_"Der Gang"_
Socially and terrestrially Bucktown was situated beside a river.
Once a year, when the spring freshet caused the Big Grandee
to overflow its banks, the whole tract was inundated. At such
times most of the people were compelled to leave their homes
and find temporary quarters elsewhere. Along the Market side
of the district the ground was a trifle higher, and here a few
houses were beyond the reach of the floods. One of these was
the shack in which the Moore family lived. Other near-by sections
of the city had been filled in to raise them above the level
of the high water mark, but Bucktown remained as it was in the
beginning.
Its houses were the oldest in the city, and some of them in
their day had been the residences of the best citizens. Some
were first erected where they now continued to stand; but many
others had been moved to make room for the rapidly growing business
district, and had been set down here because land was cheap
and nowhere else would such worn-out, dilapidated structures
find tenants.
Unlike the slums of larger and older cities, Bucktown was largely
peopled by men and women who, like its houses, had come from
happier and more elegant surroundings. Few of its older inhabitants
were born in the slums, and among its people were to be found
many whose careers in life were begun under really favorable
circumstances; but, like driftwood, they had been crowded out
of the busy stream of human effort into this pool of stagnant
humanity. In this way the neighborhood had become the dumping
ground for everything that was undesirable in a population of
more than one hundred thousand souls.
Stall saloons and houses of ill-fame were numerous, and sin
and wickedness stalked forth in open daylight with a boldness
that knew no hindrance. One-third of the population was colored,
and the whites were made up of almost every known nationality.
No effort was made to draw the color line. Negroes and whites
lived in the same or adjoining houses, and in some families
the husband was of one color and the wife of another.
The second house from the Moore home was the celebrated "Dolly"
resort, known everywhere as the most dangerous place of the
kind in the city. It was luxuriously furnished and was famous
for its pretty girls and its dances.
In an old shanty back of Moore's home lived "Yellow Liz," or
"Big Liz," a monstrously hideous woman who had once been the
wife of Abe Tobey, now doing a long term in State's Prison for
murderous assault. "Big Liz" had a wart as large as an acorn
in the middle of her forehead and wooly red and black whiskers
on her chin and lower jaw. She was recognized as one of the
features of the neighborhood, and slumming parties from "uptown"
never failed to visit her domicile.
Another house close by had been the home of Tom Beet, who murdered
his wife by saturating her clothing with kerosene oil and setting
fire to her body while she lay in a drunken stupor on the bedroom
floor.
There was no high-toned moral element in the slums. Nobody made
any pretense of being good. Every man, woman and child in the
community knew that he was a sinner and recognized the fact
that other people knew it too. "Oily Ike" Palmer, whose junk
shop was the resort of thieves, and who acted in the capacity
of a "fence" for all of them, together with Dave Beach, the
horse trader and political boss of the ward, were the heroes
of the community. "Oily Ike" was known to the police as a criminal,
but although many offenses had been traced to his door, the
evidence necessary to place him behind the bars was always lacking
and he had never been convicted of a crime. He was also an opium
eater and a drunkard, while it was said he had once held an
honorable position in society. His vices had been the cause
of his downfall, and at the time Superintendent Morton of the
City Rescue Mission made his acquaintance he was a crafty,
unscrupulous rascal, with the qualities of a beast of prey rather
than those of a man.
Beach, the horse trader, sometimes called the "Mayor of Bucktown,"
was proprietor of a "Traders'" barn, a once prosperous livery
stable on Brady Street. His place was a "growler joint," and
was frequented by all the toughs and criminals in the neighborhood.
In his own way, Dave was an autocrat of no mean power. When
he O.K.'d a man, that man stood ace high; but when he said
"Jiggers," everybody shut up like a clam. Beach was a bad man;
but he had brains, and everybody paid court at his throne. It
was said he could deliver the vote of Bucktown intact at election
time, and there could be no doubt of the effectiveness of his
pull with the authorities. He could drink more whisky, and stay
sober, than any man in the community. If any one could whip
him in a rough and tumble fight, the fact had not been demonstrated;
and no one seemed anxious to establish it.
Gene Dibble, a good-natured, big-hearted fellow, worked in the
North Woods in the winter, but came to Bucktown every spring
to spend his money. He was a fine singer, and could dance the
Buck-and-wing, Turkey-in-the-Straw and the Rag like few men.
He was a favorite in Bucktown, and a warm friend of Dave Beach.
When it was noised about that Moore had sent for the "Mission
Guy," as Morton was known in Bucktown, most of the neighbors
waited for Beach to speak before they expressed any opinion.
People had been sick and died before; but none had ever been
so bold as to send for the mission man, and though they said
nothing, some of Moore's best friends thought he must be out
of his head.
The day following Morton's visit to the sick man little Jimmie
stopped at Dave's barn and told a crowd of fellows who were
present what had happened.
"Der main squeeze of der Rescue Mission was down ter our house
last night, and he tol' Pa dat Jesus loves us and will give
us anyting we wants. De doc says Pa is goin' ter die; but Pa
tol' de Mission Guy he believed and now he's saved. He ain't
goin' ter drink no more booze er nuthin'. We all belongs ter
Jesus now, and He's goin' ter take care of us. Yer kin as't
Him fer anyting yer wants, and if yer love Him and confesses
Him you'll git it. Dat's wat der Mission Guy tol' Pa."
Although a favorite with the crowd that hung around the barn,
Jimmie's little speech provoked a derisive laugh, and, catching
the boy by the coat collar, Jewey Martin, an ex-convict, started
to fire him out of the door with the advice to "chase himself."
Before he had taken three steps Dave Beach had his great fist
about Jewey's throat and had shoved him back into a corner.
"You let the kid alone. He's all right and knows what he's talking
about. If you was more like that boy, mebbe you'd git to heaven
sometime. You don't have to believe what he says if you don't
want to, but you want to recollect what I tell you, that you
better let him alone around here."
Some religious apologists might question the conversion of a
boy of Jimmie's make-up; but among the people of Bucktown there
was no doubt about his sincerity and his belief that Jesus loved
him and heard and answered his prayers. With Dave Beach back
of him he did not hesitate to repeat his story, and it was not
long before every one about the market place had heard the tale
from his lips.
As Morton would not allow Jimmie to thank him, but taught him
that he must thank God for everything, he learned to call Morton
"Jesus' storekeeper," and "Jesus' hired man"; and he sang his
praises from daylight until dark. In this way he helped Morton
to gain a foothold in the neighborhood, and when the people
found that he wanted to help them rather than to pry into their
affairs he was made welcome when he visited Bucktown.
Jimmie had never learned to read; but one day he told Morton
he wanted a little red Testament, such as the superintendent
had given his father.
"You jus' tell me some of dem verses like I heard yer read to
Pa an' gimme der book, an' I can make a bluff at readin' 'em
anyhow."
Using colored inks, Morton marked John 3:16, John 10:28, and
other well-known texts. He also explained their meaning to the
boy. "Ask, and ye shall receive; seek, and ye shall find," and
"Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these,"
were Jimmie's favorites, and although he quoted them in language
all his own, he never failed to convey their full meaning.
The days that followed Moore's conversion were trying ones for
the family. When the fever broke the sick man's cough grew worse,
and he required constant attention. Through the Mission, Mrs.
Moore found work enough to keep her busy six days in the week,
and the task of caring for the sick man fell upon Jimmie and
Mrs. Cook, who proved to be a woman of generous impulses and
an excellent neighbor. She ran in many times a day to see how
they were getting along. Jimmie had a morning newspaper route
and in the afternoon sold papers on the street. At other times
he stayed close at home and never tired of talking with his
father about Jesus and His love for wicked men and women.
His childlike faith in God was wonderful. He was quick to learn
and often surprised Morton by his aptitude; but his chief
characteristic was his almost phenomenal grasp of spiritual
truths. He prayed to God for food, coal, wood and clothes; and
when he had told Jesus what he wanted he always counted it settled.
Mrs. Morton, wife of the superintendent, was a frequent visitor
at the home, and brought many things to make the bed more
comfortable and the two rooms more cheerful for the sick man.
No matter what the articles might be, Jimmie always said, "Jesus
sent 'em."
On one occasion, when the Mission woman had gone, Mrs. Cook,
who was present, turned to Jimmie and said, "I sh'd think you'd
thank her for all she's doin' for you folks. She's the best
friend yer ever had, and I'll bet none of yer ever even said
'Much erblidged.'"
"We don't have ter tank her," said Jimmie. "Jesus is der one
we're ter tank. Everyting belongs ter Him, and I'm His'n, too.
When we needs anyting we jus' tells Him an' He sends it."
"Well, she's the one who brought that flour this morning, fer
I seen her come," said Mrs. Cook, "and none of you thanked her
at all."
"Aw, yer go on," replied the boy. "Yer don't know wot you're
talkin' about. Dis ain't no graft dat we's a-workin'. Jesus
is our friend an' He loves us; dat's why He takes care of us.
He'd love yer, too, if you'd let Him, but when yer takes Him
for your friend yer got to cut out dose cuss words an' de growler,
too. Dat's wat me an' Pa has done, and we belongs to Jesus now.
'Twouldn't be de square ting by Him for us ter tank anybody
else, and we ain't afeard but wat He'll give us all we needs."
As for Moore, while he never doubted his salvation, there were
times when he was despondent and gloomy. The memory of his misspent
life and the consciousness that he had nearly reached the end
lay heavily upon his mind, and, left alone as he was for hours
at a time, with no one but Jimmie and the other children in
the house, he brooded upon his troubles until he grew very
miserable. At such times it was interesting to hear Jimmie hold
up Jesus and preach the gospel of love as his juvenile mind
comprehended it.
"Pa, yer act jus' as though Jesus didn't love yer," he said
one afternoon, when the superintendent's wife was present. "He
knows yer coughin' spells hurt yer, and He'll help yer to stan'
'em, 'cause He was hurted once Hisself. Ain't He takin' care
of us, and didn't He send der Mission Guy ter help us? Yer ain't
got no right ter worry; just look how good He's been ter all
of us."
One morning when Dr. Snyder, who had been called in on the advice
of the Cook family, came to see the sick man, Moore anxiously
inquired if there was no chance of his recovery. While he was
conceded to be an able man in his profession, the doctor, himself
a drinking man, was sometimes rough and heartless in his manner,
and, replying to the question, said:
"Well, if you've got any unfinished business on hand you better
call a special session and close it up. You'll be pushing clouds
within a week."
"Do you mean he's goin' ter die?" asked Jimmie, whose quick
ears had caught the remark.
"That's just the plain English of it, my boy," replied the doctor.
"The old man's a goner, and no doctor on earth can save him."
"Well, he'll go straight ter Jesus," said Jimmie, "'cause he
got saved las' Friday. Gran'ma and Gran'pa er up dar, and Pa
an' Ma an' the rest of us is all a-goin'."
"What's the matter with the kid, Moore?" asked the doctor. "Has
he gone daffy?"
"No, Doc, the boy's all right. Leastwise if he's daffy, as you
call it, I wish to God we'd all got that way long ago. Then
we wouldn't be in the condition you find us to-day. Say, Doc,
don't you ever expect to be a Christian? If you were in my place
you'd see what it means to face death without God."
"Gee, you're good!" said the physician. "The way you talked
to Gene Dibble when I sewed up your head after the fight didn't
sound much like a prayer to me. You want to get forgiven here
before you ask God to do anything for you there. Now, kid, you'd
better forget about this religion and tend to the old man. Give
him his medicine every hour, and I'll be in again to-morrow.
Good-bye."
He slammed the door, and Jimmie sat for a moment in deep thought.
Then he turned to his father and said: "Pa, Gene'll forgive
yer if yer ast him. I'll go over ter Fagin's and if he ain't
dere I'll tell Mike ter send him over wen he comes in."
"How's the old man, Jimmie?" asked Fagin as the boy entered
the saloon.
"Doc says he's dyin'. Is Gene Dibble here? Wish't you'd tell
him Pa wants ter see him," said the boy as he turned to go.
"Wait a minute, Jimmie; I want to send a little medicine to
your father."
He took a bottle from the back bar and began to wrap it up in
a scrap of old newspaper. "This is about all the poor devil
lived for," he said to himself, "and he ought to have a taste
now that he's dyin'."
"Is dat booze?" asked Jimmie.
"It's just a nip for the old man. It's his favorite brand,"
said Fagin.
"Not his'n; he's got saved an' don't need it in his business,"
replied the boy, starting for the door.
"Come here, you little fool, and take this bottle to your dad
with my compliments," said the saloon-man in anger.
"It's your compliments wat's ailin' him now," answered Jimmie.
"Yer got his nine dollars last Tuesday night, and now he's dyin'.
I seen yer Ralph goin' ter school wid new shoes and rubbers
dis mornin', an' I'm wearin' yer compliments," said the boy,
holding up one of his feet encased in a worn-out lady's shoe.
"I promised Pa dat I'd take care of Ma an' der kids, and we
don't need no booze ter help us, not us."
Jimmie ducked and dodged out of the door just in time to escape
a soaking wet bar towel the saloon-man had thrown at him, and
at a single bound jumped to the middle of the sidewalk just
in time to collide with Bill Cook.
"Hello Bill," he said. "Why ain't yer workin'? Drunk agin? Gee!
you'll be seein' 'em agin. Der las' time yer was crazier den
a bed bug."
"You be d----!" said Bill. "Guess I'm all right. Only had three
drinks. You's is gittin' too good for this neck o' woods. Yer
orter move up on der boulevard amongst der bloods."
"Don't Ma do washin' up dere now, smarty? We got friends up
dere; see? Why don't yer come over an' see Pa? He's dyin'."
"Go on!" said Bill. "Ye don't mean it! Kin I see him?"
"Sure, come on."
Bill staggered into Fagin's and took two more big drinks and
then followed Jimmie across the street. He was badly intoxicated,
but the sight of Moore's pinched features and fever-lighted
eyes nearly brought him to his sober senses.
Bill was rough and wicked; but his heart within was almost as
tender as a babe's. Drink was his worst trouble, and when he
was sober he was rather a decent sort of fellow. His effort
to appear at ease and say something encouraging to Moore was
painful. He stammered and hawed and finally said, "It's all
off, Bob; I can't make no speech. Let 'er go t' 'ell."
He pulled up the box, sat down at the bedside and began to cry.
The sick man stretched forth his emaciated hand, and, placing
it on Bill's head, said:
"Never mind, old man, I know what yer mean. You're my friend
all right; but you can't say nuthin' that will help me now.
I guess I must cash in pretty soon; but I ain't no coward, Bill;
I've just been prayin' and everything is all right 'tween me
and God. I don't know what'll become of the old woman and the
kids, but I guess He'll take care of them. Maybe they will be
better off when I'm gone than when I'm here. I'll tell you,
Bill, booze don't get yer much when the doctor says you're up.
I wish I'd cut 'er out the first time we saw the gospel wagon
down on the square. The Mission man was here just a little while
ago, an' he says he will help Jimmie take care of Ma and the
kids. He says Jesus loves me, and when he prayed I put in too
and says, 'I'm ready, Lord.'"
Moore's effort to talk exhausted his strength and brought on
a sinking spell. He gasped and coughed and grasped his throat
as though he was strangling. Bill thought he was dying, and
grabbing his hat started for the door, telling Jimmie to stay
there while he brought the doctor. The scene had been too much
for his shattered nerves, and, reaching the middle of the
sidewalk, he stood and yelled at the top of his voice:
"Moore's dyin'! Moore's dyin'! Git the doctor and the undertaker
and der Mission man, quick! Moore's dyin'! Moore's dyin'!"