II

The circle of boys in the corner by the Family Entrance broke up. Joe

Kaplan, the biggest boy, cuffed and booted smaller ones aside, and

walked off towards Rivington street, indifferent to what became of the

others. He slapped the flagstones with his spreading shoes, and whistled

between his teeth. He was feeling good. A recollection of the

white-faced boy flitted across his mind, buoying him up with scorn. Kid

from up-town, he thought, sneakin’ around lookin’ for somepin bad. Gee!

what rotten minds them kids has! But Joe could not put this kid out of

his mind right away. What made him look at me so funny? he asked

himself.

At the Rivington street corner Joe lounged against a pillar with his

shoulders hunched forward, making a stupid, sleepy look come in his

face. Under his drooping eyelids gleamed a spark. This was his hunting

ground. Every little stir in the crowd had its meaning for him. He

marked the cop on the sidewalk to the left, leaning back with his elbows

propped on a rail, surveying the crowd with good-humored contempt.

Hogan; nothing to fear from him; a fat-head, always looking at the

women. On the corner in the other direction was Mitchell; a terror if

you tried to turn a trick on the storekeepers; but he despised the

pushcart men; all the cops did. However, Joe had heard that the pushcart

thefts had made so much talk, the captain of the precinct had sent out a

couple of plain-clothes men to mix with the crowd. He was looking for

them.

Taking to the middle of the street, Joe shambled up to the corner and

back, making out to be a low-down poor mutt, searching under the

pushcarts for butts. Joe could let his mouth hang open, and a sort of

film come over his eyes; you would swear he was half-crazed with drugged

cigarettes. His tour assured him there was no plain-clothes men in that

block. He could smell a cop out. He gradually narrowed his beat to and

fro, his objective being the pushcart that was selling furs. Cold

weather was coming on, and it was doing a brisk trade.

Suddenly Joe perceived a thin-faced lad older than himself, standing

about with a cagey eye. Bent upon the same business as himself of

course. Joe grinned inwardly. He ain’t as smart as me, he thought. Watch

me make him work for me. Joe’s only regret was, that there was nobody to

see how clever he was. He unobtrusively fell back to the curb opposite

the cart of furs, where he appeared to be looking at everything in sight

except the thin-faced lad.

This one edged up to the pushcart from behind. Occasionally he turned a

white face over his shoulder with a faraway look. Clumsy work! thought

Joe; if there was a cop within a hundred feet he’d get on to his face.

The pushcart had a rack about three feet high built around three sides

of it, the better to display its wares. This rack was lined with canvas;

but the canvas, as Joe could see, was not securely fastened at the

bottom. The canvas-covered rack concealed the thin-faced lad from the

proprietor of the cart, who was in front.

When he saw the thin-faced lad throw away his cigarette, Joe crossed the

road. The lad was watching the proprietor around the edge of the screen,

and did not see Joe. Joe went around the opposite end of the cart, and

stood, making his eyes goggle at the grand display of furs. In this

position he could no longer see the thin-faced lad, but he saw what he

was waiting for; the piece of fur disappear under the canvas with a

jerk. Others saw it too, and cries were raised. Some took after the

thief. Every eye was turned in that direction. The distracted proprietor

flung himself over his stock with arms outspread.

Everybody was looking the other way! What a snap! Joe slipped his hand

under the canvas at his end of the cart, and jerked a fur neckpiece out.

Fur makes no sound. Nobody got on to him, and a second piece followed

the first. Thrusting his prizes under his coat, he walked off, whistling

between his teeth. Oh, I’m smart! I’m smart! I’m smart! he thought upon

a swelling breast. The foretaste of a big meal made his mouth water.

Having disposed of his loot in the back room of a little dry goods store

where he was known, Joe proceeded to a restaurant on Canal street. This

was no hash house, but a regular bon-ton restaurant, with cloths on the

tables, and waiters that didn’t dast give the customers no lip, so’s

they had the price. Here you could get a big T-bone steak and coffee for

thirty cents, with French fried and bread thrown in, and all the ketchup

you wanted. Joe went in feeling big; it wasn’t often a kid of his age

had the nerve to enter _that_ joint.

Half an hour later he leaned back and picked his teeth. He felt out o’

sight inside. He _liked_ that joint; in the middle of the night it was

always warm and bright, and had a stir of life about it. You could hear

the meat frying at the back, and smell the smoke of it. There were two

men sitting opposite to each other, leaning forward until their heads

almost touched, and whispering, whispering, each one rapidly stirring

his coffee without ever looking toward the cup. Planning some job all

right, thought Joe; bet they ain’t as smart as me, though. You can see

they’re nervous. Across from the men sat a girl who was vainly trying to

attract their attention. She was beginning to look bedraggled, and there

was a look of terror in the bottom of her eyes that excited Joe’s scorn.

She was on the toboggan all right. Been kicked out of the houses. A man

would be a fool to take her.

His breast twanged with exultation. He was a smart feller; he was all

there, you bet. A feller could have a good time in this world if he was

smart enough. Everything waitin’ to be picked up. No danger of _him_

gettin’ pinched. He was just a little too smart for them. Gee! it was

great to bat around at night, and sleep in the day when the thick-heads

was workin’! Let the thick-heads work! There was plenty of them. Workin’

never got you nowhere. Look at his old man. . . . Soon as he was old

enough he’d have a woman to work for him. Funny how women would work for

a man. Soft. Oh well, he’d have one of the best. When he wanted

anything, he went out and got it. That was the sort of feller he was. He

was smarter than anybody.

Joe went home by way of Allen street where the houses were. After

midnight when the East side generally was beginning to quiet down, Allen

street was in full swing. Joe never tired of watching the game that was

played there. The men looked so sheepish when they sneaked into the

houses, and more so when they came out later, cleaned out. Each man

looking as if he was the first who had been trimmed. These were the poor

fools who hadn’t spunk enough to get a woman for themselves. The

painted-up girls too, at the windows, grinning at the men like cats, and

making goo-goo eyes, and calling pet names to get them to come in. And

the poor suckers fell for it! It was enough to make a feller laugh.

Besides, there was often a good trick to be worked in Allen street. If

you could get hold of a souse before he fell into the hands of the

girls.

On this night Joe had the fun of seeing Chicago Liz’s house raided by

the police. He had heard rumors that Liz was having trouble with the

Captain along of her payments. The police didn’t bother the other houses

of course, and all the girls were at the windows and doors watching. It

was good sport to see Chicago Liz’s girls carried out into the street in

their short dresses; yelling and carrying on, and joshing the crowd

until they were shoved in the wagon. The Madame herself, who looked

sour, was taken away with a policeman to herself in a two horse cab.

After it was over, Joe was beckoned by a girl standing in a doorway

across the street. This was Jewel La Count who was in Clara Moore’s

house. Joe had a sort of footing in that house as occasional errand boy.

Jewel was half Italian like himself; but nobody knew what the other half

of her was. They were about the same age, but Jewel tried to put it over

him because she had been going with men for more than a year. Joe

sneered at her, but these girls were often useful to him, and he went

across the street. A certain uneasiness attacked him at the thought of

speaking to her alone. Kid though she was, he wasn’t sure how to handle

her; he hadn’t discovered any way of getting her going.

“What yeh want?” he asked gruffly.

Jewel’s great brown eyes took him in unsmilingly, and turned away.

“Nottin’,” she said. “There’s nottin’ doin’ to-night. I just wanted

somebody to talk to.”

Joe felt at a loss. “Aah!” he said, kicking the step with his spreading

shoe.

“Tell me somepin, Kid,” said Jewel. “I never get out.”

“Aah!” said Joe. He sized her up calculatingly out of the corners of his

eyes. She was a damn pretty girl. But that meant nothing to him. Her

skin was as soft and smooth as a baby’s. The prettiest girl in the

street. He had heard said that Clara Moore knew what a good thing she

had in Jewel, and took good care of her. “Where’s the Madam?” he asked.

“Out,” said Jewel indifferently.

“You’d catch hell if she saw you down in the street.”

“I ain’t lookin’ for anything. The house is closed to-night.”

A silence fell between them. Joe wished himself away from there. Jewel

made him feel small. He whistled between his teeth, and cursed. “——!

but it’s slow in the street to-night. Why the hell couldn’t Liz pay up

and let business go on.”

Jewel ignored this as if it had not been spoken. That was the way she

was, thought Joe sorely, independent. Stealing a look at her, he was

struck by the calm rise and fall of her breast under the pretty waist.

She was healthy all right. Well, she lived soft; nothing to do but eat

and sleep.

“I like to talk to somebody on the outside,” said Jewel. “In this house

it’s always the same. . . . I like to talk.”

“Well, you got plenty company,” said Joe with a knowing grin.

“Aah! I don’t talk to them,” said Jewel coolly. “They don’t ac’ human. I

like young kids better. Seems like boys went dotty when they got to be

men.”

Joe knew what she meant, but he wasn’t going to let anything on to a

girl. “Aah! you’re a bit too big for your shoes,” he said loftily.

It made no impression on her. “I like the streets,” she said dreamily.

“I wisht I could roam the streets with a gang of kids. That’s what I’d

like.”

“You don’t know when you’re well off,” said Joe.

“Where you been to-night?” asked Jewel.

“To the Bowery Mission,” said Joe derisively.

“Yeah,” said Jewel. “You look it!”

Joe laughed, and felt more at his ease. After all, there was something

about Jewel. . . . She didn’t talk with a sponge in her mouth like other

girls. She gave it to you straight. “I had a steak at Dolan’s,” he said

offhand.

“Yes, you did!” said Jewel. “Where’d you git the price?”

“Oh, I hooked a coupla cat-skins offen a pushcart.”

“Were you chased?” asked Jewel eagerly.

“Nah! What d’ye think I am?”

Jewel paid no attention to the question. Her thoughts pursued their own

course.

“Come on up,” she said in friendly fashion.

Joe went hot and cold. At first he didn’t know what to say.

“I got a pack of cigarettes in my room,” the girl went on; “we’ll smoke

and chin. I’ll mend your coat for you.”

“Clara’d give me hell if she come home,” said Joe. He heard the little

quaver in his own voice and it made him sore. A hard nut like him!

“Oh, Clara wouldn’t mind you,” said Jewel, coolly.

This stung.

“You often been in before,” said Jewel.

This was true, and why shouldn’t he go now? But something inside him

trembled.

“Come on,” Jewel went on; “I’ll show you all my things. I got real nice

things of my own. I keep ’em locked in my drawer. I’d like to show ’em

to somebody. I got a big doll that I dressed myself. She looks real

cunning. I got a set of dishes from Chinatown. I got a solid silver

photograph frame. . . .”

“Who’s in it?” asked Joe with a curling lip.

“President Cleveland,” said Jewel undisturbed. “Come on up. We’ll talk.

You could come often. I’d like to have somebody come to see me, that

belonged to me like. . . .”

Joe felt that he must play the man. “Nottin’ doin’ to-night, girly,” he

said, as he had heard men say along Allen street.

Jewel looked at him with her big, calm eyes. Then she laughed. She

planted her hands on her hips, and opened her mouth wide to let it come

out.

“Aah!” snarled Joe. “Aah . . . !” Her laughter stung him like whips. If

she had said anything, he could have got back at her, but she laughed

what was in her mind, and there was no answer to that. She wasn’t just

trying to get back at him; she really thought he was as funny as hell.

“Aah!” snarled Joe, “I’m not afraid of you!”

She laughed afresh, and by that he knew that she knew that he _was_

afraid of her. “Aah! to hell with you!” snarled Joe, grinding his teeth.

He walked off followed by the sound of her laughter.

* * * * *

The Kaplans lived in two rooms on Sussex street. Joe banged the door

open noisily. Here was a place where he could make himself felt. Though

it was past midnight his father and mother were still sewing pants on

the two sewing machines, side by side against the wall between the

cook-stove and the front windows. Their bowed backs were to Joe as he

entered. On a chair between the two narrow windows sat a girl of eleven

asleep, her head fallen back against the wall, her white, unchildlike

face turned up to the gaslight; mouth open. The pair of pants she had

been sewing on, had slipped to the floor. On a broken, carpet-covered

sofa against the left-hand wall, lay two little boys sleeping in their

clothes; the outer one clinging to his brother to keep from rolling off.

The dining table with the remains of the last meal upon it, was shoved

into the back corner of the room. Pants in various stages of completion

were piled everywhere.

“Well, this is a hell of a dump to come back to!” said Joe in a rasping

voice.

At the sound of his voice, the two little boys rolled off the sofa, and

creeping on hands and knees to the only unoccupied corner, curled up in

a fresh embrace, and instantly fell asleep again. It pleased Joe to see

how quickly they moved. His mother rose heavily from her machine, and

threw a ragged piece of quilt over the boys. She shook the girl by the

shoulder, and led her staggering into the back room, where the child

collapsed on a mattress spread on the floor.

Joe sat down on the vacated sofa, and commenced to take off his shoes.

His eyes roved around the place full of contempt. There was both a

window and a door into the back room, which had no other openings. It

was not much larger than a closet; the bed and the narrow mattress

thrown down beside it, filled the floor space. From lines stretched

across between wall and wall hung whatever of the family wardrobe was

not in use. The walls were painted blue.

“God! what a home for a fellow!” said Joe.

Nobody paid any attention. His mother plodded back to her machine

without looking at him. His father never had stopped working the

treadles. Joe looked from one to another in a rage. Nice pair of

broken-down mutts they were! Was this the best they could do for him?

Did they think a fellow was going to stand for it? His mother was a

strong, healthy woman, but dead from the neck up; dazed-like; dumb. She

took everything that came. It was almost impossible to get her going.

His father—Joe grinned; you could always get _him_ by the short hairs.

Joe gloated over the humbled back. His father was askeared of him, all

right! Yah! the skinny Jew with his ashy face and sore eyes! His grey

hair was coming out in spots like a mangy dog’s. The tufts that remained

curled in ringlets with the bald spots showing through. His beard too.

Spit-curls!

“How the hell do you expect me to sleep in this racket?” snarled Joe.

“This lot is promised in the morning,” said his mother in a dead voice.

“What’s that to me? I gotta have my sleep.”

“Take my place on the bed,” she said.

“What! sleep wit’ _him_,” said Joe indicating his father. “Not on your

tin-type. I’m more particular, _I_ am.”

The woman shrugged, and went on with her sewing.

“On the level,” said Joe, undressing, “is he my fat’er?”

“You shut your mouth,” she said, without looking around.

“Honest, I can’t believe that bag o’ bones ever made me,” drawled Joe.

“I ain’t like him. It beats me, Mom, how you could a’ done it!”

The two machines whirred on, with only the necessary pauses to turn the

goods.

Joe raised his voice a little to make sure of being heard above the

sound. “But its a cinch some Jew made me. I got Jew blood all right, and

I’m glad of it. The Jews are a smart people. . . . All except him. He’s

a botched Jew; a scarecrow; he’s a Jew that didn’t come off. He must a

been made of the stale bits like that twice-baked cake yeh git such a

big hunk of for a penny, but at that it would make you puke to eat

it. . . .”

Joe’s father suddenly rose, and turning round, supported himself against

the back of his chair with a wasted, shaking arm. Joe, with a grin,

watched how the sparse curls of his beard seemed to stiffen and quiver.

“You bad boy . . . you bad boy!” he said in a husky broken voice. The

old geezer’s lungs were rotten. “You are my son, God help me! When you

were placed in my hands I gave thanks to God for my first-born. Little

did I think it was a curse He was laying upon me!”

The old man straightened up, and shook his scraggy arms above his head.

Good as a t’eayter, thought Joe. “Oh God! what have I done to deserve

such a son!” he croaked. “I have worked hard all my days, and have

wronged no man!” He waved his sticks of arms about. “Look! Look! How we

live; how we work! We are sick and starving. And he comes in from the

streets, the loafer! greasy with good food, and twits me to my beard!

. . . God has abandoned me! God has abandoned me! . . .” Straining back

his head like a man struggling for air, the old man staggered into the

back room. They heard him fall, a dead weight on the bed.

Joe laughed loudly. “Well, if I’m a hell of a son, you’re a hell of a

father,” he called after him. “What did you ever do for me?” He pulled

an old coverlet from under the sofa, and wrapped himself up in it,

laughing. “Gee! it’s rich when the old man begins to call on God!” he

said. “That’s the Jew of it! And him kicked out of the synagogue, like

you was kicked out of the church! This is a swell religious family, this

is!”

His mother did not answer him. She kept her broad back turned to him.

Joe saw her glance over at the other machine to measure how much work

the man had left undone. Then her head went a little lower, as she made

the treadles of her machine move faster. Joe, feeling better now, flung

an arm over his eyes to shield them from the gaslight; and settled

himself to sleep.