association. There are about 600 of them. Dutchy keeps them in beer, and
that's about all they want, you know."
Colonel Boozy had been about to drink a glass of beer as Dennie began
this communication. He had raised the glass to his lips, but it got no
further. His eyes began to bulge and his nose to widen, his forehead to
contract and his jaws to close, and when Dennie stopped and drained off
his amber glass, the Alderman was standing stiff with stupefied rage. He
recovered speech and motion shortly, however, and both came surging upon
him in a flood. He fetched his heavy beer-glass down upon the bar with a
furious blow, and a volley of oaths such as only a New York Alderman can
utter shot forth like slugs from a Gatling gun. When this cyclone of
rage had passed away he was left pensive.
Dennie, who had remained cool and sympathetic during the exhibition, now
observed: "It is as you say, Colonel, very wicked in Dutchy thus to seek
to win by fraud what he never could get on his merits. It is also most
ungrateful in The Croak. Well, I've told you what the facts are. You'll
know how to manage them. So-long," and Dennie started for the street.