.. -*- encoding: utf-8 -*-

.. meta::
   :PG.Id: 45684
   :PG.Title: My Mamie Rose
   :PG.Released: 2014-05-29
   :PG.Rights: Public Domain
   :PG.Producer: Al Haines
   :DC.Creator: Owen Kildare
   :DC.Title: My Mamie Rose
              The Story of My Regeneration
   :DC.Language: en
   :DC.Created: 1903
   :coverpage: images/img-cover.jpg

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MY MAMIE ROSE
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   .. _`Owen Kildare`:

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   :alt: Owen Kildare.

   Owen Kildare.

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      My Mamie Rose

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      *The Story of My
      Regeneration*

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      *By* OWEN KILDARE

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      *An Autobiography*

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      New York
      GROSSET & DUNLAP
      PUBLISHERS

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      Copyright, 1903, by THE BAKER & TAYLOR COMPANY

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      *Published, October, 1903*

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      To
      L. B. R.

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   CONTENTS.

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   Chapter

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I.  `The Kid of the Tenement`_
II.  `A Pair of Shoes`_
III.  `A Nomad of the Streets`_
IV.  `Living by My Muscle`_
V.  `Living by My Wits`_
VI.  `At the Sign of Chicory Hall`_
VII.  `My Good Old Pal`_
VIII.  `Knights Errant`_
IX.  `A Player of Many Parts`_
X.  `Bowery Politics`_
XI.  `A Pilgrimage to Nature`_
XII.  `The Frontier of the Newer Life`_
XIII.  `The Beginning of the Miracle`_
XIV.  `The Old Doors Close`_
XV.  `A Kindergarten of One`_
XVI.  `Ambassador Bill`_
XVII.  `My Debut in Society`_
XVIII.  `The Journey Home`_
XIX.  `The Inheritance`_

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   ILLUSTRATIONS.

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`Owen Kildare`_ . . . . . . . . . *Frontispiece*

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`Map of Bowery District`_

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`Mr. Kildare's Birthplace on Catharine Street`_

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`Bill`_

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`A Typical Group at Barney Flynn's Side-Door`_

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`Mike Callahan's Saloon`_





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.. _`THE KID OF THE TENEMENT`:

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   THE KID OF THE TENEMENT.

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.. _`Map of Bowery District`:

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   :alt: Map of the Bowery District

   Map of the Bowery District

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   MAP OF THE BOWERY DISTRICT.

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The map on the left shows how small a fraction of Manhattan
Island (only a small part of New York City in itself) this
world-famous district is.  In this small section, called by
Mr. Kildare "The Highway of the Foolish," he was born
and lived, until he was thirty.  Rarely did he leave it.  In
fact, he states that a large percentage of the people who are
born here go through life with the very vaguest ideas of the
world beyond—many living and dying without ever having
passed north of 14th Street and West of Broadway.  It is a
strange world of strange people who live only from day to
day and unto their daily needs.

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   MY MAMIE ROSE.

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   CHAPTER I.

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   THE KID OF THE TENEMENT.

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Many men have told the stories of their lives.  I
shall tell you mine.  Not because I, as they, have
done great and important things, but because of the
miracle which transformed me.

If lives may be measured by progress mine may
have some interest to you.  When a man at thirty
cannot read or write the simplest sentence, and
then eight years later is able to earn his living by his
pen, his story may be worth the telling.

Before beginning, however, the recital of how I
found my ambition awakened, let me make my
position unmistakably definite.  I am not a
self-made man, having only contributed a mite in the
making.  A self-made man can turn around to the
road traveled by him and can point with pride to
the monuments of his achievements.  I cannot do
that.  I have no record of great deeds accomplished.
I am a man, reborn and remade from an unfortunate
moral condition into a life in which every
atom has but the one message, "Strive, struggle and
believe," and I would be the sneakiest hypocrite
were I to deny that I feel within me a satisfaction
at being able to respond to the call with all the
possible energy of soul and body.  I have little use
for a man who cloaks his ability with mock modesty.
A man's conscience is the best barometer of his
ability, and he who will pretend a disbelief in his
ability is either untruthful or has an ulterior motif.

In spite of having, as yet, accomplished little, I
have confidence in myself and my ability, because
my aims are distinctly reasonable.  I regret that in
my story the first person singular will be so much
in evidence, but it cannot be otherwise.  Each fact,
each incident mentioned, has been lived by me; the
disgrace and the glory, the misery and the happiness,
are all part of my life, and I cannot separate them
from myself.  I know you will not disbelieve me,
and I am willing to be confronted by your criticism,
which, for obvious reasons, will not be directed
against my diction, elegance of style and literary
quality.  I am not an author.  I only have a story to
tell and all the rest remains with you.

There was nothing remarkable about my early
childhood.  Most of the boys of the tenements are
having or have had the same experience.

The home which sheltered my foster parents (my
own father and mother died in my infancy, as I will
tell you later) and myself consisted of two rooms.
The rental was six dollars a month.  Located on
the top floor of an old-style tenement house in
Catharine street, our home was lighted and
ventilated by one small window, which looked out into
a network of wash-lines running from the windows
to tall poles placed in the corners of the yard.  By
craning your neck out of the window you could
look into the yard, six stories below, and discover
the causes of the stenches which rose with might
to your nostrils.

The "front room" was kitchen, dining-room,
living room and my bedroom all in one.  Beside the
cooking range in winter and beside the open window
in summer was the old soap box on its unevenly
curved supports, which, as my cradle, bumped me
into childhood.

As may be surmised, both of my foster parents
were Irish.  My father, a 'longshoreman, enjoyed a
reputation of great popularity in the Fourth Ward,
at that time an intensely Irish district of the city.
Popularity in the Fourth Ward meant a great circle
of convivial companions and a fair credit with the
ginmill keepers.  His earnings would have been
considerable had he been a persistent worker.  But
men of popularity cannot afford to be constantly at
work.  It would perhaps fill their pocketbooks, but
decrease their popularity.  These periods of
conviviality, hilarious intervals to my father, were most
depressing to my mother.

Life in tenements is a particularly busy one of
its kind.  When all efforts are directed toward the
one end of providing the wherewithal for food and
rent, each meal and each rent day is an epoch-making
event.

As soon as one month's rent is paid, each succeeding
day has its own thoughts of dread "against
next rent day."  The thrifty housekeeper lays aside
a share of her daily allowance—increasing it
during the last week of the month—until, with a sigh
of relief, she can say, "Thank God, we got it this
time."

I firmly believe that a great share of the dread is
created by the aversion to a personal meeting with
the rent collector or agent.  People who have to
measure the size of their meals by the length of
their purses are very apt to become a trifle
unsteady in their ethics concerning financial questions.
They are willing to pay their grocer or butcher, but
lose sight of the fact that the rent money is the
payment for the most important purchase, the
securing of their home.  They are friendly with the
shopkeeper, are often "jollied" by him into spending
money otherwise needed, but regard the rent
collector as their personal enemy.

There are many rent collectors, and, as in all
greater numbers, quite a few are justly criticised for
their manner.  Many tenements are owned by men,
who, though the owners, are only on a slightly
different scale socially from their tenants.  They are
men, who, by great shrewdness or some fortunate
chance, accumulated enough to make a real estate
investment in their own ward.  Naturally, they
being familiar with the circumstances of their
tenants and having a remnant of neighborly feeling for
them, are more easily influenced.

Many blocks of tenements were then and are now
owned by large estates.  The management of these
buildings is entrusted to real estate agents, who
receive a commission on their collections, or to salaried
representatives, who owe their position to the
faculty of keeping rents up and keeping repairs down.
These are the men who are hated by the poor.

It is said corporations have no souls, why then
should a large estate, surely a corporation, have
one?  And there must be a soul to understand, to
feel the woe, the pleading that comes to it in
halting, sob-broken speech.  How, then, is one whose
feeling is long ago calloused by the repetition of
these tales of misery, to be stirred to more than a
sneer by another variation of the old, old wail:
"Have pity on us this once, we are so poor, so ill,
so miserable."

Here the poor could be reproached for shiftlessness
in household matters, for not practising sufficiently
the principles of economy.  The reproach
would be perfectly justified and would touch one of
the most potent causes for the existing conditions
among the poor.  No one lives more lavishly and
knows less how to save than the poor.  Their
expense account is not based on a sanitary or monetary
basis, but shapes itself according to temporary
income.

"Plenty of money in the house" and rent day far
in the distance, and many families will absolutely
gorge themselves at table with food and drink, only
to return on perhaps the very next day to tea and
dry bread.

For this reason no social movements on the East
Side are worthier of hearty support than those
carried on to teach children, and especially girls, "How
to keep house."  Teach them how to keep house,
and they will make homes.

If rent days are the fearful anticipations of
tenement house life, meals and their preparation are the
pleasurable anticipations of it.  At morning, noon
and evening the smells of cooking and frying waft
from the open doors of the apartments into the halls.
The doors are open for two reasons—for ventilation
and to "show" the neighbors that more than
the tea kettle is bubbling away on the range.
Behind the closed doors there is no feast, just the tea
and the bread and scheming how to explain this
unwelcome fact to the neighbors.

My mother found her best hold on her husband's
affections by catering to his appetite, which was one
of the marvels of the neighborhood.  When working
he was very exacting in the choice and preparation
of his food; so, when idle his wife would strive
still harder to cheer him into better humor by
culinary feats.

Besides this promiscuous cooking, there were
mending, washing, darning and other housework
to be looked after, and little time was left for
sentiment toward me beyond an occasional affectionate
pat on the head.

Now, take the mind, the heart of a child, and then
consider the influence of such a barren existence
on it.  A child can do without coddling—yes, most
boys do not, or pretend not to like it—but a child's
heart, sensitive as no other, hungers for a wealth
of affection.

The child, a little ape, finding no outlet for his
willing response to affection, seeks a field of mental
activity in imitating the adults about him.  And
the models and patterns in tenement spheres are
not those a child should imitate.  All conditions
there are primitive.  To eat, drink, sleep and be
clothed are the aims of life there, leaving but a
small margin for emotions.

The forms of expression are also primitive and
accepted.  The worthy housewife, who, in a
moment of anger at her husband's mellow state, should
vent her feelings in an outburst of more emphatic
than polite language, will not lose caste thereby, but
will be told by sympathetic fellow-sufferers that
"She did just right."

Among the men it is considered an indication of
effeminacy or dudeism to utter one sentence without
profanity.  To be deemed manly one must curse and
swear.  Even terms of endearment are prefaced with
an unintentionally opposite preamble.

.. _`Mr. Kildare's Birthplace on Catharine Street`:

.. figure:: images/img-020.jpg
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   :alt: Owen Kildare's Birthplace in Catharine St. The Star marks the window of the Kildare Tenement.

   Owen Kildare's Birthplace in Catharine St. The Star marks the window of the Kildare Tenement.

There, not yet mentioning the other detrimental
defects of environment, the child grows up, and
then, when in the manhood days this foundation,
faulty and vicious, breaks and crumbles to pieces
and leaves naught but a being condemned by society
and law, and seemingly by God, there is an army
ready to pelt this creature, cursed by its own
existence, with law, justice and punishment, but not
with one iota of the spirit which even now, in our
matter-of-fact days, echoes the grandest message,
"He is thy brother."

Such was the setting of the stage on which the
drama of my childhood began.  The part I played in
it was not very interesting.

An adult man or woman can do with a minimum
of space, but a child must have much of it.
To romp and play and scheme some mischief
requires lots of room, and there being not an inch
of room to spare in tenement apartments, the
children in summer and winter claim the street as
their very own realm.

It is bad that it is so, for there is much in the
street which is of physical and moral danger to
the child.  Hardly a day passes without having a
boy or girl hurt by some passing vehicle.  It is
almost impossible to guard against these accidents.
The drivers are careful.  No one can make me
believe that these men would wantonly drive into a
swarm of playing children, but there are so many,
so many.

Convince yourself of this.  You need not have to
travel very far.  Take any street, east or west of the
Bowery, and the young generation, crowding before
your very feet or jostling against you in innocent
play, will tell you more effectively than my pen
could of what the real need of the East Side is.

But then parks and play grounds do not bring
rentals; tenement houses do, and, further, even the
child-life of those districts is dependent on the
whims of our patriotic ward politicians.

Among the very poor—and my parents were of
that class—it is the custom to send out the children
to pick up wood and coal for the fire.  My mother,
being constantly engaged in looking after the
welfare of my father, had not very much time to spare
on me, and I grew up very much by myself.

Even before it had become my duty to "go out
for coal," I loved to take my basket and make my
way to the river front to pick up bits of coal dropped
in unloading from the canal boats or by too
generously filled carts.

Among my playmates I held a very unimportant
position, being neither very popular nor unpopular.
I did not mind this much, as I felt, instinctively,
that something was wrong and that I was not on a
level footing with them.  It is impossible for me to
explain why I felt so at the time, but I can
distinctly remember that quite often I felt myself
entirely isolated.

No one minded me or censured me for my long
absences from home, provided my basket was fairly
well filled with coal.  Then spells of envy often
came to me.  I envied the caresses given by mothers
to their sons and, yes, I also envied the cuffs given
to them for having spent too much time at the retail
coal business.

I reasoned so then and I reason so now, that
behind every whipping given to a child a father's or
mother's love and justice is hidden.  But even
parental chastisement was denied me—a fact for
which, according to popular opinion, I should have
been thankful.

In this way I lived the dull life of a tenement
house child, made more dull in my case by the lack
of a certain inexplicable something in my relations
to my parents and in my home conditions.  I missed
something, yet could not tell what it was.

It can hardly be termed a hidden sorrow, but
make a boy ponder and worry about something, for
which no explanation is vouchsafed to him, and he
will get himself into a mental state not at all healthy
for his years.

Close to the cooking range was an old box used
as a receptacle for wood and coal.  There was my
seat, and from there I watched the little domestic
comedies and tragedies played before me with my
father and mother as chief actors.

My father's popularity made our home the calling
place for many visitors.  At these visits the most
frequently used utensil was the "can," or "growler,"
and the functions usually assumed the character of
an "ink pot."  Several houses in the ward had well
proven reputations as "mixed ale camps," meaning
thereby places where certain cronies could meet
nightly and "rush the growler" as long as the
money lasted.  If the friends were more than usually
plentiful, the whisky bottle, called always the
"bottle," besides the "can," was kept well filled,
producing a continuation of effects, sometimes running
to fighting; at other times running to maudlin
sentimentality.  These occasions—no one knows
why—are called "ink pots."

My father's house was in a fair way to become
listed among the well established "mixed ale
camps."  In those days no law had yet been passed
making the selling of "pints" of beer to minors a
punishable offense, and children of both sexes were
employed until late in the night, when the bar-rooms
were crowded with drunken and boisterous men,
to "rush the growler" for their seniors at home.
The children did not object to it, as a few pennies
were always given to them for the errand.

I, also, had to make these journeys to the nearest
saloon, and, also, did not mind it for the above
mentioned reason.  Sometimes, after returning from
my trip, a man would ask me to sing him one of the
popular songs of the day, but I would refuse with
the diffidence of a boy.  My father never missed
these opportunities to inform his friends that "that
brat ain't good for nothing.  Don't bother with him."

I began to dislike my foster father, rather than
hate him.  More than once I met his casual glance
with a bitter scowl.





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.. _`A PAIR OF SHOES`:

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   A PAIR OF SHOES.

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   CHAPTER II.

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   A PAIR OF SHOES.

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It was winter, still.  I was running about
bare-footed.  This was preferred by me to having my
feet shod with the old shoes of my mother.  She
had a small foot, yet her old shoes were miles too
large for me, and furthermore, always made me
the butt of the jeers and jibes of my playmates in
the street.  Therefore, I never wore the cast-off
shoes unless snow or ice was on the ground.

But whether bare-footed or slouching along in
my unwieldy cast-offs, the comments became so
personal that I resolved to ask my father for a pair
of real, new shoes.

The moment for presenting my petition anent the
new shoes was ill chosen.

My father was experiencing a period of idleness,
and had reached that intense state of feeling which
prompted him to declare with much banging on the
table that "there wasn't an honest day's work to be
got no more, at all, by an honest, decent, laboring
man."  At the moment my mother was deeply
engaged in the task of mollifying her husband's
irascibility by preparing some marvelous feat of cooking,
and was not at liberty to give me her most essential
moral support.

My request was received in silence.  It was an
ominous silence, but I did not realize it.

I insisted.

"I want a pair of shoes all to myself, the same as
other boys have."

"Oh, is it shoes you want?  New shoes?  Shoes
that cost money, when there ain't enough money
in the house to get a man a decent meal.  I'll give
you shoes; indeed I will."

Still I insisted.  Then that which, perhaps, should
have happened to me long before, was inflicted upon
me.  I was beaten for the first time, to be beaten
often and often again afterward.

The whipping roused my temper.  From a safe
distance I upbraided my father for punishing me for
demanding that which all children have a right to
demand from their parents, to be properly clothed.
This incited his humor; but, after his laugh had
ended, he told me in the most direct and blunt way
of my status in the family, and also informed me
that if he felt so disposed he could at any time kick
me into the street, where I, by right, belonged.

Without mincing his words he told me the story
of my parentage.  At least, he told me that I was
no better than an orphan, picked from the gutter,
and kept alive by the good nature of himself and his
wife.

It was all true.

In the days to follow I learned more and more
about my parents from the legendary lore of neighborly
gossip.  And even he, my foster-father, could
say naught but good about my father and mother,
if he did hate their son.

No, I should not say he hated me.  Patrick McShane
had a good heart, but permitted it too often
to be poisoned by the poison of the can and bottle.

All I know about my own father is that he was a
typical son of the Emerald Isle.  Rollicking,
carefree, ever ready with song or story, he was a
universal favorite during his sojourn in the ward where
he had made a home for himself and his wife for
the short time from his arrival in this country until
his death.

A few years ago I had the pleasure of meeting
the owner of the building where our home had been
and where I was born.  In spite of his old age, he
still remembered my father.

"Do you know, my boy, your father was a fine
man?  The same as any man, who lets nice
apartments to tenants, I had to see that rents were
regularly paid, and I always did that without being
any too hard on them.  But it was all different with
your father.  There were a few times when his rent
was either short a few dollars or not there at all,
but before I had the chance to get angry he'd tell
me a story or sing me a ditty, and instead o' being
mad I'd leave and forget all about my rent.  Ah,
indeed, Owney, boy, a fine man was your father."

Not much of an eulogy, but much, very much, to
me, the son.  I have nothing, no likeness, no
photograph, to help my mind's eye see my parents; and,
therefore, any tribute, no matter how trifling, paid
to the memory of my father and mother goes toward
perfecting the picture of them, fashioning in my soul.

My mother was a French woman, who married
my father shortly before departing for this country
from France, where he had gone to study art.  They
knew very little of her in the district.  All her life
seemed to be centered in her husband, and she was
rarely seen out of her own rooms.  The only
breathing spells she ever enjoyed were had on the
roof—quite convenient to the top floor, where the home
was—and there she would get a whiff of fresh air,
to the accompaniment of one of my dad's songs.

Why could I not know them?

Not being amply provided with funds, my
parents, shortly after their arrival in this country,
were compelled to take apartments on the top floor
of the tenement house in Catharine street, where
I was born.

My mother died at my birth; my father had preceded
her by three months.

Sad is the fate of a baby orphaned in a tenement
house.  Each family has little, and many to subsist
on it.

But I, the orphaned babe, was singularly fortunate.

Even the lives of the poor are not devoid of
romance, and, owing to one, I found a home.

Not so very long before my parents made their
domicile in the Fourth Ward, Patrick McShane, one
of the most popular and finest looking young men
of the neighborhood, had "gone to the bad."  He
had neglected his work to share in the many social
festivities—otherwise, "mixed ale camps"—until his
sober moments were very few and far between.

As soon as his status of confirmed drunkard was
established, he was not as welcome as formerly at
the many gatherings.  The reason for it was his
irascible temper while under the influence of drink.

Finding himself partly ostracized, he kept to the
water front, spending his days and nights down
there.

Facing the river is South street.  At one of the
corners was the gin mill and legislative annex of a
true American patriot and assemblyman.  Always
anxious to pose before his constituents as a man
whose charity knew no bounds, this diplomat, this
statesman, had given a home to his niece, the
daughter of his deceased brother.  Perhaps it was just a
coincidence that, on the same day, on which his
niece became a member of the household the servant
girl was discharged.

At any rate, Mary McNulty found little time to
walk the sidewalks of Catharine street, as was the
wont of the belles of the ward.  Even would she
have had the time for it, she would not have availed
herself of it, for one very good reason.  Mary
McNulty was not beautiful.

During her first few weeks in the neighborhood
she had been quickly christened "wart-face" by
the boys on her appearance in the street, and, while
not supersensitive, she determined to forego the
pleasure of being a target for these personal comments.

Thereafter, she only left the house at nightfall
to walk down to the end of the pier opposite to the
gin mill of her uncle.  During one of these nocturnal
rambles she met Patrick McShane.  He was lying
in drunken stupor on the very edge of the dock, and
in danger of losing his balance.  Mary woke him up,
lectured him and then gave him money.  Before
sending him away, she told him to be there on the
following evening.

Regular meetings were soon in order, and it was
not long before Mary conceived the idea of
reforming Patrick McShane.

McShane was willing, and, one day the entire
ward was startled into unusual surprise by hearing
of the marriage of Patrick McShane and Mary McNulty.

To give credit where credit is due, it must be
recorded that McShane, for quite a while, inspired
by the devotion of his wife, improved wonderfully
in his habits and walked along the narrow road of
sobriety with nary a stumble.  But, after about a
year of wedded life, he permitted himself occasional
relapses into the old ways, multiplying them in time.
It is hard to tell if all the hope of his ultimate
reformation died out in the heart of his wife.  She
became very quiet, catering more carefully to his
creature comforts and never offering any remonstrance.

But there must have been a void, a yearning to
receive and to give a little affection, and when "the
lady in front"—my mother—died and left her
orphan, Mary McShane would not let it go to the
"institution," but took it into her own humble home.

And for this dear little woman, whose entire life
was one of self-sacrifice, devotion and humiliation,
a prayer goes from me at every thought of her.

It can hardly be expected that I, a boy of seven
years of age, grasped the full significance of the
information imparted by my foster father.  Only
two points appeared very grave to me.  Should the
fact become known to my playmates that I was an
orphan—not distinguished from a foundling by
them—and that I had sailed, so to speak, under false
colors, my fate would have been one full of persecution
and sneering contempt.  I silently prayed and
then beseeched my foster mother to keep the matter
a profound secret.

The other point of importance was that the street,
"where I, by right, belonged," assumed a new aspect.
Having had plenty of evidence of the impulsive
spirit which ruled our household, something seemed
to tell me that it was not improbable that the threat
of my expulsion would be fulfilled, and I began to
consider my ultimate fate from all sides.

The bootblacks and newsboys and other young
chaps, who were making their precarious living in
the streets, became personages of great interest to
me.  I watched their ways, and even found myself
calculating their receipts.  It was quite clear to
me that, should my foster father drive me from the
house, I should have to resort to some makeshift
living in the streets.

All this put me in a preoccupied state of mind,
which does not sit naturally on a child.  I became
more quiet than ever, and, in the evening, from the
wood box behind the cooking range, watched our
home proceedings.  Most times they were very
noisy, and my quietness seemed to grate on the ears
of him whom I had ceased to call "father," and was
then addressing more formally as "Mr. McShane,"
which also annoyed him.

Can you not read here between the lines and
understand how a certain something became more
and more stifled within me?  Perhaps I was
unreasonable or lacking in gratitude, but I was a child
and still hungered and hungered and longed for that
which, as yet, had not come into my share.

But if Mr. McShane would not listen to my plea
for shoes, my good, dear "mum" had heard my
request and understood the motive of my insistence.
Happily, children's shoes do not involve enormous
expenditure, and so, on a certain eventful day,
"mum" went to her savings bank, the proverbial
stocking, took the larger part of it and made me the
proud possessor of a pair of real, new shoes, the
first of my life.  Bitterness, sulking and wailing
were all forgotten and wiped away as if by magic,
and my feet, in their new casings, seemed to step
on golden rays of sunshine.  If I add to this that
I had never had a toy of any kind you will be able
to measure my sensation.

The real, new shoes were not an altogether free
gift.  It had been agreed between "mum" and me
that I was to pay the equivalent for them by
increased collectibility in the retail coal business.

The following day saw me starting out for the
coal docks with the very best of intentions.  I
began to fear that we would not be able to find room
for all the coal I meant to carry home that day.
Tons of coal began to heap themselves in my vision,
until, perchance, my eyes fell on the real, new shoes.

It became my unavoidable duty to let my footgear
be seen.

Many detours were made, and so much time was
wasted in exhibiting my shoes to the thrilling envy
of my comrades that the accumulation of coal
suffered in consequence.  The awakening from my
dream of glory came with the end of the day, when it
required all my remaining buoyant spirits to nerve
me for my reception at home.

The coal basket was dreadfully light.

My home coming was very ill-timed.  Mr. McShane
was in the throes of another idle period,
which did not preclude credit at the neighboring
saloons.  Had there been "company" I might have
been able to escape his wrath, but, having sat there
all alone—that is, without male companionship—and
his wife never daring to reply to his sarcastic
flings, I was just the red rag for the bull.

"Ah, and so you're home at last?  Mary, have
you no hot supper ready for this young gentleman,
after him being hungry from working so hard at
getting about ten pieces of coal?  Oh, and new shoes
are we wearing now, ain't that nice!"  Then, with
a quick change of tone and manner, "Come here,
you brat, come here to me!"

"Leave the boy alone, Pat!" interposed "mum,"
but I knew, as she did, that it was futile.

I have no difficulty in remembering it all.  In a
dull, heavy way I felt that the crisis had come.

At the ending of the scene, my shoes, my real,
new shoes, were torn from my feet.  Everything
within me rebelled against that.  Life without those
shoes was not worth living, and I stormed myself
into a frenzy, which did not leave me until I found
myself, propelled by a swift leg movement, on the
floor of the dark hallway—minus my shoes.

The long expected had come.  I had thought
myself prepared for this moment, yet found
myself stunned and bewildered.  What was I to do?
The street "where I belonged" now seemed to
belong to me, but I did not look quite as stoically as
before at the prospect before me.

"Besides, how can I go out without shoes?" I
reasoned, forgetting the fact that, only quite recently,
shoes had become necessities to me.

But the truth was—and will you blame me?—that
from the crack at the bottom of the door came
a tiny streak of light, which told a vivid tale of all
I was in danger of forfeiting.  How often I had
growled at my fate; now, behind that door, lay a
paradise.

I crouched there in the dark corner of the stairs
leading to the roof.  How long I shivered there I
do not know.  All my senses were alert and ready
for the slightest alarm.  Once I heard pleading and
emphatic denial within, and then all was still—still
for a long while.

My gaze was fixed on the door.  It seemed
hours—perhaps it was—before I heard a slight creaking
and saw the reflection of more light on the hallway
floor.  It disappeared as quickly as it had appeared,
and then it was dark and quiet again.

But why was that door opened?  Something
must have happened.  I dragged myself to the
threshold of my lost home, felt around and found—my
shoes, my real, new shoes.  And then I tried
hard to cry, but could not.  The crust had become
too hardened.

The crisis had come, was passed, and the curtain
fell on my childhood.  Ages cannot be measured
by years.





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.. _`A NOMAD OF THE STREETS`:

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   A NOMAD OF THE STREETS.

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   CHAPTER III.

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   A NOMAD OF THE STREETS.

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Seven years old, I stepped into the street, where,
by right, I belonged, no longer a child, to begin the
journey, which, through many years in the valley,
led me to the heights.

It was a bleak December night.

Can you not draw yourself the picture of the
boy starting on his way—whither?

I stood for some time in the doorway.  A
policeman loomed in the distance.  Boys cannot bear
them in day time, how much less at night.  To be
"collared" by a "cop" at this hour meant a stay in
the station house and a visit to the police court.  I
put myself in motion.

With cap pulled over my ears and hands pushed
into my pockets, I started in the direction of the
Bowery and Chatham Street, now called Park Row.
I halted under a lamp-post to determine on my
course.

"Uptown" was an entirely unknown region to
me.  "Downtown" was not much more familiar,
but, somehow, I knew that that was the place where
all the newsboys came from.

I turned to the left and walked and ran—the
night was bitterly cold—down Chatham street until
I came within view of the City Hall.  So far I
had been once or twice before on some adventurous
trip, but not beyond that.  Though I did not realize
it at the time, I stood on my jumping-off place,
ready to jump into the unknown.

I paused for a while, looking into the darkness
before me.  In those days, before the completion
of the Brooklyn Bridge, City Hall Square was not
as brilliantly lighted as now.  I stood there until
the biting cold made me move on.

My eyes were watery from the meeting blasts,
and, stumbling on, I almost fell on top of a layer of
diminutive humanity.  Before I had time to draw
my stiffened hands from the pockets to wipe my
eyes, I felt a welcome sensation of warmth, thick,
intense, damp, ink-permeated warmth.

The warm current came from the grating over the
pressroom of a newspaper.  This open-air radiator
only measured a few feet, yet, at least, fifteen boys
were hugging it as closely as their mothers' breasts.
The iron frame was entirely invisible, and my
share of warmth coming from it was very trifling.
But, even so, only a few minutes of this straggling
cheer was afforded to me.

Just as some of the numbness began to thaw out
of my limbs, the cry—ever and ever familiar to the
newsboy—"Cheese it, the cop!" rang out, and, like
a horde of frightened sprites, the boys scampered
away, I bringing up the rear.

We raced around the corner into Frankfort street
and stopped in a dark hallway, which seemed to
be the headquarters of this particular crowd.  It
was not warm in there, but, at any rate, it was a
shelter against the cutting gusts of night winds,
playing their stormy games of "hide-and-seek"
around the blocks facing Park Row.

Following the example of the others, I cuddled
up in a corner, and tried to forget my troubles in
sleep.  Just dozing, preliminary to falling into
sounder sleep, I was suddenly and swiftly aroused
by a grasp and a kick, and informed that I had
usurped a corner "beeslonging" to a habitué of this
dismal hostelry.

I had yet to learn that a newsboy will claim
everything in sight, to relinquish it only by defeat in
fight, and meekly submitted to my dispossession.
The late comer took a bundle of newspapers from
under his arm and carefully proceeded to prepare
his bed.  First, he spread a number of sheets on
the floor; then built a pillow from the major part,
and, at last, proceeded to cover himself with the
remaining papers.

The light was dim, still, it was enough to show
him my discomfiture.

"Say," he addressed me, "what's the matter, ain't
you got no place to sleep?  I'll tell you what I'll do.
If you don't kick in your sleep, I'll let you lie down
longside o' me."  Then, as an afterthought, "It'll
keep me warmer, anyhow."

Most emphatically and impressively did I assure
him that my sleep was absolutely motionless, and
from that night dated a partnership and friendship
which lasted for many years.

In later years I have often wondered why I and
all the other boys who comprised the newspaper-selling
fraternity of that day always landed in Park
Row, and in the midst of the future colleagues?  It
seemed to be a well defined destiny.  Behind the
coming of each new recruit was the little tragedy,
which had made the leading actor therein a stray
waif of the streets.  And, no matter where the
tragedy had happened, whether in Harlem or in the
First Ward, the district along and above the Battery,
they all found their way to Park Row.

The life of the newsboy is full of action.  His
personal struggle and business is so absorbing that
he has no time for useless speculation.  The advent
of a newcomer is not signalized by a very warm
reception.  He is neither hampered by professional
jealousy or suffered by tolerance.  The field is open
to all, and it rests with the boy how he will fare.
However, in spite of this almost essential
selfishness, impulsive outbursts of good nature are a
characteristic of this most emotional creature, the
newsboy.  My apprenticeship in the fraternity owed its
beginning to one of these spontaneous outbursts.

It was quite early when, chilled to the marrow, I
awoke in the drafty hallway.  My new and
independent existence was begun with my first great
sorrow.  Here the temptation is very strong upon
me to tell you that remorse, anguish and despair
were racking my soul; that it was homesickness or
a great longing for all I had left behind me.  But
putting this temptation behind me, I must confess
that my sorrow was of the most material kind.  I
missed my coffee.

Across the street was Hitchcock's coffee and cake
saloon.  Through the shivery morning air, every
time a patron entered or left the place, a cloud of
greasy, spicy aromas came wafting to the frozen
little troupe leaving their dreary abiding place.  My
future colleagues had so often had this torture
inflicted on them that, now, with just an envious sniff,
they could bear it with stoical fortitude.  I, still a
weakling, stopped, as if transfixed, inhaled the
perfumed currents and most solemnly swore that, with
my very first money, I would buy the entire stock;
yes, even the entire coffee and cake saloon.

Alas, Hitchcock's is still doing business.

The next question presenting itself was, how was
I to get the "first" money?

Newsboys work and play in cliques.  The particular
gang, with which I had thrown my lot, had
its rendezvous in Theatre Alley.  It was the
assembling and meeting place for all the members, those
who had slept in "regular" beds and those who had
"carried the banner"[#] in the Frankfort street
hallway.  This distinction did by no means establish
two different social strata among us.  Fate was
so uncertain that the aristocrat of the night before,
who had rested his weary limbs on a "regular" bed,
was very apt to fight on the following night for the
possession of the corner in the hallway, which
"beeslonged" to him.

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

[#] To spend the night without a bed.

.. vspace:: 2

Beyond giving me a scrutinizing look, none of
the boys took heed of me, and did not object to my
following them.  Arrived in Theatre Alley, we met
the leader of the gang, who had the proud distinction
of being about the only one who had a "home
to go to" whenever he felt like doing so.  The same
qualities, which, since then, have made him a leader
in politics and have led him to membership in
legislative bodies, were even in that day in evidence.

In parenthesis let me say that I am not blessed
with personal beauty.  Add to this that my
appearance presented itself rather grotesquely and
disheveled on that eventful morning, and you will
understand why the leader's searching eye singled me
out from the rest.

"Are you a new one?" he asked me.

I answered in the affirmative.

"Going to sell papers?"

Again the affirmative.

"Got any money?"

Now a convincing negative.

Then, as now, our leader was sparing in the use
of words.  At the end of our brief interview, I
was "staked" to a nickel to buy my first stock of
papers, and those who know Tim Sullivan will also
know that I was not the first or the last to get
"staked" by the Bowery statesman.

He not only furnished my working capital, but
also taught me a few tricks of the trade and advised
me to invest my five pennies in just one, the best
selling paper of the period.

So, in less than twelve hours after leaving what
had been for several years my home, I was fully
installed as a vendor of newspapers.

Then began the usual existence of "newsies,"
eating and "sleeping" when lucky, and "pulling
through somehow" when unlucky.  I stuck to that
business for over ten years.

The life of the streets did not at all disagree
with me.  My childhood had been full of bitterness,
childish bitterness, and I had a dull longing to make
the world at large feel my revenge for having dealt
so unkindly with me.  Whatever good traits there
had been in me were quickly and willingly transformed
into viciousness.  This helped me to become
a leading member of our gang of boys.

Among us there was none so absolutely orphaned
as myself.  Those who were orphans had, at least,
their memories.  I did not even have them.

In odd, emotional moments, one or another would
let his thoughts stray back to some still loved and
revered father or mother, or would confess to
having crept up to his former home, at some safe
time, to have a peep at forfeited comforts.  I
welcomed these references and day dreams of my
colleagues, but solely because they were utilized
by me as pretenses for inflicting my brutality on
those who had uttered them.

There is a question, a number of questions, to be
asked here.  Why did I do this?  Was it because
I was naturally vicious, or because I wanted to stifle
a certain gnawing in my heart by my ferociousness?
A strange reasoning, the last, perhaps; but in
years I was still a child, and if a child has but little
in his life to love, and that little is taken out of his
life, that child can turn into a veritable little demon.
Those, whom I had believed my parents, turned out
to be nothing more than charitably inclined
strangers; that what I had believed to be my home,
proved but a refuge, and my boyish logic saw in this
sufficient cause to envy those, who had all this
behind them and to give vent to this envy in the most
ferocious manner.

That was the tenor of my life as a newsboy.  I
had enough callousness to bear all the hardships
without a murmur.  One ambition took possession
of me.  I wanted to be a power among newsboys.
I wanted to be respected or feared.  As I did not
care which, I succeeded in the latter at the expense
of the former.  The heroes of newsboys are always
men who owe their prominence to physical prowess.
I chose as my models the best known fighters of the day.

As with all other "business men," there is keen
rivalry and competition among newsboys.  The
only difference is that, among the boys, the most
primitive and direct way is the most frequent one
employed to settle disputes.  Some men, after great
sorrows or disappointments, seek forgetfulness in
battle, being entirely indifferent to their ultimate
fate, and they always make good fighters.  My
position was not altogether dissimilar from theirs.
What little I had known of comfort and affection
was behind me; my mode of life at that time had
no particular attraction for me, and my only
ambition was to conquer by fight, and, therefore, I made
a good fighter.

In all those long years I cannot recall more than
one incident which stirred the softer emotions of my
heart.

A newcomer, a blue-eyed, light-haired little
fellow, had come among us, and was immediately
chosen by me as my favorite victim.  Certain traces
of refinement were discernible in him and this gave
me many opportunities to hold him up to the
ridicule of our choice gang of young ruffians.  I hated
him without knowing why.

One day I saw him standing at the corner of
"the Row," offering his wares with the unprofessional
cry: "Please, won't you buy a paper?"

It was a glorious chance to "plant" a kick on one
of his shins, and thereby to relieve myself of some
of my hatred.  Stealthily I crept up behind him, and
was on the point of sending my foot on its mission,
when two motherly-looking women stopped to buy
a paper from "the cherub."  Wits are quickly sharpened
in a life on the streets, and I realized at once
that my intended assault, if witnessed by the two
ladies, would evoke a storm of indignation.

I immediately changed front, and endeavored to
create the impression that my hasty approach had
been occasioned by my desire to sell a paper.

"Poipers, ladies, poipers," I cried, but was barely
noticed.

The "cherub" claimed all their attention.

"What a pretty boy!" exclaimed one.  "Have
you no home, no parents?  Too bad, too bad!"

All this was noted and registered by me for a
future reckoning with the recipient of so much
kindness.

My heart was shivering with acid bitterness.

"Never me, never me!" and the misery of many
loveless years rang as a wail in my soul.

Just as the woman, who had spoken, was about
to hand a dime to my intended scapegoat, her
companion happened to turn and see me.

"Oh, just look at the other poor fellow."

The exclamation was justified.  I was a sight.
However, my dilapidated clothes and scratched face
owed their pitiful condition to much "scrapping"
and not to deprivations.

Again she spoke.

"Here, poor boy, here is a penny for you."

With a light pat on my grimy cheek and one of
the sunniest smiles ever shed on me, she was gone
before I could realize what had happened.  There,
penny in hand, I stood, dreaming and stroking the
cheek she had touched, and asking myself why she
had done so.

Somehow, I felt that, were she to come back, I
could just have said to her: "Say, lady, I ain't got
much to give, but I'll give you all me poipers, and
me pennies, and me knife, if you'll only say and do
that over again."

The "cherub" also was a gainer by this little
touch of nature.  I forgot to kick and abuse him that
night.

There was nothing dwarfish about me, and my
temperament made me enjoy the many "scraps"
which belong to a street arab's routine.

Park Row was and is frequented by the lesser
lights of the sporting world.  Our boyish fights
were not fought in seclusion, but anywhere.  Being
a constant participant in these "goes," as I was
almost daily called upon to defend my sounding
title of "Newsboy Champion of Park Row" against
new aspirants for the honor, myself and my
fighting "work" soon became familiar to the "sports,"
who were the most interested of the spectators.

I was of large frame, my face was of the bulldog
type, my muscles were strong, my constitution
hardened by my outdoor existence in all sorts of
weather, and, without knowing it, my advance in
the art of fisticuffs was eagerly watched, with the
hope of discovering in me a new "dark horse" for
the prize ring.

Among the men who had followed my progress
in boxing were such renowned sports as Steve
Brodie, Warren Lewis, "Fatty" Flynn, "Pop"
Kaiser and others of equal prominence.  In due
time overtures were made to me.  I was properly
"tried out" on several third-rate boxers, and said
good-by to the newsboy life to blossom out as a
full-fledged pugilist.

Before long I began to have *higher* ambitions.
It was the day of smaller purses and more fighting,
and I determined to fight often so as to accumulate
money quickly.  I had no definite idea why I
wanted to accumulate money with such feverish
haste.  I had some dim desire *to wanting* to have
a lot of it, to having the sensation of being the
possessor of a roll of bills, and, this being the only
road open to me toward that goal, I was eager to
travel it.

That was my ambition at the age of seventeen,
the age when boys prepare themselves to be men in
the fullest and only sense of the word.  My
boyhood, dreary as my childhood, closed behind me
without a pang of regret on my part.  I was
aspiring according to my lights and my aspirations
spelled nothing more or less than degradation.





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.. _`LIVING BY MY MUSCLE`:

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   LIVING BY MY MUSCLE.

.. vspace:: 3

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER IV.

.. class:: center medium bold

   LIVING BY MY MUSCLE.

.. vspace:: 2

The manly art of self-defense, as practised then,
was unhampered by much law or refinement.  Still,
with all this license, I was too brutish to make a
successful prizefighter.  My sponsor in this
sporting life soon learned that I had a violent temper.

Time and time again I was matched to fight men
who were not physically my equals, only to be
defeated by them.  It was useless to endeavor to
impress me with the argument that these fighting
matches were merely business engagements, in the
same way as the playing of a part by an actor.

I fully understood all that was pointed out to
me; would adhere to my instructions for two,
perhaps three, rounds of fighting, then would forget
all, rules, time limits and all else, to "sail in" with
most deadly determination to "do" my opponent at
all hazards.

During my brief career as pugilist I only met one
man who was of the same brutish temperament as
myself—Tommy Gibbons, of Pittsburg—and we
fought four encounters.

Of the same age as myself, Gibbons had earned
for himself a well-founded reputation for viciousness.
He had never been defeated in his own state,
and the promoters of this "manly" form of sport
were anxious to find a more vicious brute than he
to vanquish him.

I was chosen for this mission.

A paper manufacturer, still doing business in
New York City, after seeing me "perform" in trial
bouts, was induced to "put up" the necessary money
for my side of the purse, and we were matched to
fight in Pittsburg.

We "weighed in" at one hundred and forty pounds.

This, our first encounter, lasted twenty-seven
rounds.  The "humanity" of our seconds and backers
prevented us from going any further.  Our
physical condition was the cause for stirring that
"humanity."

We were smeared with blood, but that alone would
not have been sufficient to terminate the fight.  A
broken arm, a torn ear, a gash from eye to lower
part of cheek, constituted Tommy Gibbons' principal
injuries.  I was damaged to the extent of two
broken thumbs and a broken nose, not mentioning
minor disfigurements.  But, what of that?  Had
not the noble cause of sport derived a new impetus
from our performance?  Had not the hearts and
aspirations of the "select" crowd of spectators been
moved to higher emotions?

We had behaved so right manfully, that, at the
ringside, we were matched again for another meeting.
In that, after seventeen rounds, I was declared
the winner on a "foul" of Gibbons.

Again we were matched, this time to fight
according to London prize ring rules—they permitting
more latitude for our brutish instincts.  It resulted
in a "draw," but not until we had entertained the
very flower of the sporting world for forty-three
rounds.

Not yet satisfied as to which one of us was the
greater brute, another meeting was arranged, and I
had the proud distinction of being the victor in this
fight of eleven rounds.

Poor Tommy Gibbons took his defeat very much
to heart.  His fistic prestige was gone, and he went
speedily to "the bad."  He ended his busy life at
the hands of the hangman, paying therewith the
penalty for one of the most horrible murders ever
committed.

Too bad that such a promising light in the
sporting world should meet with such ignoble end!

My backer, the paper manufacturer, who did so
much, by effort and expenditure, for the cause of
sport, is still on my list of acquaintances.  He is
eminently respectable, the father of an adoring
family, the model for striving young men, a pillar
of his church, a power in commercial life, and,
withal, an enthusiastic follower of the Manly Art of
Self-Defense, provided the specimen of it is not too
tame.

Apropos of the manly art of self-defense I want
to record my individual opinion that it is a lost
art, if it really has ever been an art.  In the knightly
art of fencing, skill, artful skill, is necessary and
acquired.  Not so in boxing; at least not in that branch
of boxing which is only practised for money.  Men
who step into the ring for a "finish fight" are not
prompted by the desire of giving a clever exhibition
of boxing.  Their only desire—if the fight "is on the
level"—is to "put out" their man somehow, as quickly
as possible, and to collect their end of the purse
as promptly as possible.  I have seen my quota
of fights in my life time, but never one in which
claims of "fouls" were not made.

Is it not logical to suppose that leading exponents
of their art should be able to give a demonstration
of it without resorting to foul means?

Although I have given "physical culture lessons"
of a certain kind I have but little knowledge of how
boxing lessons are conducted in academies and
reputable gymnasiums.  The popularity of this
branch of athletics indicates that the lessons are
conducive to corporal perfection, and teach men
how to use their strength to best advantage when
driven to the point of defense.

This principle is not observed by "scrappers."  They
pay less, if any attention to boxing than to
learning tricks of their trade.  It is all very well
for sporting writers to speak about Fitzsimmons'
and Sullivan's art, but I am quite sure that one or
more efficient tricks is the real mainspring of many
pugilistic reputations.

The rules of the prize ring are fair and formed to
protect men from foul methods.  For that very
reason, all the tricks learned—and they are many and
efficient—are, if not absolutely fouls, so near the
dividing line that the margin of distinction is
almost nil.

Through the press of the country we are informed
that prizefighters now-a-days make considerable
fortunes.  Then they did not, and having a
surprisingly healthy appetite in a healthy body, the
fighting profession sadly delayed the perfect
development of my *embonpoint*.





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.. _`LIVING BY MY WITS`:

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   LIVING BY MY WITS.

.. vspace:: 3

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER V.

.. class:: center medium bold

   LIVING BY MY WITS.

.. vspace:: 2

True, my fights with Tommy Gibbons and others
had brought me some money, but the social obligations
were so many and the celebrations so frequent
that, after a short time of plenty, I always found
myself "dead broke" and compelled to resort to my
"wits" for making a living.

All Chatham street—now Park Row—and the
Bowery teemed with "sporting houses," which
offered opportunities to men of my class.  In many
of these places boxing was the real or pretended
attraction.

On an elevated stage from three to six pairs of
boxers and wrestlers furnished nightly entertainment
for a roomful of foolish men, and—more's the
pity!—women.  The real purpose of these gatherings
must remain nameless here, but this fact we
must note, that all of these "sporting-houses," these
hells of blackest iniquity, were run by so-called
statesmen, patriots, politicians, many of them
lawmakers, or else by their figureheads.

The figureheads were chosen with great carefulness.
To become a proxy owner of a "sporting-house"
one had to have a reputation, sufficient to
attract that particularly silly and morbid crowd of
*habitués*.  Some of the reputations were made in
the prize ring, viz: Frank White, manager of the
Champion's Rest, on the Bowery, two doors north
of Houston street; Billy Madden, Mike Cleary and
other "prominent" prizefighters.  A few of them,
as Billy Madden and Frank Stevenson, later
branched out as backers of pugilists, policy shops
and gambling houses.

Reputations made in prisons were also accepted
as qualifications, and "Fatty" Flynn, Billy McGlory,
Tommy Stevenson, Jimmy Nugent, of Manhattan
Bank robbery fame, and other ex-inmates of jails
owed their wide popularity and money-making
capacity to their terms spent behind the bars.
An isolated position of especially luminous glamor
was acceptably filled by the famous Mr. Steve
Brodie, the bridge-jumper, and greatest "fake" and
fraud of the period.

In places where boxing was not the attraction, the
vilest passions of human nature were vainly incited
by painted sirens, who, by experience and compulsion
of their employers, had become perfect in their
shrewd wickedness.  In front of these "joints"—frequently
called "bilking houses"—glaring posters,
picturing the pleasures within, were displayed in
most garish array.

In addition to these places described, a number
of dance-halls, notably Billy McGlory's Armory
Hall, and "Fatty" Flynn's place in Bond street,
completed the boast of the day that New York City was
a "wide-open town," and the "only place in the
world fit to live in."

It was not very difficult for one, accustomed to
the environment, to "make a living" in it by his
"wits."

Any one, not minding a short spell of strenuousness,
could always get from a dollar and a half
to two dollars for "donning the mitts" in the
"sporting-houses," where boxing was the special feature.
Others, having neither the training or inclinations
to take part in these "set-to's," officiated as
waiters—"beer-slingers"—and found it more remunerative,
if more tedious work.

It seems to be a distinct trait of people who visit
these "dives" and "joints" to leave their small
allowance of intelligence at the door.  Men, who, in their
daily occupation, are fairly alert and awake to their
interests, permit themselves to be cheated by the
most transparent devices of the "beer-slingers."

To give these fellows a bill in payment of drinks
is simply inviting them to experiment on you.
Over charging, "palming"—retaining a coin in the
palm of the hand between ball of thumb and fleshy
part—"flim-flamming"—doubling a bill in a number
of them, and counting each end of it as one separate
bill—are the most common means of cheating
employed.  Whenever any of these tricks failed, the
money was either withheld or taken away by force,
and the victim—the "sucker"—bodily thrown into
the streets as a "disorderly person."

Such were the glories of the "open town."

Although a recognized factor in the world pugilistic,
I was not above seeking occasional employment
in these resorts, and it helped me to create for
myself another reputation.  I did not work in these
places for the purpose of study or observation, yet,
every night my contempt for the patrons of these
"joints" increased.

Men, whose names I had heard and mentioned
with awe; men, whose positions and station should
have been guarantees of every sterling quality,
came there, not once, but night after night, to enjoy
that seemingly harmless pastime known as
"slumming"—to have a "good time."

A "good time" in the midst of moral and physical
filth; a "good time" in the company of jailbirds,
fallen men and women; a "good time" of grossest
selfishness, for, over and over again, I have seen men
there for whose education I would have gladly given
years of my life, and who, by one word of sympathy
or encouragement, could have rekindled the dying
flame of hope, of self-respect, in some fellow-being,
but that word was never spoken, because it would
have brought discord into the "good time," and
would have jangled the croaking melody chanted
by that chorus of human scum in praise of their
host—the "sightseer"—of the evening!

A glorious sport this "sightseeing," these "good
times," when men of "respectability" and position
feast with gloating eyes on all that is vile and look
on the unfortunates of a great city as if they were
some strange beasts, some freaks in human shape.
That almost every creature in these "dives" and
"joints" has left behind a niche in the world's
usefulness, or a home, to which his or her daily thoughts
stray back, is not considered by the "sightseer."  One
does not like unpleasant reflections when at a
circus.

Vile, very vile, are the men and women who
constitute the population of divedom, but how about
the representatives of respectability, who come
among them to spend their "good time" with them?

Were I at liberty to give the names of men whom
I have seen hobnobbing with the most fearful
riff-raff, you would shrug your shoulders and say: "I
cannot believe it of them."  Yet, I do not lie.

There is no need for lying, and there is much
corroboration, not the least being the conscience of
those men.

We want you—you men and women of respectability—to
come to these "dives," but we want you
to come for another purpose.  Even at this very
moment there is a scope for your efforts in spite
of all change of administration and Christian endeavor
has done for that part of the city.  The stamping
out of vice is carried on vigorously, but vice is
a proverbially obstinate disease.

Only a few nights ago I saw a scene in a widely
known pest hole, reeking with stench beyond its
very doors, which I can only hint at in describing it.

At one of the tables sat a youth, a mere boy, who
had been coaxed into the dirty hole by the persuasion
of the wily "barker" at the side door.  The boy
seemed from the country, his ruddy complexion and
"store clothes" indicated it.  The drink, which he
had been forced to buy, was standing untasted
before him.  Without being afraid, he kept wide
awake and resented all overtures made to him.  But
he looked too much like an easy victim to escape
the usual procedure.

Before he was aware of it, a woman had dropped
into the chair on the other side of the table.  At
least more than fifty years of age, the toothless
wretch assumed the coquetry of a young girl.

The gray hair, devoid of comb or ribbon, hung
in straggling strands to her shoulders.  The front
of her dress was unbuttoned.  Still, this witch of
lowest depravity, lulled her Lorelei song, hoping
to transfix the gaze of the boy—young enough
perhaps to be her grandson—by the leer of her bleary
eyes.

I do not dare, and if I dared, could not tell you
the horridness of this scene, yet it was only a detail
in the grander spectacle, the "good time," seen and
enjoyed nightly by thousands of the "better" class.

Forerunners of the eventually coming overthrow
of "open" vice made themselves felt during some of
the more important elections and for a few weeks
preceding election day the ukase was sent out by
the mysterious hidden powers: "Lie low for a while."

These periods of restriction, while not welcome,
did not involve great hardships for us, the "sports"
of the Bowery.  If the blare of the wheezy cornet
and the thumping of the piano had to be silenced
for the time being, there were other channels in
which the services of the men, who did not care,
could be utilized.

One of the most flourishing industries carried on
was the confidence game in its many guises.

"Ah, all the 'easy marks' go up to the Tenderloin
now," is the cry of the few remaining Bowery
grafters.  Then it was different.

The Bowery was famed from Atlantic to Pacific
for what it offered.  Every day a new consignment
of lambs unloaded itself on this highway of the
foolish and miserable, to be devoured by the
expectant wolves.  The recognized headquarters of the
wolves was at the corner of Pell street.

A few among them were men of some education
and refinement, but the most of them were beetle-browed
ruffians, who seemed ill at ease in their
fine raiment, the emblem of their calling.

To get the stranger's money many means were used.

Sailors, immigrants, farmers and out-of-town
merchants were approached in most suitable
manner, generally by a claim of former acquaintanceship.
To celebrate the renewal of their old friendship
it was necessary to adjoin to the nearby gin-mill.
Here, the stranger, the "refound old friend,"
would not be permitted to spend one cent of his
money—"dear, no, you're my guest."

Next move: The two reunited friends—the wolf
and the lamb—are joined by a third—"an old friend
o' mine," says the wolf.

The newcomer sings one of the many variations
of the old, old theme.  He has just won a lot of
money at a game where no one can lose; or has a
telegram promising beyond a doubt that a certain
horse was to win that day; or has a hundred dollar
bill, which he wants to change; or is broke, and
offers his entire outlay of jewelry, watch, studs and
rings, each one flashing with fire-spitting jewels,
for a mere bagatelle of fifty dollars; or offers to bet
on some mechanical trick toy in his possession, trick
pocketbook or snuff box, and loses every bet to the
wolf—but not to the lamb; or offers to take both,
wolf and lamb, to a "regular hot joint," hinting at
the beautiful sights to be beheld there, which, in
reality, is a "never-lose" gambling device.

Should the lamb prove impervious to all these
temptations, the pleasing concoction called "knock-out
drops" is introduced as most effective tonic.

Sometimes there is a slip in the proceedings, and
the lamb "tumbles to the game" before he is shorn.
This is entirely against the rules of the industry, and
cannot be permitted without being rebuked.  Therefore,
the confidence industry was always willing to
draw its apprentices from the class in which
muscularity and brutality were the only qualifications.

Other industries, now much retrograded, were
the "sawdust," "green goods" and "gold brick"
games.  All these games were vastly entertaining
to all, and vastly profitable to some.  Besides, in
their lower stages, and technically inside of the law,
they gave employment to many young men, who,
like me, were unwilling to use their strength in
more honorable occupation, preferring to be the
slaves of crooked masters and schemes.

Those were not all the ways in which a well-known
tough could earn an honest dollar.  To our
"hang out," sheltering always a large number of
choice spirits, frequently came messengers calling
for a quota for some expedient mission.  We were
the "landsknechts" of the day, willing to serve any
master, without inquiring into the ethics of the cause,
for pay.

Electoral campaigns in this and other cities
furnished much employment.  Capt B——, of Hoboken,
a notorious "guerrilla" chief, was a frequent
employer.  During a heated contest in a small town
near Baltimore, he shipped fifty of us to the scene
of strife to "help elect" his patron.  Five "Bowery
gents," in rough and ready trim, were stationed
near each doubtful polling place, and, somehow,
induced voters, unfriendly to their master of the
moment, to keep away from the ballot boxes.

Local primaries and conventions, regardless of
politics, could never afford to do without us.
To-day we would fight the men, who, to-morrow, would
pay us to turn the tables on our masters of yesterday.

Still, we were loyal to our temporary bosses.  We
offered our strength and brutality in open market.
We asked a price, and, if it was paid, we did our
"work" with a faithfulness worthier of a better
cause.  That this was so is proven by the fact that
not only John Y. McKane, the "Czar of Coney
Island," recruited his police force from among us,
but even reputable concerns, like the Iron Steamboat
Company, and others, engaged men of our class
to preserve order and peace at designated posts.

A number of railroad companies and detective
bureaus, in times of strikes, invited us to aid them
in protecting property and temporary employees,
but, for some reason or other, these offers were
never greedily accepted.

Among the rest of these unlisted occupations
must be mentioned playing pool and cards.  I do not
mean the out-and-out experts of these games
hung around to win money from unwary strangers.
Quite a number of the more "straight" saloons on
the Bowery did not object to having about the place
a crowd of fellows who were fair players of pool or
the games of cards in vogue.  If, by any chance
they lost a game, the proprietor would stand the
loss, and, if they proved exceedingly lucky, he would
give them a percentage of the receipts of the game.

It is rather difficult to enumerate all the different
ways in which a man, who had to live by his "wits,"
could make a living on the Bowery.  They were
many and variegated in their nature.  It was a
saying of the day that all a man had to do then was
to leave his "hang-out" for an hour to return with
enough money to pay his expenses for the day.





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.. _`AT THE SIGN OF CHICORY HALL`:

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   AT THE SIGN OF CHICORY HALL.

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   CHAPTER VI.

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   AT THE SIGN OF CHICORY HALL.

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I have several times mentioned "hang-out."  Most
of these "hang-outs" were ginmills (saloons)
of the better class, but the real Bowery Bohemian
chose odd spots for his haunts.  The most unique
resort in this Bohemia of the nether world was at
Chicory Hall, where my particular gang had
established itself.

It was a basement at the corner of Fourth street
and Bowery.  Originally a bakeshop, it had been
unoccupied for some time, until a coffee merchant
rented it to prepare his chicory there.  One man
constituted the entire working force of the plant,
and it so happened that Tom Noseley, the chicory
baker, was imbued with sporting proclivities.

Do not let us forget that, at the time, the
prize-fighter was a man of consequence to the youths of
the East Side.  To know a pugilist, to have spoken
to him, to have shaken his hand, was an event never
to be forgotten.

Tom Noseley was a very young man.  In the
immediate neighborhood of his basement were many
"sporting-houses."  Tom Noseley was earning
eighteen dollars a week.  What is more natural than
that one of sporting proclivities should become an
enthusiastic patron of "sporting-houses"?

Tom Noseley wanted to number some well-known
pugilists among his acquaintances.  Several
well-known pugilists, I among the number, did not resent
his many invitations to drink with him, and, ere
long, the dream of Noseley seemed fully realized,
for we consented, after much coaxing, to call at his
basement for the pleasant task of "rushing the
growler."

Our first call at the cellar convinced us of its
many attractions.  It seemed just the place for an
ideal "hang-out."  Then, also, there was Tom
Noseley's weekly stipend of eighteen dollars a week,
which he was willing to spend to the last cent for
the "furthering of sport."

Tom Noseley was a hunter of Bowery lions.  I
have been told that in higher social strata different
lions are hunted by different hunters.  Still, the
species do not differ very much from each other.

Men who had "done" a long term in prison; men
who had a reputation for crookedness; men who
were known to make their living without having to
descend to the ignoble manner of working for it,
all these had been fads of Noseley.  Then, the
sporting spirit of the Bowery flared up with great
spluttering, and Noseley, for the nonce, took the
poor, shiftless boxers to his heart of hearts.

We named the cellar "Chicory Hall," and quickly
succeeded in making it known.

The cellar consisted of two large rooms.  Descending
from Fourth street, about a dozen steps
led to the bakeshop.  Four small windows, grimed
with impenetrable dirt, suggested the presence of
light.  The sunlight or cloudy sky found no token
there.  At night one dim flame of gas gave a sort of
humorous weirdness to the filthy hole.

Adjoining the bakeshop was a dark apartment
of the same size as the first room, used as storing
place for the bags of bran, which were used in the
manufactory of chicory.  Shortly after establishing
our headquarters at Chicory Hall, we chose the
storage room as our sleeping chamber, making
unwieldy couches from the heavy, unclean bags.

Certainly we had conveniences, a "front room"
and a "bedroom," what more could we desire?  And
we appreciated it.  Did not I, myself, spend ten
entire days and nights in Chicory Hall without ever
leaving it?

But while Tom Noseley's eighteen dollars a week,
earned by his intermittent labors in baking chicory,
were not to be despised as the substantial nucleus
of our treasury, they were not enough to provide a
little food and much drink for about six able-bodied
prizefighters out of work.  The regular staff
included Jerry Slattery, the Limerick Terror; Mike
Ryan, the Montana Giant; Tom Green and his
brother, Patsy Green; Charlie Carroll and myself.

On Saturday, Tom Noseley's pay day, two or
three of the staff appointed themselves a committee
to accompany our host to the office and to prevent
him from falling into other hands.  His return was
celebrated by feasting on many pounds of raw
chopped meat and drinking many gallons of beer.
Sunday morning found the exchequer very much
depleted, containing, perhaps, just enough to
reflicker our drooping and aching spirits by purchasing
several pints of the vilest fusel oil, parading
under the name of whiskey, ever manufactured.

Sabbath day, the day of rest, as appointed by the
Master, was spent by us in quiet peace.  That the
peace was a consequence of the turbulent hilarity of
the night before, and not a desire to live according
to divine dictates is a mere detail.

At the beginning of our sojourn at Chicory Hall
our feast of Saturday was generally followed by a
famine until the next week's end.  This was
somewhat palliated by a happy inspiration of "Lamby,"
a character of the locality.

"Lamby"—no one knew him by any other name—had
some mysterious hiding and sleeping place, but
was infatuated with our Subterranean Bohemia
and spent all his spare time—which practically
was all his time, excepting the hours dedicated to
sleep—with the Knights of Chicory Hall.  He was
a boy of about seventeen years of age, over six foot
tall, of piping voice and full of most unexpected
opinions and ideas.

There was good stuff in "Lamby," as in many of
the East Side boys, who are, by environment and
circumstances, led into evil, or, at least, useless lives.
"Lamby's" heart was bigger than all his carcass.
To be his friend, meant that "Lamby" thought it
his duty to give three-fourths of all his temporary
possessions to the cementing of this friendship.

I made "Lamby's" acquaintance under inconvenient
conditions.  He was not yet entitled to vote.
This did not prevent him from formulating the
strongest opinions on political personages and
principles.  During the election which made me
acquainted with him, "Lamby" for some unknown
reason, was doing the most enthusiastic individual
"stumping" for the candidate of one of the labor
parties.  It was conceded by the supporters of the
labor ticket that the candidate in question stood
absolutely no chance of being elected and that their
entire list of nominees was only in the field as a
means of making propaganda, of paving the way
for future possibilities.  All this did not deter
"Lamby" from sounding the labor-man's praises
on all and every occasion.

In one of his many eulogies "Lamby" was
opposed by a ward-heeler of the local organization,
who laughing offered to bet any amount that the
much praised candidate would not poll fifty votes.
This roused the ire of the champion of labor.

"Say," cried "Lamby" at his adversary, "you
know I ain't got no money to bet and that's why
you're so anxious to bet me.  If you're on the level
in this, I'll tell you what I'll do.  You put up your
money and if Kaltwasser don't get elected I won't
speak to no human being for a month."

The politician accepted this odd bet and, a few
weeks later, "Lamby," by his own decree, found
himself sentenced to one month's silence.

And "Lamby" loved to talk!

It was a fearful dilemma, but leave it to a Bowery
boy to wriggle out of a scrape.

In one of his rambles, "Lamby" had met Rags,
and, impressed by some similarity in their appearance
and disposition, had appointed him forthwith
his chum and inseparable companion.

Rags was a cur of nondescript origin and breed.
His long, wobbly and ungainly legs barely balanced
a long and shaggy body, draped with a frowsy,
kaleidoscopic mass of wiry hair.  The color of Rags'
eyes could not be determined, bangs of matted locks
wholly screening them from view.

For some obscure reason, "Lamby" conceived the
idea that the use of the lower extremities would
prove injurious to Rags, and the mongrel—surely
weighing at least fifty pounds—spent most of his
time in the loving arms of his adoring friend.

The opportunity to return some of his friend's
devotion, by making himself useful to him, came
to Rags during the period in which "Lamby's"
tongue was restrained from its favorite function
for a month of silence.  "Lamby's" pledge not to
speak to a human being for a month was never
broken, but he found a way of expressing
himself to Rags in such loud and distinct tones that
no one had any difficulty in following the train
of conversation.

There was so much ingenuity in the plan that the
ward politician declared the bet off and presented
"Lamby" with a part of the stake money.

On a Monday, when the feast of Saturday was but
a sweet memory and the famine of the week had set
in with convincing force, Tom Noseley and his staff
of friends—including "Lamby" and Rags, who
hugged the shadowy recess of a corner—sat
disconsolately in the dingy dimness of Chicory Hall.

"Ain't none of you fellows got any money at all?"
queried Jerry Slattery against hope.

The question was too absurd to deserve an answer.

"Well, what are we going to do?" pursued the
Limerick Terror; "I'm hungry as blazes and can't
stand this any longer.  Nothing to eat and nothing
to drink; this is worse than being on the bum
in the country among the hayseeds.  If I don't
get something here pretty soon, I'll go out into the
Bowery and see if I can't pick up something."

The harangue passed our ears without comment.
More deep and dark silence.  Then everybody turned
to where "Lamby's" preambling cough heralded a
monologistic dialogue.

"Rags," began the silent sage of Chicory Hall,
"what would you and me do, if we was hungry
and wasn't as delicate as we are?  Wouldn't you
and me go up to Lafayette alley and look them
chickens over that don't seem to belong to nobody?
Couldn't you and me use them in the shape of one
o' them nice chicken stews with plenty of potatoes
and onions in it?  Ain't it too bad that you and me
is too delicate to be chasing round after them
chickens and that we aren't allowed to speak so's
we could tell other people how to get a meal that'll
tickle them to death?"

Bully "Lamby."

In less than five minutes a small, but determined
gang of marauders made their stealthy way through
Lafayette alley.  Every one of the husky pilferers
endeavored to shrink his big body into the smallest
compass.  The alley ended in a hamlet of ramshackle
stables in the rear of a famous bathing
establishment.  The place was deserted in day time
as all men and animal occupants were in the streets
pursuing the energetic calling of peddling.  As said,
the place was deserted, save for those chickens.
Dating from our first call, the chickens, young and
old, began to disappear.

For over a week we feasted on chicken.  We had
them in all known styles of cooking.  Our bill of
fare included fried, baked, stewed, broiled and
fricasseed chicken.  But a day came when naught
was left of the flock of chicks excepting one big,
black rooster.

I shall never forget him, because it was my fate
to be his captor.

He surely was a general of no mean order.  We
had often hunted him, but he had always succeeded
in eluding us by some cleverly executed movement.

This survivor of his race irritated my determination
and, supported and flanked by my cohorts, I set
out to exterminate the last of the clan.  Sounding
his defy in many cackles and muffled crows the black
hero raced up and down the yard, dodging,
whenever possible, under some of the unused wagons
and trucks standing about.  But escape was impossible.

Driven into a corner he faced me and my bag
with splendid heroism.  He met the lowering
deathtrap by an angry leap, and, when I and bag fell
on top of him, we were greeted by a shower of
furious picking and clawing.

Oh, brave descendant of a brave ancestry, nobly
did you meet the inevitable fate!  You were never
born to be eaten; you were the tough son of a
tough father!  First, you fought right splendidly
against being captured, then, you resisted most
stubbornly against being devoured!  Boiled, stewed,
fried, hashed, you remained tough, and, even in
death, you defied us!  You escaped the destiny of
your weaker brethren, for you were never eaten!

Chicken coops are not many on the Bowery.
Having found and demolished the feathered oasis,
we were again reduced to dire straits.

Again "Lamby" proved our rescuer.

He and Rags, with the story of the extraordinary
bet, were discovered by a reporter and given due
fame in the press.  "Lamby" and Rags became
celebrities and deigned to receive their many callers
in the attractive reception room of Chicory Hall.
A trifle of the glamor reflected on us, the minor
characters in the comedy, and visitors became quite
frequent to behold the "truly charming, typical
Bohemia of the nether world."

But visitors will not call again unless you make
their first visit entertaining.  How could we
entertain them?  Not one of us was as yet of a literary
turn of mind, and were not prepared to
offer readings or selections from Shakespeare,
Lowell or Browning.  Some of us were quite
renowned as comedians, but it is very
doubtful if our humor would have appealed to
the class of people honoring us with their
visits.  There was nothing left to do but to offer
entertainment in the only line in which we all were
proficient.  The reception room of Chicory Hall
became an impromptu arena and fights were fought
down there which, for ferociousness and bloody
stubbornness have never been beaten.

It would be quite logical to suppose here that our
visitors were of the rowdy element, and all of the
male sex.  I wish I could tell you differently, but
the truth of the matter is that the "very best
families" were represented at our nocturnal seances by
younger members of both sexes.

In the course of time Chicory Hall became quite
a "sight place," and it was nothing unusual to see a
string of carriages and coaches in front of the
humble entrance to the subterranean Bohemia.  Would
I were a Balzac to describe to you an evening at
Chicory Hall.

At the foot of the stairs was a circle marked on
the floor with chalk.  No one save the regular
members of the staff were permitted to enter the sacred
precincts without depositing a "voluntary" contribution
in the circle.  Corresponding to the amount
gathered by the circle was the degree of entertainment.

On a row of boxes, crippled chairs, upturned pails
and other makeshift seats, the guests were served
with drinks at their own expense pending the
preliminaries.  Above their heads, traced with white
paint on grimy walls, was this legend in straggling
letters:

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   "WELCOME TO CHICORY HALL!"

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With our increasing prosperity came needed
improvements, and the solitary gas light was reinforced
by a murky smelling kerosene lamp, which I can
never remember having seen topped by an uncracked
chimney.  The door, on account of the lively
proceedings within, had to be kept shut, and you can
easily imagine the atmosphere in the cellar, there
being no ventilation.

Still our guests kept coming and truly enjoyed
themselves because "it was all so charmingly realistic
and odd."

Being the most steady member of Chicory and
rarely absent from the hall, it was quite natural that
I took part in most of the "goes" in the cellar.  I
felt myself in my element.  Neither the Marquis of
Queensberry or the London prize ring rules were
rigidly enforced, and my viciousness had full scope,
our guests—men and women of the "better" class—liking
nothing so well as a "knockout finish."

Mainly through my savageness the last vestige of
regulated fighting disappeared from our "set-tos,"
and our performances fell to the level of
"go-as-you-please" scrimmages.  My reputation as a precious
brute increased rapidly, and again a certain set of
men saw a probability in me.

I was asked if I would fight anything and
anybody under any conditions.  An easy question to
answer for a man, who, in the fullest possession of
all his strength, had no knowledge of any other
controlling influence than his brutal instinct.

Not knowing or caring who my opponent was to
be, I left all arrangements to the enthusiasts, and in
due time was introduced to Mr. Mickey Davis, who
had the great honor of being the champion rough
and tumble fighter of New York.

These were the conditions of our meeting: We
were to be locked in a room, with the privilege of
using any means of defeating each other.  Of course,
weapons were excluded, but any other pleasantries
like biting, clawing, choking, gouging, were not only
allowed, but really essential.  He who first begged
to have the door unlocked and to be taken from the
room was the loser.

I held the championship for some time.  In fact,
I relinquished it voluntarily not long afterward on
account of several changes which occurred in my life.

I should not blame you in the least were you to feel
disgust and contempt for me for writing of it and
for seemingly to glory in it.  Your disgust is
justified, your contempt is not.  I myself am disgusted
with my past and its several stages of degradation,
but I have pledged myself to tell you the truth, and
I am doing and will do it.

Perhaps you may despise me for it, but put yourself
in my place and you will be less severe.  There
was something brewing and fermenting within me
which wanted to assert itself.  I wanted to be
somebody; to be successful.  It is a frank confession.

Will you blame a blind man for choosing the
wrong path at the crossroads?  Will you not,
instead, lead him in the right direction?

Was I not blind when I stood on life's highway
and could not see the pointed finger which read:
"To Decency, Usefulness and Manhood"?

And there was no one to lead me.

Yes, criticise, sneer, if you will, but do not forget
that in my life there had been no parental love or
guidance and no moral influence.

The attaining of my championship revived the
interest of the "sporting set" of the Bowery in me, and
several flattering offers were made to me by certain
dive-keepers.  I changed from place to place and left
such a trail of noble deeds behind me that ere long
I found myself a real, genuine celebrity and a man
with a name.

I never had any difficulty in getting work at my
calling—that of a "bouncer," called, for the sake of
politeness, "floor manager," as my connection with
any place meant additional customers.  I was
splendidly equipped for the position, and my fame kept
steadily increasing until I thought myself on the
sure road to success.

I reasoned the case with myself and drew the
following deductions: I was feared because of my
brutality; I was respected because of my "squareness,"
which had never been severely tempted; I had more
money than ever before; I was wearing well-made,
if flashy, clothes; the grumbling envy of my less
fortunate fellows and chums sang like a sweet refrain
in my ears; I was strong, vicious and healthy.  Why,
why shouldn't I consider myself successful?





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.. _`MY GOOD OLD PAL`:

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   MY GOOD OLD PAL.

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   CHAPTER VII.

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   MY GOOD OLD PAL.

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Here we have reached a stage in my story where
I must introduce to you the dearest friend of all,
my good old pal, my Bill.

Bill is only a dog, but when the doors of my past
banged shut behind me he was the only one able
to squeeze through them into my better life.  He is
the only relic of my other days and a living witness
of remembrance.

And, who can tell, but he, too, may have gone
through a transformation, if that was necessary in
his case.  He was always faithful, true and loyal,
and what would you think of me were I to repudiate
him now?

Those who know me do believe and you will believe
that I have not the shadow of desire to detract
one iota from the work accomplished by my little
martyr, but I would be grossly unjust were I to
deprive Bill of the credit due him for his share in
the making of me.

I am a man; I feel it.  My soul and conscience
tell me so, and to all the forces and factors that
combined in my transformation I owe a debt of
gratitude which deeds only—not words—can repay.
If this mentioning of Bill shall demonstrate to you
that he was of importance in my regeneration, then
I shall have paid part of my debt to him.

Not very long ago the rector of a fashionable
church in New York City came forward with the
blunt claim that dogs have more than intelligence;
that they have souls.  Of course, this assertion
caused a storm of indignation and a flood of
discussion in many circles.  Dogs were rated very low
after that in the list of intellectual values by the
representatives of those circles.

It is fortunate that I am not sufficiently learned or
educated to have an authoritative or deciding voice
in the matter, for it will save me from criticism
when I become too enthusiastic about my good
dumb, soulless brute.

Yet, I wish, pray and hope that he has a soul.

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Between First and Houston street, on the Bowery,
was a saloon which was known throughout the land
as the "hang-out" of the most notorious toughs and
crooks in the country.  Still, the place was nightly
visited by persons called "ladies and gentlemen,"
representatives, specimens, of the "best" classes of
society.

I was employed there as "bouncer."  My nightly
duty was to suppress trouble of any kind and at
all hazards.

The business staff of my employer included a
number of gentlemen who were renowned for their
deftness of touch, and who, at various and frequent
times, had had their photographs taken free of
charge at a certain sombre-looking building in
Mulberry street.

Their code of ethics—never adopted by the public
at large—was most elastic.  Still, there were times
when they did overreach the limits of Bowery
etiquette and then it became my painful duty to rise in
righteous indignation and smite them into seeing the
error of their ways.

One night a middle-aged man of respectable
appearance, evidently the host of a party of
"sightseers," got into a quarrel with a member of the
mentioned gentry.  There was a rumpus of sufficient
volume to distract the attention of the other patrons
from their most important duty, that of spending
their money, and I was forced to take a hand in it.

I quickly ascertained that the "sightseer" and his
friends were lavish "spenders," and, with a great
display of dramatic effect, I ejected the loafer, who
had already become decidedly threatening.  That,
a few minutes later he found his way back again via
the little, ever-handy side door, was a fact not made
public.

My stylish "sightseer" had been somewhat sobered
by the occurrence and was most effusive in thanking
me for having so gallantly rescued him.  A lingering
sense of shame and realization of his position
made him turn homeward, but before leaving he
insisted that I should call at his home on the following
day to be properly rewarded for having prevented
him from falling further into the contumely
of contempt.

Greed was then one of my many besetting sins,
and without losing any time I called at the address
given to me.  It was a rather pretentious dwelling
in one of New York's thoroughfares of ease and
good living, and I could not help speculating on the
moral make-up of a man who could leave this abode
of comfort and home cheer behind to spend his
leisure hours in a "good time" at a Bowery dive.
Even though I could not read or write at that time,
and was not sensible to the world's finer motives,
such an act on the part of a man who had all that
life could give, seemed to be beyond the ken of
human intelligence and my humble understanding.

The reception accorded to me was none too
cordial.  He seemed to regard me as a blackmailer,
and, alas! he was very nearly correct in his
estimate.  After entreating me not to breathe a word
to any living soul about his nightly adventure, he
invited me to follow him to the stable in the rear of
the house, where I was to receive the reward for my
righteous conduct.

My hopes fell at this.

Stables are the lodging places of horses, and I
began to wonder if he could imagine the
consequences were I to attempt to lead a gift horse
through the streets down to the Bowery.  The police,
if in nothing else, are very careful in looking after
strayed horses and delight in finding, by accident,
a pretended owner at the other end of the halter rope.

I mentioned all this to him, but he only laughed
and bade me wait.  He took me to a stall, and there
pointed with pride at a litter of pure-bred bull pups
who were taking a nap at the breast of their mother.
He stooped and, one by one, lifted them up by the
scruff of their necks for my inspection.

I felt disappointed, saw my dream of reward
evaporate, and could not screw up any interest in
the canine exhibition.

My aversion for all dogs dated from my years
as newsboy in Park Row.  One homeless little cur,
a mongrel looking for a bit of sympathy in his
miserable existence, once made friendly overtures to
me.  I was still a brute—bestial, cruel—and sent the
poor thing yelping with a kick.  As soon as he had
regained his footing he waited for his chance and
then bit me in the leg.

Therefore I hated dogs, and reveled in the execution
of my hatred.

I watched the pups with ill-concealed disgust.  The
little fat fellows hung limp and listless until dropped
back into their nest.  Just as I was priming myself
to propose a compromise on a cash basis, a little
rogue, different from his brothers, was elevated for
examination.  Instead of hanging quietly like the
rest of the younger generation of the family, he
twisted and wriggled, while his eyes, one of them
becomingly framed in black, shone with play,
appeal and good nature.

The shadow of a smile must have been on my lips,
for the owner placed the pup in my arms and
presented me with it.

My first impulse was to drop the pup and kick it
back into the stall, but the little fellow seemed to
consider his welcome as an understood thing, and
with a sigh of content snuggled into the hollow of
my arm.  He was on my left side, and his warmth
must have been infective, for I felt a peculiar if dull
glow creep into my heart.

.. _`Bill`:

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   :align: center
   :alt: Bill.

   Bill.

Without exactly knowing what I was doing, I
tucked my new property under my coat and made
my way to my room.  It is a question whether the
pup gained by the exchange of quarters.  My room
was on the top floor of an old-fashioned tenement.
The ceiling was slanting and not able to cope
efficiently with the rain.  Of the original four panes of
glass in the window, only two remained, paper
having been substituted for the others.  There was a
cot, a three-legged chair, and a washstand with a
cracked basin, and a pitcher.

I dropped the pup on the cot, and intended to note
how he would take to his new surroundings.  He
failed to notice them.  First, he squatted down and
looked at me intently.  I must have passed inspection,
for, not seeing me draw closer, he came to the
edge of the bed and gave a little whine.  I meant
to grab him by the neck and throw him to the floor,
but when my hand touched him he felt so soft and
warm, and—well, I patted him.  Of course, I had
no intention of allowing a pup to change the tenor
of my life.  That night I went to the saloon at the
accustomed time and did my "duty" as well as
before.  However, at odd moments, I would think of
the little fellow up in the room.

It had been our custom to spend the major part
of the night drinking and carousing after the close
of business.  But on the morning succeeding the
pup's arrival, I thought it best to go to my room
at once, as he might have upset things or caused
other damage.  That is what I tried to make
myself believe—a rather difficult feat in view of the
pup's enormous bulk and ferocity—not caring to
interpret my feelings.  I opened the door of my attic
room and peeped in.  The little fellow was curled
upon the blanket and did not wake until I stood
beside him.  Then he lifted his little nose, recognized
me, and went off again into the land of canine
dreams.

As I was burdened with the dog, I could not let
him starve.  Therefore, my neighbors had the
wonderful, daily spectacle before them of seeing me,
the champion rough and tumble fighter of the city,
go to the grocery store on the corner and buy three
cents' worth of milk and sundry other delicacies
suitable to my room-mate.  Had they taken it
good-naturedly, I would have felt ashamed and the pup
would have fared badly in his nursing, but my
neighbors sneered and smiled at my unusual proceeding
which did seem rather incongruous, and, mainly
to spite them and give them a chance to break their
amused silence, did I persist in playing my new
part, that of care-taker and nurse to his royal
highness, the dog.

I became used to him, after a fashion, and, though
showering very little affection on the pup, he seemed
to be supremely happy in my company.  We had been
together for some time before I was sure of our
relative positions.  Always finding him asleep on my
return from the saloon, I was surprised to hear him
move about, one morning, as I was inserting the key
in the lock.  I opened the door, and before me danced
the pup in a veritable frenzy of delight at beholding
me.  This not being a psychological essay, only a
plain, true story, I shall not attempt to analyze, but
will tell you straight facts in a straight way.

It was a new, a bewildering sensation to me to
perceive a living being to be so pleased at my
appearance.  It was a new, a strange welcome, perhaps
not entirely unselfish, because milk and good things
to eat generally came with me, but, still, much purer
and more sincere than, the greeting "hello" or
loud-mouthed invitation to drink vouchsafed me by ribald
companions.

I had not yet softened, at least, did not realize
it, or would not admit it, but in occasional,
unobserved moments, a sporadic, spontaneous dropping
of the hard outer shell would come to me and I
would not deny it until my "manhood" whispered to
me: "Why, what is the matter with you?  Are you
not ashamed of giving way to your feelings?  You
are a man, a great, big, tough man, and not supposed
to have any softer emotions.  Get yourself together
and be again a worthy member of your class!"

I must have been in one of these softer moods
on the morning when the pup gave his first
outspoken recognition.  Why I did it, I do not know,
but I lifted the little fellow to my arms and sat
down on the bed.  To us two a critical moment had
come and it was best to make the most of it.

"Do you like me, pup?" I asked in all seriousness.

Bless me, if that little thing did not try to bark
an emphatic "Yes!"  Oh, it was no deep-toned growl
or snarl.  It was the pup's first effort in the barking
line, and it sounded very much like a compound
of whine and grunt.  But I understood and we
settled down to talk the matter over.

I realized that the pup was entitled to be named,
and that matter was first in order.

"See here, pup; you and I are very plain and
ordinary people, and it wouldn't do to give you a
'high-toned' name.  Now, what do you say to 'Bill'?—just
plain 'Bill'?"

The motion was speedily passed, and then Bill
and I went to discuss other questions.

"Bill, you and I aren't overburdened with friends.
If you and I were to die at the same moment, not
even a cock or crow would croak a requiem for us.
Now, I am going to make you a proposition.  You're
friendless, and so am I; you're ugly and so am I;
you belong to the most unintelligent class of your
kind and so do I; why not establish a partnership
between us?"

Bill had sat, watching my lips and looking as wise
as a sphinx, until I asked the question.  He answered
in the affirmative, without a moment's hesitation.

"I'm glad you like my proposition, Bill.  Now
you and I are going to live our own life, without
regard for others.  We're going to stick to each
other, Bill; we're going to be loyal to each other,
and, though we do not amount to much in the
world, to each other we must be the best of our
class.  We're going to be true friends."

I took Bill's paw, and, there and then, we sealed
the compact, which was never broken.

Our relationship being founded on this basis, I
spent a good deal of my spare time in the room,
which until Bill's arrival, had been nothing but
my sleeping place.  Soon the bare walls and the
dilapidated condition of the furniture began to
grate on me and, slowly, I improved our *home*.  I
bought a few pictures from a peddler, purchased
two plaster casts from an Italian, and even
employed a glazier to put our window in good shape.
Bill and I took pride in our home, and thought it
the very acme of coziness.  You see, neither one
of us had ever known a real home.

But dogs, as well as men, need exercise, and, in
the afternoon, attired in our best—Bill with his
glittering collar, on which the proceeds of a whole
night had been expended—we took our walk along
the avenue.  He was beautifully ugly, and the usual
pleasant witticisms, such as, "Which is the dog?"
were often inflicted upon us.  But we didn't mind,
being a well-established firm of partners, who could
afford to overlook the comments of mere outsiders.

In the midst of our prosperity came an unexpected
break.  A reform wave swept over the city
and closed most of the "resorts."  The loss of
my position left us in a badly crippled financial
condition.

Bill and I had lived in a style befitting two
celebrities.  Porterhouse steaks, fine chops, and
cutlets had been frequent items on our bills of fare.
The drop was sudden and emphatic.  Stews, fried
liver, and hash took the place of the former
substantial meals, and our constitutions did not thrive
very well.  It did not even stop at that, for, ere
long, we were regular *habitués* of the free-lunch
counters.  It often almost broke my heart to see
my Bill, well bred and blooded, feed on the scraps
thrown to him from a lunch counter.  But there
was a dog for you!  Instead of turning his nose up
at it, or eating it with growl and disgust, Bill would
devour the pickled tripe or corned beef with a
well-feigned relish.  Between the mouthfuls his
glance would seek mine and he would say, quite
plainly: "Don't worry on my account.  I'm getting
along very nicely on sour tripe.  In fact, it is
a favorite dish of mine."

You poor, soulless Bill, of whom many men;
with souls, could learn a lesson in grit and pluck!

During that spell of idleness our hours in the
room were less cheerful than before.  I must
confess that my "blues" were inspired by material
cares, and not by any regrets or self-reproaches;
but, whatever the cause, they were sitting oppressively
on me, and I often found myself in an atmosphere
of the most ultra indigo.  It did not take Bill
very long to understand these moods, and, by right
of his partnership, he took a hand in dispelling
them.

He would place himself directly in front of me,
and stare at me with unflinching gaze.  Not
noticing any effect of his hypnotic suggestions, he
would go further, and place his paw on my knee,
with a little pleading whine.  Having awakened
my attention, he would put himself into proper
oratorical pose and loosen the flood-gates of his
rhetoric.

"Say, Kil, I gave you credit for more sense and
courage.  Here you are, sitting with your hands
in your lap, and bemoaning a fate which is largely
of your own making.  Besides—excuse me for
being so brutally frank—you ought to be ashamed
of yourself.  Big and strong, you live in idleness, and
now you kick because you are down and out and
deprived of your despicable means of livelihood.
Owen Kildare, brace up and be a man.  You are
not friendless.  I am here.  True, I'm only a dog,
a soulless brute, but I'm your Bill, and we're going
to stick until we both win out!"

You will not offend me by calling me a silly
fool for putting these words into Bill's mouth.
Perhaps I err greatly in believing that Bill was not
without influence over me, or that I could
understand him; perhaps it was all imagination, but, if
it was—and I doubt it—it was good, because, no
matter what it may be, whether imagination,
inspiration or aspiration, if it leads up and not down,
it cannot be too highly appreciated.

There were times when Bill's speech was either
less convincing or my period of blues more
pronounced than usual, and then he would resort to
more drastic measures.  He undertook to prove
by the most vivid object lesson that a buoyancy of
spirits is the first essential.  Dogs, when gay and
playful, run and romp.  Bill made believe he was
gay, and romped and raced and ran.  If you will
take note of the fact that the exact measurements
of the room were fifteen by twelve feet, you can
easily imagine the difficulties opposing Bill's
exercise.  Snorting and puffing, he would cavort about
the narrow precincts, now running into a bedpost,
now bumping against the shaky washstand.  But
he always accomplished his object, because,
before his collapse from his exertions, he never failed
to put me into a paroxysm of laughter.  No "blues"
could ever withstand Bill's method.

Still, he was but a brute—a poor, dumb brute.





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.. _`KNIGHTS ERRANT`:

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   KNIGHTS ERRANT.

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   CHAPTER VIII.

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   KNIGHTS ERRANT.

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An episode, which occurred about this time, took
me into latitudes and scenes never before dreamed
of by me.

As near as I can figure it, the event happened in
March, 1893.  I admit that in view of the seriousness
of the incident my indefiniteness seems strange,
but it is typical of my class.

Since I have moved in different spheres I have
often wondered at this and tried to explain it to
myself.  No other explanation seems to be at hand
except that this disregard of dates, of time and place
is a characteristic of the world Bohemian, whether
on the Bowery or in the Tenderloin.  Recently I
had an illustration of this.

In preparing a story, treating of a certain phase
of Bowery life for a newspaper, I bethought
myself of a man, who had been closely connected with
the very occurrence I intended to mention.  I sent
for him and he came to my house, willing to tell
me all he could remember.  He recalled it all and
graphically described every detail.

At last I asked him to tell me the year and month
in which it had happened.  That caused an
immediate halt in the narrative and many minutes
were spent in serious reflection.  It was of no avail.
We fixed the date of it to be in "about" such and
such a year, and such and such a month, but it was
impossible to accurately settle the year and month.

And this in view of the fact that the occurrence
had been a cold-blooded murder, that my informant
had been an eye-witness of it and had spent several
months in the House of Detention.

Why others are so careless of dates I do not
know and it is not to the point here, but I do know
that in the life of the East Side, every existence is
so crammed full of reality that even the most
important occurrences are only of temporary moment.
There, events are dated by events.

Ask a fellow of the Bowery when he had lost
his father or mother, and he will very likely answer:

"Oh, about five or six years ago."

If you insist on a more precise answer, he will
scratch his head, ponder for a while, and then:
"Let's see!  Yes, the old man died about two months
after I came from the penitentiary on my last bit,
and that was somewhere in 1891."

I was playing my now familiar rôle of bouncer
at "Fatty Flynn's," an ex-convict, who was running
a dance hall and dive at 34 Bond street.  It was only
a few doors from the Bowery and enjoyed a great
vogue among the transient sightseers, traversing
the Bowery in search of "good times."

On the night in question, two Princeton students,
arrayed in yellow and black mufflers and wearing
the insignia of their fraternity, visited the dance
hall in the course of their lark.  It was rather early
for that sort of thing, the place was half-empty, and
I, to do the honors of the establishment and also to
speed their "buying," stepped over to the two young
men for a "jollying" chat.

They were very young, had a considerable amount
of money, and seemed flattered by my mark of
distinction.

We spoke about "sporting" life in general and
they asked me concerning several dives which were
the most notorious of the day.  As I had worked
in every dive of notoriety, it was not a difficult
matter for me to give all desired information.  This
seemed to invite their hunger for knowledge and
they invited me to make the third in their party and
to spend the night in going from dive to dive.  This,
by the way, this unofficial guide-business is another
way in which the man, who has to live by his wits,
turns many an "honest" dollar.

I could not accept the invitation as they held out
no financial inducement and, that not forthcoming,
I felt myself in duty bound to stick to my post and
employer.  However, it was a rainy night, business
was slow and my chances for making any "extra"
money very slim, and I entrusted one of my favorite
waiters with the diplomatic mission of "boosting my
game" with the two students.  Moved by their
curiosity and the skillful strategy of my emissary they
made me an offer which was far more than I had
expected, but which was nevertheless declined by
me, until my persistent refusal to utilize my services
in their behalf screwed their bid up to a figure,
which I could not conscientiously decline.

I made my excuses to "Fatty" Flynn, and, that
done, we started out on our expedition of studying
social conditions and evil.  Measured by dive
time-standards, we had started out too early.  It was
only nine o'clock and the "fun" in the dives hardly
ever began before midnight.  Still, thanks to my
knowing guidance, we found quite a number of
dance halls where we could spend the intervening
hours to the profit of the respective proprietors.

One thing, which soon disgusted me with my
two charges, was that they were unable to stand
much drink.  I warned them against too much
indulgence, as that would incapacitate them for the
pleasures to come, but youth is proverbially
obstinate and they went their whooping way rejoicing.

After having left the "Golden Horn," a well-known
dance hall in East Thirteenth street, we
walked down Third avenue as far as Twelfth street,
where they insisted on going into a gin-mill, which
shed its garish radiance across our path.  It was
not a regulation dive and only known as the
rendezvous of a gang of tough fellows, who made that
part of the thoroughfare none too safe for passing
strangers.  From this it should not be supposed that
they were unkempt in appearance.  Quite the
reverse, they were rather well-dressed.

We happened to drop into the place at a most
inopportune moment.  A crowd of these fellows were
at the bar spending lavishly the proceeds of some
successfully worked "trick."  They were very
hilarious; so were my protégés, and I was kept
constantly on the alert to prevent friction between the
hilarious majority and minority.  It was not my
policy to become embroiled in any useless rows
and I entreated the students to continue on our way
downtown.  But they were not in a condition to
listen to reasoning and, attracted by several unclean
stories told by members of the other faction, began
to treat the "house" and intermingle with them.

There seemed to be no immediate prospect of any
disturbance, and I permitted myself to leave the
room for a few minutes.  On my return the scene
had completely changed.  The crowd had closed
around the students and were threatening them.
I learned afterward that one of the students had
taken umbrage at the rough familiarity of one of
the gang and had attempted to hit him.  The
situation seemed critical, but not dangerous, and I was
about to smooth matters, when my eye caught the
reflection of some suspiciously glittering object.
It was a knife in the hand of the tough offended
and only partly concealed by the sleeve of the coat.

He was sneaking around the crowd to get beside
his intended prey and had almost reached him
when I decided to interfere.  I had not measured my
distance well, for just as I jumped between the two
men, the knife was on its downward path and found
the fulfillment of its mission in my neck.

A three-inch cut, a tenth part of an inch from the
jugular vein, is not exactly the sort of souvenir
one cares to take with him from an evening
dedicated to "fun" and "good times."  And when it
confines one to the hospital for several weeks, it
becomes a decided bore.  All this was recognized
by my new found friend, the student, who had been
the indirect cause of my disfigurement, and
having in the meantime, been expelled from his college
for some wild escapade, he decided to show his
gratitude to me, for what he was pleased to call "having
saved his life," by taking me abroad.

"You are not educated.  Travel is the greatest
educator, therefore, I will show you the world."

It did not require much coaxing to accept the
proposition, and after arranging for a boarding-place
for my good, old Bill, we started out to see
the world.

The next six months were and are like a dream
to me.  I was perfectly willing to have the world
shown to me, but am inclined to believe that I had
a rather imperfect demonstrator.  To be quite
candid, I doubted if my fellow-traveler was any more
familiar with the world at large than I was.

At any rate, after a hurried and zig-zagged jaunt
through Europe, we landed in Algiers with a
fearfully shrunken cost capital.  The cafés of that
African Paris certainly broadened my education.

An expected remittance from home failed to
arrive and my partner fell into a trance of deep and
pondering thought.  The conclusion of it was that
we, by decree of my "college chum," were forthwith
appointed adventurers, soldiers of fortunes,
dare-devils and anything else that could make us
believe our miserable, stranded condition was the
stepping stone to great, chivalrous deeds to come.
We enlisted in the Legion of Strangers.

But chivalry loses half of its charm when it
comes in red trousers, blue jacket and on the back
of a bony Rosinante, carrying you through stretches
and stretches of glowing, burning sand.  In short,
the life of an African trooper, banished into the
interior and subsisting on food as foreign to a Bowery
stomach as the jargon spoken by his messmates,
had absolutely no charm for me.

I am not very good at disguising my moods and
emotions, and that I was homesick, that my heart,
in spite of the excitement of the occasional
skirmishes, yearned for my old Bowery, became
apparent to my brother in misery.  Then, a stranger
coincidence, it also cropped out that my partner
would much prefer to be on Broadway or Fifth
avenue than in the dreary stockade of Degh-del-ker.

Alas, then, the railroad system of that part of
Africa was hardly in existence, and even if it had
been, it would not have been advisable for us to take
berths of civilization, as the government foolishly
wanted to retain our valuable service.  History
informs me that, shortly after our departure the
garrison of Degh-del-ker had several disastrous
encounters with some of the rebellious tribes, which
would have probably resulted differently had we
two lent our arms and strength to the cause of the
tri-colored flag.

I mention this merely for the purpose of explaining
the delicacy with which I have related this
experience.  Neither my friend nor myself have the
slightest intention of becoming the unfortunate
causes for international complications between our
own country and France, for having bereft the
latter of two such valiant warriors as ourselves.

We of the Bowery love colors and I had often
had a potent wish that I could show myself in all the
glory of my gaudy raiment to the gang of my
old, beloved street.  A Bowery boy in blue coat and
red trousers, with clanking sabre by his side, I
would have made the hit of my life if appearing
thus attired in my favorite haunts.  However, this
pleasure was denied to me.

We managed to procure less stunning costumes
and successfully besting the sentinels, started on
our march for the coast.

It was a fearful trip.  For six long weeks we
plodded on through blinding sand and blistering
heat, carefully avoiding all native villages and, yet,
often saved from perishing just in the nick of time
by tribesmen, who found us in helpless state in
hiding places.

From the coast we shovelled our way across the
Mediterranean in the boiler-room of the good ship
St. Heléne.  It was suffocating work, and time and
again, we were hauled up from the regions of below,
thrown on the deck, and revived by streams of cold
water.

At last, we steamed into the harbor of Marseilles,
where we expected to find a letter of credit.  It
was there and we both fell on our knees in the most
sincere thanksgiving ever offered.

Nothing more can be told in relation to this
episode, excepting that we both felt we had been
sufficiently educated by seeing the world and that we
were urgently needed at home.

We lost no time in getting there.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`A PLAYER OF MANY PARTS`:

.. class:: center large bold

   A PLAYER OF MANY PARTS.

.. vspace:: 3

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER IX.

.. class:: center medium bold

   A PLAYER OF MANY PARTS.

.. vspace:: 2

You will easily believe me when I tell you that
my very first task on coming home was to look up
my good, old pal, my Bill.

His temporary home was a stable.  The owner
of it was an old acquaintance of mine and I was
satisfied that Bill had been well treated during my
absence.  But how I had longed for him!

In Europe and Africa I had seen dogs of purest
breed and best pedigree, but, to me, they were
only as mongrels when compared to my Bill, my
loyal boy.  There had not been a day in our travels,
when I had not asked myself the question: "I
wonder what Bill is doing just now?"

And here I was home and rushing up to meet my pal.

The owner of the stable met me at the door and
congratulated me on my safe return.  Then he grew
serious and began: "See, here, Kil, whatever we
could do for Bill, we did, but there's something
the matter with him.  He's off his feed and not
half the lively dog he used to be."

I did not wait to hear any more, but went to
look for Bill.  Up in the hayloft I caught a glimpse
of him.  On a bale, nearest to the dilapidated
window, there lay my Bill, the picture of loneliness.  He
looked right straight in front of him and never
shifted his eyes.

I stood and watched him for a few minutes, then,
stepping behind a post, whispered: "Bill."

One ear went up, the eyes blinked once or twice,
but otherwise he remained unchanged.  He was
afraid to trust his sense.

Again I whispered: "Bill, Oh Bill," and then hid
myself.

I did not hear him move, but when I peeped out
from my hiding place I found the gaze of his true
eyes upon me and, with a whine and cry, my Bill
and I were partners once again.

What a meeting that was I cannot describe to
you, and, were I to attempt it, you would laugh
at our silliness.  Still, I think that some of you
would not laugh and you will need no description
of the scene.

That night saw Bill and me back in our ramshackle
attic, and we sat up late into the morning
exchanging experiences.

Divedom was still flourishing.  The reform
movement had subsided after the election, and things
grew livelier every day.  In spite of my ocean
voyage and change of scene, my health was not very
good, and it took considerable time to eliminate all
traces of my African adventure.

There is an old German saw, which reads that
any one that goes travelling can tell a good many
tales afterward.  Not being strong enough to take
up my former calling of "bouncer," I hung around
the back room of Steve Brodie's place on the
Bowery, and became a raconteur par excellence.  It was
not my rhetoric or elocution which made me the lion
of the hour.  It was solely the recapitulation of my
trip, and, particularly my African experience.  This
should not astonish you, for, I beg to assure you,
Bowery boys are not in the habit of extending their
tours to the Dark Continent, confining their
excursions mainly to Hoboken and other convenient
picnic grounds along the Hudson or East River.

I cannot mention the name of Steve Brodie without
relating to you a curious phase of fraud, which
is not entirely without humor.  In saying this, I do
not refer to Mr. Steve Brodie's accomplishments
in the bridge jumping line.  Whether he really did
jump from the Brooklyn and other bridges is a
question, which will never disturb the equanimity
of the world's history.  I may have my opinion and
a foundation for it, but have neither the inclination
or time to air it.

It was not very long before the stories of my
travels had been told and told again, until every
one of the *habitués* of the Brodian emporium was
surfeited with them.  This largely curtailed the
number of drinks bought for me by admiring listeners,
and I was sorely puzzled how to fill this aching
void.  I was not yet fully able to "hustle" very
much, and still stuck to the sheltering shadow of
Steve Brodie's back room.

It was the veriest chance that put me in the way of
a new "graft" and again brought me the surety of
food and drink.  I became a splendid exemplification
of the saying that life is but a stage and we
players of many parts.

The scheme developed finally owing to prevalent
hero-worship.  Take the greatest celebrity of the
day, push him into a crowd which is not aware of
his identity, and he will pass unnoticed.  But only
properly label him and the multitude will kneel
before the erstwhile nonentity.

Now, while we always have the inclination for
hero-worship, heroes are rather scarce and not
always handy for the occasion.  This is especially
the case on the Bowery, where quantities of heroes
are always supposed to be waiting around, "but
ain't."  Their supposed presence draws the usual
attendance of worshippers, and it was solely for
the purpose of not wishing to disappoint these
worthy people that Steve Brodie, with my co-operation,
decided upon a plan, which proved satisfactory
from the start, and was the means of conveying
many pleasant recollections into the houses of many
uptown people and into the rural homes of our land.

The plan itself was very simple, and was originated
by John Mulvihill, at the time the dispenser of
liquids of the Brodie establishment.

The Horton Boxing Law had not yet been
thought of, and the fistic cult had more followers
than ever before.  A few of the lesser lights of
pugilism had their permanent headquarters at
Brodie's, while some aspirants for champion honors
and even real champions dropped in whenever
happening to be in the neighborhood.

Brodie's well engineered fame and the many odd
decorations and pictures in the place did not fail
to draw the many, and they, after inspecting Brodie
and the other oddities, invariably inquired if "some
prominent fighters" were not present.  As a rule,
Johnnie Mulvihill was able to produce some
celebrity to satisfy this craving of the curious, but
there were times when the stock of stars was very
low; then the mentioned plan was resorted to.  It
was the inspiration born of emergency.

On a certain evening I happened to be quietly
sitting in the desolated back-room.  Business was
dreadfully slow.  My quiet was suddenly disturbed
by Mulvihill, who came tearing through the
swinging doors.

"Say, Kil, you got to do me a favor.  Steve is
out, and there ain't a single solitary man in the place
whom I can introduce to the bunch I got up against
the bar.  They just came in and are fine spenders,
but I'll lose them if you don't do this for me."

Mulvihill's request was not fully understood by
me, yet, owing him many debts of gratitude for
having given me a drink on the sly and for having
often shared his corned beef and cabbage with me,
I was quite willing to do him the favor desired,
which, I thought, would be nothing else than to
"jolly" the men at the bar into the buying of more
drinks.

"No, no," interjected Mulvihill, "that ain't what
I want you to do."

He immediately unfolded his scheme, which was
nothing more or less than that I should face the
expectant as a pretended Jack Dempsey, famous
throughout the land as one of the best and squarest
fighters that ever entered a ring.

Naturally, I rebelled, not wishing to expose myself
to an easy discovery of the palpable fraud, but
Mulvihill pleaded with his most persuasive voice.

"Don't you see, those fellows don't know Jack
Dempsey from Adam.  Any old thing at all would
convince them they are in the presence of the real
man, and you know enough about Jack Dempsey
and his history not to be tripped up by those
fellows, who never saw a prize fight in their lives."

Who could resist such gentle pleading?  I
could not, and followed my mentor in the path of
deception.

Assuming the proper pose, I stepped into the
barroom and was ceremoniously introduced by
Mulvihill to the "easies," who had traveled quite a
distance to bask in the radiance of a real fighter.

"Gentlemen, permit me to introduce you to the
famous champion of the world, Mr. Jack Dempsey,"
quoted the artful Mulvihill, and, thereby, started
me in a repertoire, which, in the number of different
rôles cannot be surpassed by the most versatile
actor.

The visitors pumped my hands and arms with
fervid enthusiasm and showed their appreciation of the
honor afforded them by copious buying of many
rounds of drinks.

Well, the ball had been set rolling and it was a
long time before it stopped.

The plan proved surprisingly profitable, at least
for Steve Brodie, and although Mulvihill and I
had to be satisfied with the crumbs from the feast,
we had a lot of fun out of it and that was no mean
recompense.  You can imagine some of it, when I
tell you that rather often some of the "sightseers"
would bring themselves to my remembrance (?) by
recalling to me something, which had happened
to me (?) in their own town, or how they had seen
me defeat Tom, Dick or Harry by one mighty
swing from my tremendous left.

If there was fun in it, there was also some
embarrassment attached to it.  The male sex is not the
only one which admires physical prowess, and ladies,
escorted by gentlemen, appeared quite frequently
at this newly founded shrine of pugilistic worship.

I cannot recollect having ever been so confused
as I was on a certain night when I was cast for
the rôle of Jake Kilrain, the man who tried to
wrest the heavyweight championship from the
redoubtable John L. Sullivan.  In my limited but
appreciative audience were several ladies.

A short while after my introduction I noticed
a lot of whispering among the ladies.  One, the
spokeswoman, stepped over to me and presented
the guest of the others.

"Oh, Mr. Kilrain, you must have a perfectly
developed arm and chest.  They are necessary in
your profession, are they not?  And may we not
have the privilege of testing your strength?"

Before I fully realized what they intended to do
they had gathered around me and with many "oh's"
and "oh, my's" they began to feel my biceps and
to prod me in the chest.

Of course, this was only an odd occurrence, and
did not happen every night, but it did not help me
to respect my "betters."

It was also very embarrassing when, at the same
time, I had to "double" and even "treble."  As an
illustration, just let me tell you that in one evening,
and at the same time, I represented Jack McAuliffe
at the head of the bar, Mike Boden at the end of it,
and Johnny Reagan in the back-room—all well-known
pugilists and champions in their class.  My
audiences were especially annoying that night,
holding me down to dates and details and keeping me
on the edge of apprehension lest I should mix my
identities.

Also, on a certain auspicious occasion, while
portraying a certain renowned pugilist with admirable
accuracy, the said pugilist happened to appear on
the scene in person and it was only his true friendship
for me which prevented the imitation ending in
a fizzle, if not worse.

Now, when all that lies behind me and belongs
to a different world and personality, I cannot fail
to see the wrongness of it, but, at the time of its
happening, I cannot deny having often laughed heartily
at the silliness of those gaping curiosity-seekers.

Later, when on account of a disagreement with
Steve Brodie, I transferred my headquarters to the
palace of the king—Barney Flynn, the King of the
Bowery—at the corner of Pell street and the
Bowery, we instituted another fraudulent scheme
intended to interest and entertain our many friends
and provide drink and small change for us.

The palace of the King of the Bowery is not
a very imposing building.  On the ground floor a
saloon, overhead a lodging house, it serves the two
purposes of refreshing and resting the subjects of
his majesty.  For two weighty reasons the saloon
has always been the Mecca of the curious.  It is,
so to speak, the entrance-gate to Chinatown and,
also, the official address of Chuck Connors.

Besides the transient crowds of nightly visitors
to Chinatown, the saloon is often honored by calls
from literary personages.  For some time, it seemed
to be the proper thing for writers of a certain genre
to come there to study types.

.. _`A Typical Group at Barney Flynn's Side-Door`:

.. figure:: images/img-140.jpg
   :align: center
   :alt: Jackey Doodles. Barney Flynn. Jumbo. "Chuck" Connors. A typical group at Barney Flynn's side door.

   Jackey Doodles. Barney Flynn. Jumbo. "Chuck" Connors. A typical group at Barney Flynn's side door.

Right here let me say, that, without wishing to
discredit any writer of dialect stories, I have yet
to find the story which presents the idiom of the
Bowery as it is spoken.  I have taken the trouble
to compare different stories—each one guaranteed
to be a true and realistic study of the
underworld—written by different writers and the discrepancies
in the dialect are flagrant.

One, throughout his entire tale, puts "youse" in
the mouth of his most important character.  The
other only uses "ye."  One spells the question:
"Do you?"; the other phrases it: "D'you?"

Perhaps this also applies to other stories written
in New England or Southern dialect, but whether
it does or not, it seems to be a case of "you pays
your money and you takes your choice."

I have yet to see the "low life" story which is not
studded with "cul" and "covey."  Take my advice
and do not use this form of address on the Bowery.
They would not understand it and, therefore, would
feel insulted.

Also, the men of the East Side are not so lacking
in gallantry as to call their lady loves "bundles" and
other similar names.

Then, in the matter of emphatic language the
writers are far from hitting the target.  The favorite
phrase is "Wot'ell," which is a hundred leagues
removed from the distinct utterance with which this
dainty bit of conversation is used by a Bowery
boy in a moment of rhetorical flight.

So I might cite hundreds of instances.

The same carelessness of detail is manifested in
other things, when writing about us.  They are
not all important errors or serious mistakes, but
are grave enough to prove the unreliability of those
"true East Side studies."

A writer, who for a considerable time, has been
accepted as an authority on conditions in the
underworld, is the most profligate in calling beings
and things of the sphere he describes by their wrong
name.  He persists in claiming that thieves are
called "guns" by police and fellows.  Every man,
who has lived all his life on the Bowery, as I have,
knows that "gun" means an important personage.
A millionaire is a "gun," so is a prominent lawyer,
or a politician, or a famous crook; in short,
anybody who is foremost in his profession or calling,
be he statesmen or thief, is a "gun."

The Bowery is not hard to reach and, if so
inclined, you can easily test my assertion.  Take a
page from one of the many East Side stories extant
and read it to a typical Bowery boy and he will ask
you to interpret it for him.

The East Side dialect does not abound in slang.
Whatever of it there is in it has been absorbed from
the Tenderloin and other sources.  To coin a funny
slang phrase one must have time to invent and try
it.  They have no time for this on the East Side,
where even time for schooling cannot always be
spared.  And that accounts for ungrammatical
expressions and whimsically twisted sentences, but
not for the idiotic gibberish and forced coinages
of words slipped onto the tongues of my people.

The courtiers of the King of the Bowery, being
a good-natured set of fellows, did not wish to curb
the fervency of the literary "gents," and did their
best to supply the ever-increasing demand for types.

The inner sanctum of the royal palace was divided
from the outer room by the usual glass and wood
partition.  As Barney Flynn, the King of the
Bowery, was a genial and jovial monarch, the more
secluded chamber did not resemble a throne-room
so much as a rendezvous of kindred spirits.  It was
a specimen of another strata of nether world Bohemia.

Tables and chairs were about the place in picturesque
disorder.  On the walls were three gigantic
oil paintings, "done" by a wandering Bowery artist
for his board and lodging, including frequent
libations.  In one corner was the voluntary orchestra,
consisting of Kelly, the "rake," the fiddler, and
Mickey Doolan, the flute-player.  Their day's work
over—they were both "roustabouts" along the river
front—the two court musicians would take their
accustomed seats, and, without paying much attention
to those present, would fiddle and flute themselves
back again to their own green shores of old Erin.

They are pathetic figures, these men of the Bowery,
who live their evenly shiftless lives in dreams
of days passed, but not forgotten.

Being directly in the path to and from
Chinatown, Barney Flynn's saloon was, at odd times,
visited by the sociological pilgrims to this centre
of celestial colonization.  One night, a writer
happened to stumble into the place.  Whether his
impressions were perceived in normal or abnormal
condition is not known.  The "gang" was engaged in
a little celebration of its own, were observed by the
writer, and, forthwith, Barney Flynn's and the
royal staff became a mine for authors of low-life
stories.

With the acumen acquired in my dive training,
I saw very soon that those coming to study us were
most willing to pay for grotesquely striking types.
The "real thing" had very little interest for them.
What were we to do?  To get the money we had
to be types, therefore, whenever the word was passed
that a searcher for realism—with funds—had
arrived, we put on our masks, lingual and otherwise,
to help along the glorious cause of literature.

No good purpose would be accomplished were
I to mention the names of authors, who portrayed
us so correctly.  They are now celebrities with more
paying aims.  Their stories of us are still remembered,
but only because of their "beautiful and pure
sentiment," and not because of their "true
realism."  The latter differs with every writer and has
bewildered the casual reader.

I am strongly tempted to call by name one, whose
glory as demonstrator was dimmed in an unexpected
manner.  The writer in question had come here
from Philadelphia, preceded by a reputation for
his sympathy with those in the slums.  Several
of his "low down" stories had been hailed as the
models for all the other writers of that tribe.

With his usual aggressiveness, not devoid of a
touch of almost medieval dash and chivalry, this
young man threw himself into the study of New
York slums with wonted ardor, and, naturally,
mastered the subject almost immediately.  Being
socially well-connected, or, rather, being well-taken
up by society, he had no trouble in interesting
his friends in his hobby.  He was not niggardly
in the spending of his money and quite popular
on that account with my friends in Barney Flynn's.
As a matter of fact, this promising young writer—a
promise since then fulfilled—was a favorite of
the highest and lowest; verily, an enviable position.

With note-book in hand, this young man sat
among us for hours, jotting down phrases and slang
expressions, manufactured most laboriously and
carefully for the occasion.  The interest of his friends
increased, and one night we were honored by a
visit of a large party of ladies and gentlemen,
piloted by the aforesaid author.

Before the precious cargo had been unloaded from
the cabs and hansoms, word had been taken to the
back-room.  As actors respond to the call of the
stage-manager, so did we prepare ourselves to play
our parts with our well-known finesse and correctness
of detail.  By that I mean, that we knew what
was expected of us and that we emphasized our
"characteristics" as we had seen them burlesqued
on the stage.

The promising young writer was in his glory.
With irrepressible glee, he introduced us, one by one,
to his admirers, watching the effects of our "quaint"
salutations.  The chorus of enthusiastic approval
was unanimous.  We were "absolutely charming,"
"perfectly thrilling," and "too droll for
anything."  Encouraged by this warm reception of our feeble
efforts, we surpassed ourselves and assault, battery,
murder was committed on the English language
in most wilful frenzy.  Taking it all in all, it was
a gem of slum mosaic, and is still remembered by
most of the offenders.

Having given our performance and exhausted
our programme, we were told by our friends how
"very glad, charmed and delighted" they had been
at meeting us.

The doors had barely closed behind the last of
the promising young author's friends, before all
the performers rushed up to the bar to spend the
money given to them for their instructive
entertainment.  The comments on the visitors were many
and very much to the point, but were not uttered
in the manufactured dialect.  There was much
laughter and many imitations of our late audience,
and none of us had noticed that the promising
young author, accompanied by a few of the party,
had returned to look for a pair of gloves forgotten
by one of the ladies.  Part of our conversation
was overheard and the laugh was at the writer's
expense.

Of course, we instantly endeavored to rectify
our mistake and fell back to addressing each other
as "cull" and "covey," but, somehow, the effect
was not convincing.

One of his friends turned to the promising young
author on leaving:

"Old man, you certainly deserve another medal
for this, but this time, it should be a leather one."

I did not know then to what the above remark referred.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`BOWERY POLITICS`:

.. class:: center large bold

   BOWERY POLITICS.

.. vspace:: 3

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER X.

.. class:: center medium bold

   BOWERY POLITICS.

.. vspace:: 2

The death-knell of divedom had been sounded
by the legislature.  Albeit, it had been sounded
before, without stopping the dives from resurrecting
themselves.  But vice had become so rampant, so
nauseating that the righteous of the city braced
their backbones a trifle stiffer than usual and
insisted on having a committee of investigation
appointed.

All the daily papers heralded the coming of the
inquisitors in big head lines, and the inhabitants
of divedom began to quake in their shoes like
fallen angels on the eve of judgment day.

Shortly before the beginning of the upheaval, I
had overcome one of my many spells of lassitude
and gentlemanly idleness and had accepted the
position of bouncer in the "Slide," the most
notorious dive which ever disgraced a community.

When a body is covered with a cancerous growth,
the most dangerous ulcer is the first to receive the
surgeon's attention.  For that reason, the "Slide"
was the first to be put under the prying probe.
The investigation was thorough.  The investigators
and prosecuting officials, stimulated by fear of public
censure and thoughts of political advancement, were
merciless, and, as a consequence, the "Slide" was
closed forever and the nominal proprietor sent to
jail.

Without waiting for further developments, the
other dive-keepers retired from business and a
general cleansing process struck all quarters of the
city.

The immediate effect of this was that a shifting
of quarters of the vicious began.  The harlots,
bereft of their known places of business, hid
themselves in the obscurity of virtuous surroundings,
and the male element of the lowest dives
congregated on the Bowery, ever the dumping-ground of
human scum and offal.  In a short time, the Bowery
was full of a muttering crowd of able-bodied men,
each one cheating the world out of an honest day's
labor, all proclaiming loudly at the injustice which
deprived them of their "living."  Even the
recollection is loathsome.

In company with a number of fellows who, like
me, were "thrown out of work" by this "uncalled-for
interference," we established headquarters in a
ginmill owned by a legislator.  As a matter of course,
the "back-room," seemingly a legislative annex,
was very much in evidence, and by no means
subdued in its proceedings.  If anything, the business
behind the "partition" had increased in volume
since the other dives, operated by less influential
citizens, had been obliged to close.  So we have here
another of the many paradoxes of our political
conditions.  While his fellow-legislators were
scouring the city with really commendable zeal to rend
the evil-doer limb from limb, this being of their
kin could be seen daily in front of his hall, sunning
himself in the radiance of his increased prosperity
and influence, and looking with self-satisfied smile
across Chatham Square at the closed windows of
minor dives.

Yes, as the Romans clothed the men of wisdom
and love of country in the flowing robes of dignity
and called them patriots, statesmen and senators, so
do we take—take by the will of the people—the
men fat of jowl and fat of paunch from beneath us
and place them above us in the seats of the mighty
and give them power over us.  And if you would
growl at my saying "from beneath us to above
us," and would wrathfully confront me with the
slogan of political and other equality, I would not
wish to stand in your way of being their equal, but
would have trifling respect for your integrity.  As
I tell the stars by seeing them and find but small
difference in their lustre, so do I tell the rascals by
their rascality, and there is small difference in the
degrees of rascality.

Senators!  Rome and Albany!  Would the difference
of time, of centuries, were the only one between them!

In all governments by and for the people, the
making of the nation lies with the common people;
that great mass, which you would call "rabble"
were it not for the continental sound of the word
and the danger of being quoted.  An ever-watchful
press keeps its eye on you, and would readily
pillorize you as an offender against the most sacred of
our possessions and privileges; our sacred freedom;
our sacred equality; our sacred franchise, and, by
no means lastly, our sacred screaming eagle,
screaming ofttimes from veriest agony.  The buncombe of
press and loud-mouthed gabbers has decreed it to
be treason to see the truth and to speak it, and you
must, to be above suspicion of being a traitor to the
land you love, on the Fourth of July let off in
sissing streams of pyrotechnics your patriotism,
which, after its one gala day, is forgotten for the rest
of the year in the strenuous pursuit of getting all
you can out of "what's in it."

The common people of the fields and meadows
plow, sow and reap their harvest.  They pluck the
weeds from out among the useful growth and stamp
them under foot.  The common people of our cities
live "downtown"—that vague and indefinite
region—in tenement and barracks.  (Notice how "down"
and "common" always run together).

They have no knowledge of agriculture, and, with
their seldom sight of plant or flower, even the
stink-weed, for it is leafed and green, finds a welcome and
place among them through their ignorance.  Yes,
more, it is cared for and nurtured until, as all
ill-weeds, it grows to tremendous proportions,
overshadowing and dwarfing those who have spared its
life instead of plucking it out by the roots and
pressing the heel upon it.

Who plants the weeds?  Who is their sower?
They care not.

Does not the same blessed sunshine and dew of
heaven fall upon them as on the corn and roses?
And do they not get more of it than the flower and
the fruit-bearing plant?  For they are greedy and
strive for that which is not theirs according to merit.

Not most, but all the men, who played their part
in our history so well as to be immortalized forever
were self-made from the field and farm.  Remember
that there they destroy the weeds!

Not most, but all the men, who have made it a
risk to a fair name and reputation to become
actively engaged in the affairs of one's own country
and state were self-made from the slums and
gutters, with their only chance of immortalization via
Rogues' Gallery.  We of the city do not destroy
the weeds!

They of the gutter, who have been forced upon
and above the multitude, if not caught or not too
notoriously prominent, keep the data of their
success and formulative period secret.  If, however,
they run foul of the calcium, which often strikes,
unexpectedly, dark places, they become arrogantly
defiant in their ill-gotten might.  Even against the
scorn of the decent and to the awe of their own
kind, they swing themselves onto the pedestal of
the self-made man and strike their pose.  All that is
intended as a parallel to several rail-splitting and
canal-boating men in our little history, who, as a
"patriot" remarked, deserve a whole lot of credit
"even if they was farmers."

Then, when forced into the public focus from
their disturbed obscurity, is theirs the cry of
repentance?  Do they sob and cry: "Peccavi!  Yes,
I have sinned!  I have wronged you and my
country!  Have mercy and forgive!"

If it were that it would be the cry of a tortured
soul, rotten and distorted, yet still a soul and worthy
of the chance of atonement.  No; what reaches us
from the usurped pedestal is the self-satisfied grunt
of the swine: "Look and behold!  You know or can
surmise what I have been!  Look now and wonder
at what I am and how I got there!"

Surely this affront is resented and the daring
knave pulled from his lofty perch to be punished for
his insults and ill deeds?  Some are foolish and
un-American enough to suggest such a course of
proceeding.  But what really does happen is a taking
up of that refrain of self-adulation by the admiring
throng.  There in almost worshipping attitude, we
find that the chicaning game of politics makes mates
of all sorts and conditions of men, and pickpocket
and tax-paying citizen, cut-throat and that very
peculiar animal, the intelligent workingman, all
kneel in equal humility before the rum-soaked idol
of their own creation.

A subject for deep guesswork is where the
workingman keeps his well advertised intelligence.  To
claim to be one thing and then prove yourself the
opposite, which, in this case means a fool, is a rather
absurd proceeding.  Presumably a good part of that
intelligence is occupied in defending their rights,
which nobody assails.  Howling and haranguing do
not require much intelligence, and of both the
"intelligent" workingman does more than enough and
to no purpose.  When the time of his usefulness
approaches—although it should be the time for him
to assert himself—he stops his howling and listens
to the strongly flavored persuasion of the wily
politician—the weed he permitted to grow and to
prosper—and becomes the gently led sheep, to awaken
after election and find himself the twin brother of
the donkey.  They will not recognize that far
better, by virtue of his sincerity, would be the sincere
demagogue as leader than the dishonest politician
of the gutter breed.

No man can choose his birthplace.  Mansion and
tenement have each furnished their quota of honest
and dishonest men.  If he of the gutter gets above
it and gets there by means which are those of a man
and an American, he will not lack the respect and
esteem of those whose ranks he has fought to join.
That is what proves this the land of opportunities
and therein lies true equality.

There is another way to get out of the gutter,
and that was the way employed by statesmen of the
stamp of the Hon. Michael Callahan, of the State
Legislature.

Mike Callahan's place in horticulture was most
decidedly among the rankest weeds.  "Lucky"
Callahan, as he was sometimes called, had escaped the
inconvenient calcium of public opinion, and, on that
account, little was known about his origin, except
by his intimates.  Perhaps bootblack, perhaps
newsboy, he had early learned to make himself
subservient to his superiors, genial to his equals and
condescending to his inferiors.  Of course, these social
lines were drawn by him according to his viewpoint.

Mike's striving for political recognition was
aggressive from the start, and, having no other aim or
ambition, he threw himself into the game of
intrigue and wire-pulling with all his energetic
intensity.  Never questioning, always obeying, he
became the ideal plastic mass to be molded by the
enterprising chiefs of the organization.  His
promotion from ward heeler to captain, and from captain
to the leadership of the district was his logical
reward.

Yet, even in spite of his usefulness, his ascendancy
to the leadership was not accomplished in a day.
He did not mind this much, his bulldog tenacity
keeping him alive to his ultimate purpose.  His
manhood and individuality, whatever they might
have been, had long been sacrificed.

To strengthen his own power in the district it was
necessary to weaken the influence of the incumbent
leader, and, to effect this, knowing nothing of
diplomacy, Callahan resorted to plain treachery.
The fact that the leader to be deposed had been his
benefactor and stanch friend was of small moment.
Certainly Mike was sorry, but what could he do?
Take a back seat and beat himself out of his
chances?  "Not much," said he, and invented the
useful and often quoted phrase, "Friendship in
poker and politics don't go."

Mike's assumption of the leadership was worked
by decisive methods.  There was no vagueness about
him.  The great leaders in the history of nations
were endowed with attributes and traits of the
highest and noblest order.  Mike's most pronounced
attribute in his functions as leader was directness.
It was this that enabled some of the brilliant young
men of the party press to apostrophize him as
"rugged, bluff, stalwart, frank and straightforward."

The district contained a population in which the
intelligent workingman was not greatly represented.
The few of them who lived in the many lodging
houses had very little belief left in the dignity of
labor and toiled only enough to "square" themselves
with their landlords and liquor dealers.  Still,
they were of use.  They could talk beautifully about
the rights of labor, and were encouraged—before
election day—to spout grandiosely about the
tyrannical oppression of the American workingman by
the opposing faction.

The great majority of the voters in the district
belonged to the class of grafters, and for that
reason if no other, the Hon. Michael Callahan of the
State Legislature was their born leader.

Callahan was at his best shortly before election.
Then no man or woman—unfortunately the ladies
of the district would indulge too strongly—had to
linger in the throes of the law.  It was the sacred
duty of the leader to call daily at the police court
to save his constituents and their "lady friends"
from their impending fate.

On the eve of election no time had to be wasted
in speculating on how much the free and independent
voter could expect to receive for the exercise of
his sacred franchise.  According to the amount
sent down from the headquarters of the organization,
Mike's ultimatum would settle the market price
of votes.  One or one and a half, or two dollars were
the rates paid, although the last named rate was only
given to liquidate the voter's claim at the most
critical periods.  In this way the voter could figure with
certainty, and with very little interruption resume
his dissertation on the betterment of municipal and
national politics.

The most important events in our history were
conceived amidst surroundings of severest
simplicity.  No marble hall, no lofty council chamber,
just the Common with its green sward and sturdy
oak was the favorite meeting place of our
forefathers.  In the shadow of the mighty tree they
spoke of liberty, of the rights of man and of the
welfare of our country, and we reap to-day the benefit
of their integrity, in spite of the machinations of
politicians, whose very thoughts are a pollution of
patriotism.

A careful and thoughtful student of American
history, the Honorable Mike tried to live up to
tradition as much as possible.  Customs have changed,
civilization has progressed, real estate has risen in
price, and the political leader of to-day has felt
himself obliged to substitute the gin-mill and the
dive for the Common of old.  Besides, "there is not
much in Commons," excepting when the city fathers,
in the goodness of their charitable hearts, decide to
create another breathing place and playground for
the poor children of the East Side, and, thereby
can get a "chance at" the property owners of the site.

When one is a leader, one must do as leaders do.
Mike could not swerve from the accustomed
practice, and, nolens volens, found himself the
proprietor of a dive.  But, forced into this, he had at
least the satisfaction of opening this adjunct to his
legislative office on the Common, or Square, as it is
now called.  True, there was no sturdy oak and no
green sward, but there were elevated railway
pillars and their shadows were quite sufficient for the
practice of side issues in politics.  The oak bears
only acorns.  The pillars and their shadows bore
better fruit of silvery and golden sheen, and their
sturdiness was often welcome to the backs of the
many weary pilgrims who had traveled far to imbibe
the pure draught of American patriotism as
dispensed by the Hon. Michael Callahan of the State
Legislature.

With the characteristic modesty of great men,
Mike refrained from making the exterior of his
place too showy.  This superficial attraction to his
resort was absolutely needless, as his more lasting
fame—some detractors called it "disgraceful
notoriety"—was firmly established.  Did he not have
several fist-fights with "officious" police officers to his
credit, and, did he not openly dare and defy all
known authorities to "monkey" with him.  He
feared no man but one, and that one only, because
he was a more successful thug than himself and
the Great Leader and Chieftain.

Dives of a certain kind make no effort to attract
transient trade by bright, or, at least, neat and clean
exteriors.  Their business is not supplied by the
honest man, who is looking for an honest place to have
an honest drink.  They depend on that flotsam
and jetsam that can find a dive blindfolded.
Callahan's place was more suggestive than attractive in
its front and the interior was fairly dazzling in its
austere plainness.  Sawdust and traces of former
expectorations were the most evident features in
the bar-room, which only ran the length of the bar.
At the end of it a partition jealously claimed the rest
of the space for the back-room.  There, and not
in front, was the real business transacted.  The
front, a pretense of respectability; the back, without
any pretense whatsoever.

I cannot tell you what furnished the real
attraction of the back-room.  A minimum clearance
of space in the centre of the room was reserved
for dancing and surrounded by tables and chairs
which were nightly occupied by young men and
women, many of whom had been born and brought
up in the immediate neighborhood, under the very
eyes of the legislating dive-keeper.  But that fact
made no difference to this vile thing, empowered
by our sanction to make laws which were to
safeguard homes, property and life.

.. _`Mike Callahan's Saloon`:

.. figure:: images/img-164.jpg
   :align: center
   :alt: Mike Callahan's Saloon in Chatham Square. The entrance to Chinatown on the right.

   Mike Callahan's Saloon in Chatham Square. The entrance to Chinatown on the right.

And there, safe in the protecting radius of our
friend and statesman, we found a resting-place;
for our enforced retirement from dive activity, and
there, in all my uncleanness, there came to me the
sweet messenger of a newer, better life, and took
me from it by the all-powerful persuasion of an
unquenchable love.

Before telling you how this miracle transformed
me in a way, which will tax my power of description
to the utmost, I must relate to you the one and
only attempt we, myself and two cronies, made to
get away from a life which was the only one we knew.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`A PILGRIMAGE TO NATURE`:

.. class:: center large bold

   A PILGRIMAGE TO NATURE.

.. vspace:: 3

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XI.

.. class:: center medium bold

   A PILGRIMAGE TO NATURE.

.. vspace:: 2

It was in May.  The side-walk in front of Mike
Callahan's dive was wide, and we, the gang of
discharged dive employees, were in the habit of
lounging on the empty beer barrels along the curb or
sticking ourselves up against the swinging doors of the
place.  People, whom we knew from having met
them in the "better" days, when we were still
working, often passed by and were eagerly hailed by us
in the hope that they might buy a drink for our
thirsty throats.

Corner loafers are despised by all people who lead
useful lives, and justly so.  Still, there is something
very moving in thinking about the dreary existence
of these fellows.  With brains as empty as their
pockets, they assemble with praiseworthy regularity
at their open-air clubs, and waste their days in
pessimistic conjectures.  The loafer is a born pessimist
and cynic.  No matter what subject or event you
may mention to him, he will sneer at it and promptly
proceed to pick it to pieces.  His criticisms are as
acidly sarcastic as his excuses are ingenious.  Ask
him his opinion about the work done by some
skilled mechanic, and he will find a multitude of
faults and then expound how the job ought to have
been done.  Surprised at his technical knowledge
you ask in a mild way why he does not put his
evident ability to practical use, and are forthwith
shocked by suggesting such a thing to a man, who
has such a wealth of haughty and convincing
reasons for remaining a loafer.

Loafers are forever hovering in the ante-room of
crime.  If his Satanic Majesty bethinks himself of
his own and calls them, they willingly and without
compunction, do any crooked commission provided
it does not require too much physical courage.  After
due time, crime seems easy, they have not yet been
caught, and from their familiarity with evil-doing,
and not because of any lately awakened courage,
they commit deeds which are called "desperate"
by every conscientious reporter.

Jack Dempsey, Frank Casey and myself formed
a sort of inner circle in the larger gang.  We often
philosophized together, exchanged ideas and
commented on things in general.  At one of our
confabs, Frank Casey seemed to be entirely out of
humor.

"What's the matter with you, Frank?" I asked.

"What do you think there is?  There's nothing the
matter with me, excepting that I'm dead sick o'
this game."  We could see he was deeply moved
by some unsuspected emotion and were deeply
interested in its development.

"I tell you what I'd like to do," he resumed.
"I'd like to cut this all out and go to work some
place.  There's nothing in this kind o' life and it's
the same every day.  See, it's years and years
since I done what you may call an honest day's work."

"Ah, you're only kidding!"

"Kidding?" he echoed, indignantly.  "Say, Kil,
and you, too, Dempsey, I was never more serious
in me life.  What are we getting out o' this?  It's
hanging round here all day, looking for graft and
the few pennies to go to bed with or to buy a
beef-stew; and when a fellow does make a piece o' money,
does it do him any good?  Not on your life!  If
you flash it, you got to blow it in for booze, and if
you don't they think you're no good, and the whole
gang gets sore on you.  A fellow that's working
and making his dollar and a half or two dollars
a day, is better off than the whole bunch of us
taken together."

"For the love of heaven, you ain't thinking about
going to work?"

"That's just what I'm doing, and the sooner
I can start in the better," attested Casey with
emphasis.

A warm discussion followed.  It is hard to tell
if it was the novelty of the proposition or Casey's
evident sincerity, but Dempsey and I began to
consider it very seriously.

"Say Casey," I asked, "supposing the three of
us really wanted to go to work, where could we get
it?  They don't take men like us in shops or
factories, where there are a whole lot of trained help
looking for work every day.  So, even if we wanted
work, we couldn't get it."

"Is that so?  You're talking as if New York City
is the whole thing.  What's the matter with the
country?  That's where we ought to go, because
we'll never amount to anything here.  In the first
place, even if we was to get jobs here, the three of
us would be going on a drunk on the first pay
day and stay on it until we're broke.  But in the
country you ain't got no chance to spend your
money, and it's healthy and it's better anyway."

The surety of Casey amused me.

"Will you tell me where you have ever been in
the country to know so much about it, and where you
got your information from?"

"That don't make no difference," insisted Casey
stubbornly, "I know there's lots o' fellows going
over to Philadelphia or Jersey or some place over
there every year about this time, and they come
back like new and with money from picking strawberries
and whatever else there's growing out there."

We put our heads together, discussed the matter,
came to the conclusion that, surely, we would not
be in worse circumstances in the country than we
were in the city, and resolved to try our luck at
strawberry picking.

To financier our expedition was our first duty.
We skirmished round and raised about six dollars
as our joint capital.  Casey went on a secret errand
to make inquiries of some well-known "hobo"
authority where to go, and how to get there, and then
undertook to personally conduct the tour into the
unknown land.

Baggage did not encumber us.  I had thought of
taking my good old pal, my Bill, along with us,
but did not wish to expose him to the dangers,
which, no doubt, were lurking for us.

At the ferry, Casey flew his flag and read us
the last orders.  To save our small capital, we were
to walk or "jump" freight trains.  Also, for reasons
of economy and sagacity, we were not to indulge in
one solitary drop of anything intoxicating.

The first hitch occurred in Hoboken.  To get a
freight train was impossible.  Dempsey and I never
knew why we were unable to make connections, as
Casey's plausibility drove the question from our
minds and made us follow him blindly.

We walked from Hoboken to Newark.  It was a
scorching afternoon, the sand was hot and heavy
under foot, and our mouths became parched at an
uncomfortable rate.  A few wells and pumps were
passed by us, but Casey would not permit us to
slake our thirst, as "Newark is only a step or so
further on, and it's dangerous to monkey with
them country people.  They got dogs and are kind
of suspicious of fellows like us, who come from
New York."

Ah, really and truly, it would have been the most
confiding and unsophisticating nature that would not
have been suspicious of us, no matter where we
hailed from.  Three tough specimens of humanity,
indeed, we were!

No stop was made until we reached the
railroad station at Newark.  Quite a crowd was
assembled to wait for either an incoming or outgoing
train, but we, without paying the slightest attention
to the many mistrustful glances given in our direction,
raced for the ice-water tank, prepared to gorge
ourselves with the cooling drink.

Casey was the last to have his turn at the chained
tin cup.  He started off splendidly, but paused after,
his first gulp and smacked his lips in a most
critical manner.

"Taste anything funny in that water?"

We replied in the negative.

"There's something wrong with it, just the same,"
Casey persisted.  "And do you know, the worst
thing a man can do this time o' the year is to drink
bad water."

"But we got to drink something.  We ain't going
to drink any beer, and I hate to spend money for
soda and ginger-ale and stuff like that," remarked
Dempsey.

"That's true enough," admitted Casey, "but, I'll
tell you what we'll do.  The same fellow who gave
me points on how to get to the strawberries, also,
told me that the biggest glass of beer in the country
was sold right here in Newark.  Now, we ain't
going to get full or anything like that, but, being
as the water ain't fit to drink, I guess we might
have one, just one o' those biggest schooners, which
I never seen and which, besides quenching our
thirst, are surely worth looking at, the same as any
curiosities."

Without the aid of a Baedeker, we found our
way to Newark's most interesting spot.  We
entered the hospitable tavern at about seven o'clock,
and, at ten o'clock, were still tarrying there admiring
the size and beauty of the biggest beers in the
world.

Regardless of the size of the drink, the beer
alone,—never a product of malt and hops—a vile
concoction of injurious chemicals, is sufficient to
put the indulger far above the most worrying
troubles.  Late that night, the quiet streets of
Newark were profaned by three unsteady musketeers,
who, with song and laughter, were making their
way to the "meadows."

Only one more resolution made and broken.  It
was not the first and was not the last.

Out in the "meadows," the train-yard, where the
freight trains were made up, we succeeded, after
many mishaps, including Casey's tumble from a
moving train into a ditch, in catching a train at
about midnight.  We had only traveled about a
mile, when a trainman, stepping from car to car
with lighted lantern, saw us huddled between the
bumpers.

"Where are you fellows going?"

"Philadelphia," came the answer in sleepy, drowsy
tones.

"You're on a wrong train.  This train goes to the
'branch.'"

At the time we did not know that this was only
a common ruse to make "hoboes" leave the train
and accepted it at its face value.

"Where did he say we were going?" asked Casey.

"To the 'branch,' wherever that may be," I answered.

"I guess we better get off, then.  This train ain't
going to Philadelphia," suggested Dempsey.

"What we'll get off for?  This train goes somewhere,
don't it?  And it don't make much difference
where it goes to, as long as it goes somewhere
into the country and away from New York," said
Casey, with the evident intention of ending further
argument.

The heavy, damp night air and the drink partaken
by us lulled us into deep slumber, forgetful of our
precarious attitude.  We had journeyed for hours
without waking and were not aroused until the
coldness in our limbs became actually painful.  Without
speaking a word and merely staring at each other
we jolted on and on into the unknown, and the
dawning morning.

Suddenly a brilliant spectacle caught our eyes.
Coming out from wooded land, the train sped along
a level stretch and we fed our looks on the Fata
Morgana of a large city.  The size, brilliancy of
illumination and distance from New York left no
doubt in our minds that we were not far from
Philadelphia, and had we known how to pray, we
would surely have done so.  I have never regretted
the experience, still have no wild desire to repeat
it.  There are more easily obtainable joys in life
than the riding on the bumpers of a freight train
on a chilly May morning.

It was not long before we were slinking along
Market street in Philadelphia.  After fortifying
ourselves against the bad consequences of our
benumbing voyage by sampling some "speak-easy"
whiskey, we visited "Dirty Mag's" famous
all-night restaurant on Sixth street and feasted on
steak-pie and coffee, with crullers included.  The
bill amounted to ten cents.

We were so tired out by our traveling that it
was out of the question to continue our journey.
Down on Calomel street we found a resting-place
for our weary and frozen bones at fifteen cents
per couch.  It was almost noon before we woke
from our sleep and held a conference.  At its
termination we hied ourselves to the nearby grocery
store and spent almost the entire remainder of our
depleted treasury in buying provisions for our trip
into the wilds of Pennsylvania.  After that, with a
last parting drink, we turned our backs on Philadelphia
and set boldly out to win our fortunes.

Just as the suburbs had been reached by us we
were reminded by our stomachs that we had
forgotten to breakfast.  An inviting tree stood nearby,
a brook, as clear as crystal, was rippling past our
feet, and the place seemed to be made for a picnic
ground.  The enjoyment of the meal was marred by
the thought that now we would have no lunch or
dinner.

"What's the use of worrying about that now?
Besides, we won't have to carry so much," was
Casey's way of consoling us.

We rose and began our tramp in earnest.  For
hours we walked, giving little attention to the things
about us and only holding desultory conversation.
Not one of us knew the route to the "strawberry
country," and we were often obliged to ask people
whom we met for directions.  We had little luck
in this.  Most of the people addressed by us would
quickly button their coats and hurry on without
heeding us.  Others would barely stop and throw us
such a small scrap of information that, instead of
enlightening us, they only bewildered us the more.
At last, Casey got tired of this way of securing
information and burst upon us with his latest and
brightest inspiration.

"It's no use of asking any o' these men.  Most o'
them are hayseeds and been to New York and have
been buncoed.  They can see in a minute that we're
from New York and ain't going to take no chances
with us.  It's different with women.  They're
always nice and gentle and, especially, when they
get spoken to the way I know how to talk to them.
Leave this to me.  Don't ask any more men.  Wait
till we meet some women, and then I'll ask them,
and then you'll be surprised in the difference."

Casey, who had given voice to this speech with
properly inflated chest, proved himself to be a true
prophet.  We found there was a difference in the
way in which men and women received our approach.

Before long, we saw two women with baskets
coming our way.

"Now, you fellows want to keep a little behind,
and watch me how I do this," was Casey's final
instruction.

Giving his clothes a quick brushing with his hands
and setting his hat jauntily over his ear, Casey went
toward his fate with a grace all his own.

Dempsey and I could not hear the first passage
of words, but it was hardly necessary, as the effects
of it were immediately visible.

One woman proceeded to pummel Casey with her
umbrella, while the other was trying to fit her
market-basket on his head.  When they saw Dempsey
and me come running to the rescue, they left Casey
and took it on a run across the fields, but they took
good care to shout back to us that they would have
the sheriff or constable after us.

"For heaven's sake, what did you say to those
women?" I asked Casey, after I had pulled the
basket from his head.

"What did I say to them?  They ain't civilized,
and it don't make no difference what a fellow says
to them kind o' people.  I spoke to them like a
regular dude.  This is what I said: 'Ain't this a fine
morning, girls.  We're strangers here and didn't
like this country very much until it was our good
fortune to see you, who are sweeter than any sugar,
and now we'd like to stay here if you will tell us
the road to where the strawberries grow and where
there are as many girls as beautiful as yourselves!'  And
the minute I said that they soaked me."

We consoled Casey and resumed our tramp.

It was now late in the afternoon and I determined
that we should know something about our whereabouts.
I stopped the very next man we met in
such a way that he could not get away from us.

After assuring him that we had no intention of
robbing him, I insisted on getting correct
information.

Can you imagine our feelings when he told us that
we had spent our time and energy in describing
circles around Philadelphia, without getting away
from it?

Dempsey and Casey made no attempt to hide their
chagrin.  The blow was too crushing.  I, also, felt
fearfully discouraged, but did not want to give in.

"There is no use in going back.  We're here now,
and must go on.  If we go back to Philadelphia, we
might as well go back to New York.  We're in
the country now, and we might as well stay here.
I don't care what you fellows do, I'm going to go
ahead."

The last sentence was a fearful bluff.  Had
Dempsey and Casey decided to return to New York, I
would have joined them on the spot.  Fortunately,
they adopted my way of looking at it, and we once
more pursued our sorry pilgrimage.

Now, we were sure of penetrating right into the
heart of the country and evidences of it were not
lacking.  Suburban villas grew fewer and fewer
and we had to walk for a considerable distance
before we passed another farmhouse.  With our
inborn stubbornness we kept plodding on, until
our legs almost refused to obey.

It was the hour in which evening unwittingly
yields supremacy to night.  We felt it, as was proven
by Casey in answer to Dempsey's question in regard
to the time.

"Well, when it looks like this they always begin
to light up in Callahan's, and that's about seven
o'clock."

Again we were silent and tramped and tramped.
Dempsey was the next to speak.

"Say, fellows, I ain't seen any strawberries yet.
And even if we were to see any now, we couldn't
go to work at them this evening, it being so late now,
and I think the best thing we can do is to sit down
some place and take a rest."

Only a few more steps and we saw a spot, which
by you, would have been called a dell.  We called
it nothing, just saw the soft grass and, with one
accord, sank down on it.

The tone of evening now rang unmistakably
clear.  Evening and its partner, the gloaming, were
at the last and best moment of their supremacy.
Too short, by far, are evenings in the country,
those short brief hours of nature's neutral state,
before retiring to its well-earned rest.  But that I
only feel now, and did not then.

Remember! this was my first night in God's
country.  Like thousands of others who live and
die in the southeast corner of Manhattan—along
the Bowery—I had never had a sight of nature.
I could not have told a daisy from a rose; or a crow
from a robin.  All that I write here are the
impressions that linger in my mind of this, my first
night with nature.

It was one grand moment in our lives, yet we
did not feel it.  Hold, I am wrong!  We did feel it,
perhaps subconsciously, but feel it we did.  Our
kind is not given to much talking while doing
anything of import.  Then our energies are in our task,
no matter how dirty that may be.  As soon as we
rest, we change, and the silent drudge becomes a
veritable magpie.  We three were resting as, like
three daisies in the wilderness, we sat in our dell,
but there was something all about and around us
that stopped our flow of talk from loosening itself.

We sat and stared, and the most insignificant
changes in the tranquil scene before us left their
unrecognized, yet deep impressions on us.  And
looking back through all the years passed since then,
I see it all still before me, though I cannot attempt
to picture it to you.

From where we sat it looked before us like the
setting for a glorious play.  On both sides, small
sketches of woodland interjected just far enough to
serve as the wings on the stage.  Back of it, there
was a grand, majestic last drop, a range of hills,
running unbrokenly from where to where we could
see.  The cast, the actors of the play were supplied
by all the many living things about us and, above
it all, like the last curtain, hung the forerunners of
the coming night.

It was no tumultuous melodrama, no rollicking
farce, it was a pastoral play so successful, so wisely
composed and staged that from its first night it has
been enacted every night through all the ages.  No
wonder that with so many rehearsals the scene, as
we saw it, was played with perfection.

Out from a loophole in the sky, a bird came
flying toward us with unfaltering swing.  Night after
night it had flown the same course, night after night
it had the same rôle, that of bringing their share
to the young striplings in the nest above our heads.
Along the road came a creaking, lumbering
farm-wagon.  The farmer looked at us with suspicion,
still, gave us a "good evening, boys."  I do not
know if we returned his greeting or not.

It was quiet, so quiet, that the many little noises,
made by unseen beings, pealed like tornadoes of
sound.  The snatch of laughter, coming from the
tree-encircled farm-house behind us, was as the
laughter of a multitude; the chirrup of that
homeward bound bird was as a lofty, airy chorus; the
croaking of the frog was as a grunting wail from
many, many, who never get above the very ground.
While we had sat staring holes into the air before
us, evening had flown, and night, a gallant victor,
had unrolled the standard of the stars.  I know I
cannot tell you my impressions, but even had I the
gift and genius of a hundred of our greatest
writers, I could not convey to you what a picture that
night, my first night in God's country, left with me.
It seemed to me that all and everything, before
becoming wrapped in slumber, gave one praise-offering
to Above.  The corn of the field and the poor
lowly flower by the roadside and even the tiny blade
of grass, they all were straightened by one last,
upward tremor before relaxing to their drooping
doze.  The birds of the air and the beasts of the
ground, all sounded their evening song.  With some
it was a thrill of sweetest divine melody, with
others it was but a grunt, but it all seemed like a
thanksgiving for having lived and worked a day
made by the Creator of all.

And from beneath all this, the silent attitude of
prayer and the intoned evening hymn of creatures
rose onward, upward, like an anthem to the sky,
where brilliant orbs and shining, milky veils were
interwoven in a web of glory, and peeping over the
tops of hours into the birthing cradle of another
day.  It is a witching hour, this hour, when stars
and nature in unison sing their evening song.

Where nature is grandest, man most likes to profane it.

The sublime, sweet spell held us enthralled.  Not
a word had been spoken by us.  How long we had
sat there we did not know.  How much longer
we would have sat there is a matter of unprofitable
conjecture.  As if turned loose from the regions
of the arch-fiend, with howling screech, with snorting,
rumbling, rattling, a train, looking like a string
of toy-cars in the distance, clattered along the range
of hills, the last drop of our scene.  Spitting fire
before it, leaving white streamers behind it, the iron
disrespecter of nature's sanctity rushed into the very
heart of the hills and took the haze of idealism with it.

The spell was broken, and we were not long in
getting back to terra firma.

"Say," remarked Casey very pensively, "ain't it
very quiet here?"

"Well, I should say so," hastened Dempsey to
corroborate him.  "It's so quiet you couldn't sleep
here if you wanted to.  This ain't no place for us.
Let's go."

We started ahead and tumbled along the country
road.  All directions, as to our route, were, for the
present, forgotten.  We only had one purpose now,
to get away from the haunting quiet.  With every
step our nerves became more unstrung.  A rabbit
scooted across the road and made us grasp each
other's arms.  The faint rustle of the leaves sent
shivers down our backs.

Out in the open, we felt the hazy, vapory night
air enshroud us, which showed every object in
ghost-like mold.  A dog barked far away, then it
howled, and I can swear to it, we trembled.

It was not physical fear.  It was the weirdness of
the unaccustomed that played havoc with our
reasoning powers.  Some may doubt all this and
mention as proof the "hoboing" tramps, who spend their
most pleasing and profitable period of vagrancy in
their country.  I am not prepared to discuss this at
all, but am quite sure that every tramp, at the
beginning of his career as such, was similarly impressed
on his first night in the country, provided he had
not found shelter in a barn or haystack or had not
been born and lived in the country before.

We, we were city bred to the bone, and noise was
essential to us as ozone is to the country lad.  He
cannot sleep with noise,—we could not sleep without it.

Our musings—we had not spoken for a long time—were
interrupted by Dempsey, who had fallen
over a rail, which he had not noticed in the shadowy
Darkness.  Yes, it was a full-fledged railroad track
and, for some obscure reason, it seemed to possess a
great deal of fascination for us.  We were apparently
not able to get away from it.  We stood and
looked at it as if we had never seen a railroad track
before.

This lasted until the ever-ready Casey interpreted
our feelings.

"I wonder if this is the Pennsylvania railroad?"

That started a chorus of "wonders."

"I wonder which end of this runs into New
York;" "I wonder how far we are from New York;"
"I wonder if we could get to New York from here;"
"I wonder how long it takes to get to New York
from here;" "I wonder if there is a station near here."

How it happened, whether any one proposed it, or
how we got there I do not know, but I do know that,
quite unexpectedly, we found ourselves at a little
wayside station, with a lot of milk cans on its
platform.  There is no mistaking the fact that we were
entirely unbalanced mentally, and it was a good
thing for the crew of the freight train, which rolled
in to unload and load milk cans, that they were an
easy-going crowd of men.  We made no pretense of
hiding ourselves, but climbed boldly on to the cars
and would have committed murder had they attempted
to put us off.  The spectre of the stillness
had taken possession of our brains, and we wanted
to flee from it as from a plague.

Again the long, cold journey, and, then, at last, a
great white sheen of shining lustre in the heavens
told us that we were home once more to the city of
our birth, of which we were so proud.

But could she be proud of us?

The rest of the night, or rather the beginning of
the day, was spent in chairs in Callahan's back-room,
which seemed like paradise to us after our "fierce"
experience in the country.  After a nap, I went to
look for my Bill, who greeted me as if I had left him
alone as long as I did on our previous separation,
and then again settled down to grace Callahan's dive
with my presence.

In a day our country trip was forgotten, and I
felt quite resigned at taking up my career where I
had dropped it.  There was little hope of things
in divedom brightening up for some time to come
and I was perfectly willing to resume playing the
gentleman of leisure, who makes his fluctuating
living at the expense of his fellow men.

But the days in the old life were numbered.  Only
a short space of time more, and I was to be taken
from the cesspool by one whom God must have sent
solely for this end.  Why this was and why I was
chosen, neither you or I can answer, but it is
enough for me to know that, even were every miracle
of old found to be a fraud or sacrilege, the
existence of one great, mighty, living God would be
proven to me beyond the slimmest shadow of doubt
by the miracle he performed on me by His sweetest
prophet.

Lord my master, here I thank Thee, not only for
having permitted me to live the life of purity and
cleanliness, but also for having had me come from
out and through the life of the most miserable and
sinful.  Mysterious are Your ways and Your
purposes are not for us to know, but I have suffered,
learned and prayed, and I know You will not let it
be without avail.  And if naught else I can do, give
that for her sake, I shall always live in the way she
wanted me to live and that was in Your way, God.





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.. _`THE FRONTIER OF THE NEWER LIFE`:

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   THE FRONTIER OF THE NEWER LIFE.

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   CHAPTER XII.

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   THE FRONTIER OF THE NEWER LIFE.

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Returned to New York from my Philadelphia
trip, I immediately fell back into my old ways, which
meant for the time being I established myself again
as an ornament in and in front of Mike Callahan's
dive in Chatham Square.  Things in our line
of business were growing quieter every day and no
one seemed to know when this drought in the former
land of plenty would cease.

Our temporary occupation during this lull was to
"lay for" easy things and suckers.  But even they
seemed to grow fewer and, at last, we were reduced
to a state of desperation.  Then, when hunger and
an unquenchable thirst were less and less satisfied,
some of the gang overcame their inborn cowardice
and turned "crooked."  One, two and three would
go on secret expeditions and return either with
money or easily disposable goods, or would not
return at all, at least, not for a long time.  The gang
could well afford to stand these occasional
vacancies in the membership, as more than fifty
constituted it and more and more were constantly
joining it.

I am not making an untruthful statement and do
not wish to tax your belief unduly when I tell you
that I did not take active part in these "crooked"
doings.  My list of misdeeds is so full that one more
or less would make but small difference therein, and
I have no cause to tell you a lie.

Had it been necessary for me to turn "crooked"
I would have surely done so, but it was not necessary.

I was the recognized leader of our gang, and
leaders of or in anything always have certain
prerogatives.  Out of every expedition I received a small
share.  I was "staked" is the proper expression.  The
return I made for the "stake" was small enough.

In case one or more of the men were locked up
in the city prison, I, not officially known to the
police, had to visit them and act as go-between to
lawyers and their "outside" friends.  Were any
barroom growls between one of the men and outsiders
started I had to throw myself—regardless of the
merits of the fight—into the mixup to end it quickly
in favor of my brother in loaferdom.

Not having to go on any of the mentioned expeditions,
I had all my time to myself and hardly ever
left Callahan's.  In truth, I was in a fair way of
becoming one of the monarchs of the Bowery, having,
so far, been only one of the knight errants of
that locality.  It was the beginning of Summer, and
excepting when business of a liquid or financial
nature called me inside, I could have always been
seen on my keg at the curb, flanked and surrounded
by a galaxy, whose very faces made men, respectable
men, clasp their hands over their watches and
pocketbooks.

I remember, how once a "sport" hung up a prize
for the "homeliest mug" in Callahan's, and a
hurried ballot awarded me the prize.  However, there
were extenuating circumstances, which I do not
care to recite, the whole matter being one not very
interesting to me.

Hanging around the dives all day we "regulars"
often found the time hang heavy on our hands.  To
help us over these periods of ennui we invented a
gentle form of sport.  The sidewalk was very wide,
the traffic was heavy, the police, for reasons of
policy, absolutely blind to our doings, what more
did we need?  From our kegs we looked, like the
gallery of the play, at the passing show, and
frequently became so interested in the ever-playing
drama that we took part in it ourselves.

Is there more manly, noble sport than for the
many, with stamping horses and yelping, snarling
dogs, to throw themselves on to the death-scared,
fright-unwitted fox and tear him to his end, after
having him partly finished by hoof beat and dog
bite?  Of course not.  Were it unmanly, unwomanly,
ignoble sport, our "better, upper" classes, our social
leaders, would not enjoy it.  We, of Chatham
Square, aped our models in the higher circles, and,
not having a fox in our collection of rare animals,
chose the passing pedestrians as the objects of our
sport.

Our imitation of our "betters" was fairly
correct.  If only one or two were on the kegs
passers-by would not be molested; but when the gang
was there in force, then woe to the unoffending
man or woman, whose way led by us.

To be exact, our "sport" consisted of insults of
various kinds to pedestrians.  Old people—and
especially old women—received the most of our
playful attention.  They were our favorite victims,
as they were less likely to resent our brutishness.
It brings a flush to my face when I think of our
beastly cowardice.  There is more manliness in
one mongrel cur than there was in that whole gang
of ours!

And in that sport I was the acknowledged leader.

There were many variations to our game.  We
would quickly put our feet between those of men
and women passing by, would "trip them up"
and send them sprawling to the pavement; we
would throw rotten fruit and decayed vegetables at
them; would deliberately run into them and upset
their balance and, besides all this, would shower
avalanches of filthy expressions on them.  Why
didn't they resent it?  Because people who were
obliged to pass there did not do it from choice, but
because they were obliged to do so, and knew the
calibre of our tribe.  They knew that, like the
rooster taken away from his dung-heap, singly and
on different ground from our own, we were crawling,
cowardly caricatures of men, and only brave
when we could throw ourselves on One in mass.

Yet, withal, even loafers can be saved from their
mockery of an existence, but different means from
the stereotyped ones of the present day must be
employed.  Where is the harvest of the many
millions sown on the East Side?  The time, the day,
the hour is ripe for a Messiah to the slums who will
have much piety, more manhood and, most of all,
common sense.  Bring less talk and more muscle;
less hymns and more work, and there will be an
echo to your labor in every lane and alley.

My loaferish career ran along so evenly that I
could not imagine such a thing as a break in it.
Without a moment's warning, in the most ordinary
way, the message from across the frontier of
decency was brought to me by one whom I cannot
call otherwise than one of God's own angels.

It had been a most quiet day.  In the early
forenoon "Skinny" McCarthy, one of my intimate pals,
had informed me that "something would be doing"
that day.  I gave him my rogue's blessing and
sped him on his way.

"Skinny" belonged to the class of meanest grafters.
His graft consisted in walking miles and miles
looking for trucks and wagons left temporarily
without the driver's protection.  To whip something
from the vehicle and then to accelerate his steps, at
the same time holding the stolen article before him,
was only a moment's effort.  Naturally, the
proceeds of "Skinny's" expeditions were never very
large, but he kept at it so constantly and spent
his few dollars so quickly that he was a rather
handy acquaintance for me.

It was about two o'clock in the afternoon of June
the second when "Skinny" returned to Callahan's
and, pulling me aside, whispered that he had done
better than usual.  I praised him for his zeal and
luck, encouraged him to greater efforts, and then
suggested that our thirst should find an immediate
end.  Forthwith, at a signal from me, several other
birds of our feather joined us and we celebrated
"Skinny's" safe and welcome return in the customary way.

The only serious fault I had to find with "Skinny"
McCarthy was that he could not stand very much
drink.  Just when the others would begin to feel
the mellowing influences of the drink "Skinny" was
always so intoxicated as to lose all control over his
speech and actions.  He was a bit of a hero-worshipper,
and I—mind you, I—was his hero.  As
soon as the fumes of the stuff consumed would
befuddle his brains he would declare with howling,
roaring emphasis that he was a thief and proud of
it, that he didn't care for what anybody thought of
him as long as I was his friend, and that he was
always willing to share with me, because he knew
that I would stick to him if he should happen to
get into "stir."

All this was very flattering to me and sounded
sweet to my ears, yet, being of limitless capacity, I
never found myself sufficiently drunk to enjoy this
too public endorsement.

On this occasion—June the second—"Skinny,"
elated over his markedly successful expedition,
bought drinks so fast that, in a little over an hour,
he was near a state of coma.  I, as leader of the
gang, was more or less responsible for the individual
safety of my fellows, and, not caring to see
"Skinny" utterly helpless so early in the afternoon,
ordered a cessation of drinking and proposed an
adjournment to the kegs at the curb, hoping the
air would partly revive my ailing follower.

My suggestion was accepted, and I led the way
to the sidewalk, closely followed by "Skinny."

Just as I had reached the curb and was about to
seat myself on my keg I heard a slight commotion,
followed by a muffled scream, behind me.  Leisurely
turning I saw what I had expected to see.

It was one of our customary frolics.  "Skinny"
McCarthy had wilfully and fiercely collided with a
frail young girl.  Although I could not see her
face, her figure and general appearance denoted
youth.  But what did youth, age, sex or size matter
to us?

They all stood about her in a circle, grinning
and leering at her.  I, too, meant to join in the
general enjoyment.  But before my facial muscles had
time to shapen themselves into a brutish laugh the
girl wheeled around, looked at McCarthy, at me, at
all of us and, quite distinctly could I read there the
sentence: "And you are MEN!"

Possibly there was a psychic or physical reason
for it, but whatever it was I could almost feel when
her look fell on me the bodily sensation of
something snapping or becoming released within me.
It was as if a spring, holding back a certain force,
had been suddenly freed from its catch and had,
catapult-like, sent a new power into action.

I had neither the inclination or intelligence to
explain it all to myself.  Instead, I rushed into the
crowd, tore through it, until I stood in front of
McCarthy, who, without a word from me, received a
blow from me under his ear, felling him to the
ground.

This decisive and unexpected action on my part
amazed the members of the gang so that they stood
motionless for several seconds before paying any
attention to McCarthy, who was lying motionless
on the sidewalk.  They did not know what to make
of it.  Was I more drunk than they had judged me
to be?  Was there a private grudge between
McCarthy and myself?

That I had acted solely to save the young lady,
from further insult would have been—had they
surmised it—as inexplicable to them as it was to me.

I took no heed of their wondering attitude, but, in
gruff tones, asked the young lady to come with me.
She was completely bewildered and followed me
mechanically.

Poor "Skinny" in his stunned condition was still
on the ground, and this, as always, furnished an
interesting spectacle to the many idle gapers, who had
joined the rank of spectators.  I, holding the girl
by her arm, made my way through them without
any trouble and then addressed my companion.

"Say, sis, I guess I better walk a block or two
with you, because I think it's better.  That push
there won't do you nothing, but they're all drunk
and might get fresh to you again."

Surely, it was not a very cavalierly speech, but,
somehow, it was understood and remembered.
Often in the future, we—she and I—had our laugh
at this offer of my protectorate, which was word
for word remembered by her.

The crowd through which I had roughly forced
a passage for the girl and myself closed again
behind us, and, with that, the doors of my old life
creakingly began to move on their rusty hinges and
slowly started to close themselves entirely.  They
did not close themselves with a bang and a
slam—if they had done that I might have been aware of
their maneuver and would, most likely, have
offered resistance—and, even their slow move was not
known to me then, but only recognized by me in
the years to come.  This happens to many of us.
We are successful or unfortunate, rich or poor,
and can in our acquired state clearly trace back the
line to an event which was the parting of the ways.





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.. _`THE BEGINNING OF THE MIRACLE`:

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   THE BEGINNING OF THE MIRACLE.

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   CHAPTER XIII.

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   THE BEGINNING OF THE MIRACLE.

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For the first time in my life I found myself playing
the part of a chivalric knight, and, let me assure
you, the poorest actor could not have played it
worse.  Part of my existence had been to watch
others.  Not to learn from them by observation,
but to find their weaknesses.  While engaged in the
most potent part of my observations, I was
never so concentrated in them that I entirely
overlooked the minor details.  So I had seen
gentlemen help ladies to and from carriages, had seen
them assist their women friends across gutters and
crossings, and open doors for them.  Walking
beside the young lady I knew something was expected
from me in the line of politeness, but I who had
always been accustomed to go up "against the
hardest games and unfavorable odds," felt most
uncomfortable at not being sure what to do in a case
like this.  Perhaps this was the reason, why I,
instead of seeing her along for a block or two, kept
on walking beside her, because I did not know
how to take leave without giving serious offense
by my way of expressing my leavetaking.  The
truth of the matter was I was afraid.

This confession of mine will lead you to think
that there was something about her inspiring awe
or fear.  But you are wrong, very wrong.

She was not tall, not statuesque.  She was
not a "queenly looking" girl judged by external
appearance.  Her queenliness was within, so potent,
so convincing, that neither man nor beast could
refrain from bowing to it.  I was in the dilemma of
wanting to be a gentleman, a courtier to my queen,
and not knowing how to be one.

Somehow impelled, I kept on walking beside her.
She was not wanting in expressions of gratitude,
but I did no better than to acknowledge them with
deep-toned grunts.

To explain matters, she told me she was a teacher
in one of the near-by schools, and was compelled to
pass our "hang-out" every day on her way to and
from home.  In exchange for her confidence I
should have introduced myself, but, alas! this big,
hulking oof knew naught of politeness.

But the bonny little lass was a marvel of tact and
diplomacy.  Not commenting on or pretending to
notice my neglect of the customary introduction, she
appointed herself inquisitor-in-chief.  She put me
on the witness stand and cross-examined me.  Leading
questions were fired at me with the rapidity of a
trained lawyer.  Ere I knew it, she knew all about
me and I felt ashamed at having a little mite like her
break down all the barriers of that reticence on
which I prided myself.

We walked on, the street traveling beneath and
unnoticed by us.  She stopped me at Houston
street and the Bowery and I looked about me as if
descended from a dream.  She wanted me to leave
her there and wanted me to return to Chatham
Square, or from wherever I had come.  But the
bulldog in me growled and persisted in seeing her to
her door.  We halted at a modest dwelling-house in
Houston street, near Mott street.  She thanked me
with very much feeling and, expecting a modicum
of manners from me, waited for a second for my
response.  There are things which we learn without
being aware, and I knew and felt that I should
say something, but my courage had fled, my knees
weakened under me and the words which I meant to
utter stuck in my throat, kept there by my fear of
not being able to use the right expression.

At last I squeezed out a gruff "Good night," and
then turned to leave.  I was not permitted to go.

"Where are you going?" she asked.  "I am afraid
you are anxious to return to that place on Chatham
Square.  Don't go there."

"Where else can I go?"

"Where else?" she asked, with a mingling of pity
and contempt.  "Mr. Kildare, I have absolutely no
right to interfere with your business, but I have the
right to tell you the truth.  You may not know it or
would if you did know it, deny it, but you and most
of the men of that gang are too good to be of it.  We
are strangers, and you may think me presumptuous,
but a man, strong and able bodied as you, sins
against his Maker if he wastes his days in an
idleness which is hurtful to himself and others."

"Oh, I heard that before, young lady, but that
sort of talk don't amount to anything."

"It doesn't amount to anything?  From what you
have told me about yourself and from what I have
seen of the street life, I am afraid it is not absolutely
impossible that, one of these days, you may find
yourself in serious trouble.  And, Mr. Kildare, you
can rest assured that the prisons are full of men
who are convinced when it is too late that this sort
of talk does amount to something.  You say you do
not know where else to go?  The evening is beautiful.
There are parks, the river-front, the Brooklyn
Bridge, where one can go and sit and think——"

"Think," I interrupted, "now, what would I be
thinking about?"

She remained silent for some little while and then
held out her hand to me.

"I am so sorry for you, so sorry.  Do try and be
a man, a man who has more than strength and
muscle.  And—and—do not be offended at my
solicitude—pray, pray often."  She had almost entered
the hall, but stepped back again and whispered, "I
will pray for you to-night."

Pray!  I can imagine the sneer which surely
settled on my face.  The name of the Divinity had been
used by me daily.  But in what manner!  Before I
reached my teens I was past master of the art of
profanity, and my skill in cursing increased as I
grew older.  And now she had counselled me to
pray, to use in reverence the name which had no
meaning to me and slipped glibly from my lips at the
slightest provocation.  Why, it was ridiculous—but
was it so very ridiculous?

The two arch enemies began a fierce battle within
me.  Without any trouble can I remember my walk
to Chatham Square that night.  Sometimes I halted,
leaned up against a lamp post and said: "By
Heavens, I think there's a great deal of truth in
what she said!"  Buoyed up by this assurance I
would start afresh, would walk half a block and then
again halt to listen to the other voice, which
whispered: "Fool, don't listen to women's talk.  You are
somebody.  You are known and feared, and wouldn't
be that if you were a goody-goody."

Many men are only feared, while they believe
themselves to be respected.  That is how it was with
me, and that is why my "other" voice did not say
"respected," but "feared."

The battle was waged within me until I was
almost at Chatham Square.  And then a strange
thing came to pass.  Mike Callahan's place was on
the western side of the square.  I had come down on
that side, but, when on the corner of the square, I
deliberately crossed over to the eastern sidewalk,
and, from there, surveyed my camping ground.

I stood and looked at the flashily illuminated front
of Mike Callahan's dive and wavered between the
old-rooted and the new-come influences.  It would
have been laughable had it not been so pitiful.

Just think, a man, supposedly intelligent and
mature, considering himself the martyr of martyrs if
he had to forego the "pleasures" of Callahan's dive
for one precious night.

The new-come influence was a potent one, yet it
was so strange, so inexplicable to me that I could
have refused to heed it and would have let my old
inclinations persuade me, had I not thought of my
good old Bill.  The importance of my recent
adventure had driven my partner temporarily from my
mind.  But now I thought of him, remembered that
he had been subjected to a long fast by my
carelessness and hurried to the attic to make up for my
negligence.  I found him as expectant and
philosophical as ever, and watched him with languid
interest while he was munching the scraps I had
saved for him.  Then it occurred to me that Bill
had been deprived of his customary walk with me
and had not had a breath of fresh air all day.  It
also rankled in my mind what she had said about the
parks and the Brooklyn Bridge, and, lo and behold,
Bill and I found ourselves in the street, bound for
City Hall Park, like two eminently respectable
citizens intent on getting a little air.

I consoled myself for this evident display of
weakness by emphatically resolving to return to
Callahan's as soon as Bill should have had his fill of
fresh air.

We were comparative strangers to City Hall Park.
Every foot of the park and the sidewalks about it
had been traveled by my bare feet many years ago,
but never had I looked on the leafed oasis in the
light of a recreation ground.

We felt a trifle out of place, and, most likely on
that account chose the most secluded and
unobserved spot for our experimental siesta.  The rear
stoop of the City Hall, facing the County Court
House, was in deep shadow, and there we seated
ourselves to test how it felt to be there just to rest.

It gradually began to dawn on us that City Hall
Park was almost as interesting as the sidewalk in
front of Mike Callahan's dive on Chatham Square.
A perpetual stream of people crossed our view on
their way to and from the Brooklyn Bridge and to
and from the Jersey ferries.  Very few of them
walked leisurely.  Most of them seemed in a hurry
and all seemed to have a definite purpose.  Bill and
I were the only two without a purpose.

Ah, no, it is wrong for me to say that.  Let me
speak only for myself.  Bill had a purpose, and a
noble one.

My thoughts ran oddly that night.  I looked
around and saw the people on the benches.  Then, as
now, the majority of the seats were occupied by
homeless men, by "has-beens."

"Well, I am surely better than those tramps," I
assured myself with self-satisfied smirk.

Was I better than those tramps?  The newer voice
gave me the answer.  These tramps, useless now,
had once been useful, had once worked and earned,
but I, almost thirty years of age, couldn't call one
day in my life well spent.

It was a wondrous night to us, this night in the
shadow of City Hall Park.  It was the first night I
had given to thought, and found myself at my true
estimate.  Saints are not made in a day, and I was
still hard and callous, but, after my introspection,
a feeling took possession of me which very
much resembled shame.  Instead of returning the
way we had come, via Chatham street—now called
Park Row—we wandered home by the way of Centre
street.  We passed the Tombs, the sinister prison
for the city's offenders, and Bill and I looked at it
musingly.  There were many in the cells who were
known by me.  Many in them could justly call me
their accomplice, because I had willingly spent their
money with them, knowing, or, at least, suspecting,
how it had been gotten.  And how long would it be
before a cell in there would be but a way station for
me before taking the long journey "up the river"?

The mere suggestion of it was shivery and I
remarked to Bill that our attic, no matter how humble,
was preferable to a sojourn at Sing-Sing.

Then an inspiration came to me, and, to this very
day I am making myself believe it came from old
Bill.  Most likely I am a fool for doing it, but I
want to have my old pal have his full share of credit
in my reincarnation.  The inspiration was: "Why
not try and stay in my attic in preference to going
to Sing-Sing?"  To this came an augmentation:
"If able to keep away from the road that leads to
prison, it may not always be necessary to stay in an
attic.  There are more nicely furnished rooms in
the city than your cubby-hole on the top floor, friend
Kildare."

How can I now, at this long range, analyze my
feelings of that critical night?  I would have to
perform a psychic wonder, and I am not that kind
of a magician.  But I did not go back to Callahan's,
and have never been there since as a participant in
the slimy festivities.

Up in our attic Bill and I gave ourselves up to
much mutual scrutiny.  Some outward change in me
must have been noticeable, for Bill watched me most
critically.

The one thing I remember best of all the little
incidents which left their clear impressions on my
mind was my first attempt at praying.

Bill laid in his usual place at the foot of my bed,
and I was stretched on my back, gazing into the
ceiling and overcoming my astonishment at being
in bed at such an unearthly early hour by going
over the events of the day.  I lingered longest at the
scene at her door and tried to laugh when my train
brought me to her advice to pray.  Somehow the
laugh was not sincere, and, instead of being able to
continue my mind's recital, I could not get away
from her admonition.

That was not all.  A soliloquy ensued and ended
with the result of giving prayer a chance to prove
itself.  Why not?  It did not cost anything, might
do some good after all, and, besides, it would be
interesting to note how it felt to pray.

I prayed, and you will not accuse me of irreverence
when I make the statement that my prayer
was certainly one of the funniest that ever rolled on
to the Father's throne.  It was hardly a prayer.
The "thou" and "thee" and "thy" were sadly missing.
I did not think or ask with faith.  Quite the
reverse.  I frankly avowed my skepticism.  The
substance of it was that I had been told God could
do much, everything.  The one who had told me this
possessed my greatest respect, yet was only a little
girl and not as experienced as I, and, perhaps,
fooled.  So, if God wanted me to believe in Him, He
would have to give me conclusive proof right away
or else lose a follower.  It was a heart-to-heart talk
of the most informal kind and—are they not the
best prayers?

I said quite coolly that I had been told I wasn't as
much of a man as I had thought myself to be and
that there was a much better life than the one I
had led.  Well, I was willing to try it, and, if I
really liked the newer life better than the old one, I
promised to stick as closely to God as I had stuck
to all that was evil before.

One should not bargain with the Creator, but I
am sure that on the Judgment Day my God will
find extenuating circumstances.  As for the
bargain made that night, both parties have lived up
to it.





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   CHAPTER XIV.

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   THE OLD DOORS CLOSED.

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Sober to bed and sober out of it was an uncommon
experience and I felt embarrassed by the
unwonted sensation.  Happily I found some money in
my pocket and that deprived me of the excuse to my
conscience that I must go to Callahan's so as to get
my breakfast money.  How we ate that morning,
Bill and I, and how we relished our breakfast.  Yes,
I had a drink, a big drink of whiskey, but not
because I had forgotten my resolve of the night before,
but because I was yet ignorant.  To be quite frank,
I have always been a bit cynical about these sudden
conversions of confirmed drunkards.

Not long ago I met a man at a rescue mission
where I frequently attend, who, as we say on the
Bowery, "eats whiskey" and almost subsists on it.
He was homeless, or rather bedless, his home being
forfeited long ago, and received his "bed ticket"
from the missionary after his confession of salvation.
I happened to meet him on the following day;
and his breath was strong with the perfume of
cloves.  He told me he liked to chew them, which is
rather an odd hobby.

Far be it from me to slander any one, yet the
perfume of cloves can hide a multitude of aromas.

Sublime is the aim of the rescue missions, but how
and whether they accomplish this aim is another
story, which we might discuss at some future time.

Another habit, which also still clung to me, was
my late rising.  It was noon before Bill and I
appeared on the street on our way to the restaurant.
After breakfast we walked over to City Hall Park,
looked gravely and wisely at the spot where we had
sat the night before, and then we permitted
ourselves the luxury of a day dream.

Dreams are funny fellows, always playing pranks.
This dream kept me embraced until I found myself
in the immediate neighborhood of the school where
a certain little professor was engaged in leading the
infantile mind through the labyrinth of the A, B, C's.

Soon they began to stumble out with noisy,
natural, healthy laughter and hubbub, and the dingy
street became one long, squirming stream of
babbling children.  I could not help looking back on
my boyish years and tried to imagine how it would
feel to have your slate and books under your arm.
There were many youngsters before me and I kept
staring at them to draw the picture in my mind's eye
of how I would have looked coming from school,
my school.

At last she came!

As I saw the little tots, her pupils, cling to her
skirts from very love of her, I felt a light, an
oriflamme, within my breast, and knew that I would
have to fight a harder fight than ever before; that I
would have to conquer myself before I would dare to
touch the hem of her skirt as those children.  And he
who fights, fights best when in the sight of an
inspiring emblem.  So then I took my sailing flag and
nailed it to the mast of purity.  It has withstood all
sorts of weather.  Sometimes it droops, again it flies
defiantly.  But, whatever, it is still safely on the mast
and will stay there until I strike my colors for the
last dipping to my God above.

I crossed the street and put myself in her way so
that she could not help seeing me.

"Oh, Mr. Kildare!"

She remembered my name.

It is impossible for me to recall how I acted at
this meeting.  However, I consider it very fortunate
that no camera fiend took a snapshot at me.  The
human document which would have evolved from
it would certainly be very embarrassing to me.
Still, lout, churl as I was, it was the first time in my
life that I spoke to a girl without even the shadow
of an ulterior or impure motif, and some of my want
of politeness may be forgiven on that account.

If I cannot recollect my behavior during that
scene, I can correctly recollect my feelings.  I was
in a turmoil.  Her face showed real, unaffected
pleasure on seeing me, and that to me, if you will
understand my social position then—was an
incomparable boon.  If people, the good, well intending
people, would only realize that the hardest heart is
very often the most ready to respond to genuine
kindness and that, usually, it is only hard, because,
through life, it had to be satisfied with the
stereotyped prating which passes as a message from our
all-loving and loving-all God!

Knowing the awkward propensities of my limbs
and arms, it does not surprise me in the least that I
stood there shuffling and wobbling, and never noticing
the little hand held out to me in truest greeting.

She greeted me kindly, in evident surprise.

Most gingerly I took her dainty hand into my big,
brawny paw.  She spoke of the "chance meeting."  Since
then I have often felt certain that when I said
"chance meeting," a twinkle danced for the time of a
breath in her eyes.  Afterward, I often accused her
of it and was severely squelched for my presumption.
Yet, yes, she was an angel, but also very much of a
woman, and, between you and me, there are times
when a true, little woman with staunch heart, level
head and unwavering faith is of more practical
benefit to a rough, big fellow like me than the angel
who wouldn't dare take a chance of spoiling those
snowy garments or to let the harp remain
untwanged for a few moments.

Being more unfamiliar with etiquette than I am
now, I had no little white lie ready, but blurted
out that I had come there for the express purpose of
seeing her.  She seemed a trifle annoyed at this
and I hastened to explain that I was there to see her
home, so that she would not have to run the risk
of being insulted again.  When she learned this
determination of mine to act henceforth as her
body guard, she chided at first, declared it absolutely
unnecessary, but then laughed, and told me it was
very kind of me.

And all this time I was playing a part and, as I
thought, so perfectly that she could not penetrate
my disguise.  But she could not be deceived.  She
quickly saw through my pretense of wishing to
appear a fairly considerate man of the world, who,
not having anything better to do, would do a chivalrous
act merely for the sake of killing some of his
superfluous time.  The only wonder is that she
permitted me to bother her.

Then, though no daisies or roses garlanded our
path and though we walked along the crowded, not
too clean, sidewalks in the precincts of the poor,
began walks that one could turn into poetry, but
which I cannot do, not having the essential gift of
expression.  All I could do in return for being
permitted to be beside her was to devote myself entirely
to the task of protecting her.  Protect her against
what?

You know the most glorious thing about love is
that it is no respecter of persons.  To rich and poor
it comes alike; here to be received in passion and
impurity, there to be welcomed in a better spirit
and to be nested in an ever-loyal heart.  But the
bad thing about love is that it makes us lose our
proper respect for truth.  In short, it makes splendid
liars out of us.

Where is there the young man who has not told
her whom he adored that her eyes made the most
brilliant star look like a tallow candle, or that her
cheeks were as peaches?

In the same way did I magnify my knightly duty
to myself.  Surely the dangers along the journey to
her home were trifling and few, but, thanks to my
love-stirred imagination, I felt as serious as a
plumed knight, and no proud queen in days of sword
and lance had more devoted cavalier to fight, die or
live for her.  That now became my sole duty, and
with such duty, to serve the best and truest, a man
must grow better even in spite of himself.

Every day, rain or shine, I waited on the corner
above the school to serve as permanent escort.
Every day she told me it was not necessary to see
her home, yet, every day she permitted me to do so.
When one arrives in a strange land the smaller
details are often not noticed, and, afterward, you
can only re-see the grander pictures.  I cannot tell
you how and why the turns in our conversations
occurred, but I can remember certain bits of talk
and questions, very important to both of us.

For instance, on our third meeting she asked
me if I were still one of Mike Callahan's
ornamental fixtures.  I felt then, as many of us have
felt before and will feel again; I was ashamed to
admit that I had severed my connection with the
gang and had not been there since the night I had
taken her home.  You see, I still considered myself
a "red-hot sport," and did not care to be identified
with anything that was goody-goody.  Since then I
have learned that it is quite the thing among certain
sets to speak lightly of one's religion and to laugh
at being found out as an occasional church-goer.
It makes such a rakish impression to intimate you
are "really devilish."

So, to her question, I did not give a straightforward
answer, but hummed and hawed and—lied.

"No, I ain't been there the last two nights,
because—because, I wasn't feeling any too good, and—and,
oh, yes, one night I went up to a show."

The greatest lies can be compressed into the
smallest parcels, yet they always weigh the same.

She had a way of letting me know when my lies
were too transparent.  It was not what she said, but
how she looked when she said it.

In reality I had stood away from Callahan's
because I had taken a dislike to the place and
everybody in it, but, of course, it would have never done
to tell that to a little slip of a girl.

Apparently my explanation was not taken at its
face value, for she merely said: "Oh, I see."  Barely
a second later she added: "Oh, I'm so glad."

The intuition of women is certainly wonderful.
Even such an accomplished diplomat as myself was
floored on the spot by a little girl.

Well, the days wore on, and our walks became to
me walks in an unknown realm.  Her little casual
references to mother, brother, home, friends and
daily work gave me a vista of a life not even
imagined by me.  To live as she, in well-regulated
household and according to well-ordained schedule, had
never been desired by me and, therefore, never been
considered by me.

"If that kind of life turns out such fine little
women, it can't be so bad after all, and may be worth
trying," was my train of reasoning, and a dull but
positive desire to try that sort of life began to rankle
in my soul.

While I was engaged in these musings, she did
not keep entirely quiet, but put me through the most
severe kind of civil service.  I had to answer so
many questions—and truthfully, too, as she could
tell a fabrication immediately—until I honestly
believe every hour of my life was covered.  The
finish of it all was that I was made the subject of
several of the most scathing lectures ever delivered.
Those sermons fairly made my blood boil, and often,
under my breath, I wished she were a man, that I
could close the lecturing for good and all with a blow.

It is simply awful how impudent little people—and
especially women—are.  And the worst of it is
that we big fellows have to stand it from them.

She had a peculiarly direct way of getting at
things and never minced matters.  The effect of it
was that I began to shrink into myself.

A leering knave, I had stood on the pinnacle of
wickedness; had grinned and sneered at decency,
manhood and womanhood; had thought myself a
"somebody" because the laws of God and man were
unregarded by me, and because a chorus of fools
and friends had always shouted an amen to my
deeds, and now—now I awoke to the pitiful fact
that I was not only a "nobody," but a despicable,
contemptible thing, without the least of claims to
the grandest title—man.

Yes, there was no denying the fact, the "somebody"
had fallen, sadly fallen from his horse, and
all his house of cards had been knocked into
smithereens by a little bit of a schoolma'am.





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   A KINDERGARTEN OF ONE.

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   CHAPTER XV.

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   A KINDERGARTEN OF ONE.

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Keeping away from Callahan's and from the
sinister harvest which was often reaped there, had a
depressing effect on my income.  For a comparatively
long time I lived on a few dollars, which came
to me from outstanding loans, now determinedly
collected.  I learned then that if one keeps away from
Callahan's and places like it, one can subsist on a
remarkably small income.  As it had been with me,
it was always a case of "getting it easy and spending
it easy."

My expenses became the object of much thinking
and figuring.  So much for room rent, so much for
meals, including Bill's fare, and so much for shaves
and incidentals were estimated at the lowest
minimum and so as to last the longest until something
should turn up.  This something did not fail to turn up.

When the funds became dangerously low, I
bethought myself of some of my swell friends, who
had often evinced a desire to have me "train" them
or keep them in condition.  These propositions had
been so frequent as to make me think that to be rich
included being rich in ailments.

Some wanted me to make them thin, others desired
more flesh to cover their bones, and they all came to
me, I being such an authority on anatomy and physiology!

I communicated with many of these ailing swells
and ere long made a fairly good living by my
physical culture lessons.  There is a heavy cloud on my
conscience that on my balance-sheet a score of
offenses are recorded against me in connection with
the furtherance of my physical culture system.  A
frank confession is good for the soul, and I might as
well confess right here that, only too frequently, I
prescribed the identically same course for fat and lean.

This calling of mine was not without humor.  I
remember a "patient" who was troubled with too
much embonpoint.  He did not believe in the
prescriptions of his physician, but rather preferred the
physical culture system of "Professor" Kildare.
He was a man of much weight in public affairs and
in flesh.  About 250 pounds in the flesh, if I
remember right.

He lived in the immediate neighborhood of
Madison Square, and for a long succession of many
mornings a select audience, including several
news-boys, a few policemen and myself, had the edifying
spectacle of seeing these 250 absolutely-refusing-to-melt
pounds chase around the square like mad at 5 A.M.

I do not think it did him very much harm and it
did the audience an awful lot of good, if you will
take laughter as an indication of increasing health.

No fear of want or need threatening me, I gave
myself completely up to peeping into the better life.
I fairly revelled in my new experience, and dreams
by day and night were my only territory.

A few weeks of this and then a crisis came.

We had reached her house from our customary
walk from the school.  I had taken leave and had
already taken a few steps, when she called me back.

"Mr. Kildare, I forgot something."

I was quickly back to the door waiting to hear
what she had forgotten.

She took a small card from her bag and handed it
to me.

"Mr. Kildare, you have been very kind and
considerate and I would like to show you that I
appreciate it.  I am afraid you will find it rather tame,
but I hope you will come."

I twirled the card between my fingers and without
looking at it asked: "What is it?"

"Why, just a little social entertainment of our
church."

"When and where does it take place?" I still
kept on asking.

"I am not quite sure as to the date, but the card
will tell you."

As it was said, I could do no less than refer to the
card.  Whether I held the card upside down or what
I did, I do not know, but my secret was out and
nothing could hide it any longer.

There I stood, to all appearances a man, intelligent
and able-bodied, and not able to cipher or decipher
even my own name.

I felt all go away from me.  My fairy palace of
bliss crumbled to pieces.  What else could I do
but slink away, to hide myself, my ignorance, my
shame forever?

Why prolong the agony of this torturing moment?

I turned quickly without a word, intending to
return to the dark "whence" from which I had come.

But before I had taken a step a little hand grasped
my arm, and then and there took up its faithful
guidance of me, and every fibre of my big, ungainly
frame thrilled at this waking of the better life.

The memory of the following months—yes, years—but
for the tingeing sadness would be a bit of
most laughable humor.

The work of my little schoolma'am became doubled.
Besides her class at school she saddled herself
with this unwieldy, husky kindergarten of one.  I
know many youngsters—God bless them!—who like
their school and studies, but they were not in it with
me in the drilling of my A, B, C's.  Never was the
alphabet more quickly mastered.  In a surprisingly
short time "c-a-t, cat," and "r-a-t, rat," were spelled
by me with the facility of a primary scholar.

Who would not have learned quickly with such a
teacher?

My good old Bill did not fail to note this
educational process and was sorely puzzled at it.

Our attic became a study; the washstand a student's
desk, with a big, ungainly head bent close to a
smoking oil lamp.

How I pored over my private lessons!

The pen in cramped fingers would trace those
tantalizing letters, while the lips gruffly murmured the
spelling.  Naturally, arithmetic was also included in
my curriculum, and often Bill had flung at him the
maddening puzzle: "Seven into thirty-five goes how
many times—yes, how many times?"

Bill always sat beside me during my studies and
blinked a hundred questions at me.

"Say, Kil, what are you up to now?  I am afraid
it is some new sort of tomfoolery.  If not, why
can't I do it, too?"

I often answered and explained, but the situation
was not fully grasped by my old pal until he met my
teacher.  And then?  Why the rocks, the hillsides,
trees and birds and flowers were all responsive to
that little sprite, and Bill, in just one glance, saw
that the fairy of our destinies had but begun her
miracle of love.

But even dolls can be made to talk and parrots
can imitate empty chatter.  My teacher wanted me
to have the means to lift myself out of my ditch.
The little sculptor who was moulding this huge
mass of the commonest clay into the semblance of a
man wanted to waken that in me which would make
me something apart from the thing I had been.
Coming out of blackest darkness I was not led at
once into the radius of the dazzling light, but, as
with the tots in her class at school, she coached me,
step by step, into the way of righteous intelligence.

Gradually I began to see—to see with the eyes of
my soul—and I found a great world about me
abounding in the evidences of an almighty and wise
Creator.  I began to understand and love this newer
and better life, and began to hate the old life, which
often tried to tempt me back to it.

Our lessons were carried on with much inconvenience
and difficulty.  The distance from school
to home was little more than ten blocks, and during
the time it took us to walk that length I had to report
my lesson and to receive instructions for additional
study.  The inconvenience of this method was not
at all conducive to learning, and one day I was asked
by my teacher to come to her house to receive my
lesson there.

I could hardly believe mine own ears.  I was to
see the very place in which she lived.  It was beyond
belief.  Was it not a sacrifice on her part?  Indeed
it was, and I can never sufficiently emphasize the
many sacrifices this sweet little girl underwent for
me from the beginning to the very end.

Let us understand her position.

Marie Deering was the sole support of her mother
and a young invalid brother.  Besides these two she
had only one other relative, an elder brother in a far
western city.  The father, a retired captain of
engineers in the British army, had come to America to
dispose of several inventions.  Whatever the value
of these inventions, the captain knew little of the
ways of business and commerce, and soon found
himself minus his inventions and balance of his
savings.  Disappointment and failing health combined
to shorten his days, and the little family found
themselves fatherless.

The burden to provide fell then on the shoulders
of the daughter, and that, as all her other burdens,
was borne with a fortitude worthy of a saint in
heaven.

It goes without saying that the Deerings were
refined people, and you can imagine what it meant
to them to have a big, uncouth fellow intrude into
their home circle.  I shall never forget the
horror-stricken countenance of Mrs. Deering when I
appeared for my first lesson.  It needed no
interpreter to read the question in her eyes: "For
goodness' sake, where did this come from, and what is it?"

But I immediately found a dear little ally in my
teacher's invalid brother, who quickly discovered me
a willing horse for many a wild and hazardous canter
from kitchen to parlor.

This first glance into real home life fairly upset
me.  Since then I have seen many more luxurious
places, but none where my heart felt so much at
home.  I noticed everything—the neatness, the
taste of the modest decorations—and I set my teeth
and said: "I, too, will have a home, a real home, and,
perhaps, not only for myself, but——"

Ah, it was too early to dream that far.

To dream of things will never bring them.  People
who had known me had always given me credit for
stubborn determination in wicked pursuits.  I
resolved to test the strength of my determination by
applying it to a better end.

As soon as my mentor ascertained that my income
came from practising my uniform system of physical
culture, of which the only beneficiary was the
inventor and professor, she counselled against it and
told me to cease it.

This brought me face to face with my most novel
experience.  I looked for work—good, honest, hard
work.

My luck surprised me.

Only a few months had passed since the beginning
of my transformation, but it had been noticed by
men whom I had thought indifferent to my fate.

I can say, with all the conviction possible, that, if
a man determines without compromise to do right,
he will find friends, all willing to help along, among
those he had expected to be nothing more than mere
acquaintances.  And another thing.  I also claim—and
it has never disproven itself to me—that the man
who really wants to work can always find it, friends
or no friends.  The rub is that "suitable" work
cannot always be found so easily.  It is this lack of
"suitable" work which sends men to Bowery
lodging-houses, there to keep themselves in high collars
and cuffs by begging instead of soiling their tender
hands by the first work offered to them.

I started out to do my hustling turn and had no
trouble in finding work.  Happily it was of the—to
me—"suitable" kind.

I went to work at one of the steamboat piers as
a baggageman—sometimes lovingly referred to as a
"baggage-smasher."  The wages were eight dollars
a week, and that was a smaller amount than I had
often "earned" in one night while employed in the
dives.

On my first pay day, those eight dollars were
recounted by me innumerable times, not because I
was dissatisfied with the smallness of the amount,
but because I felt good, really good, at having at
length earned a week's wages by honest toil.  Every
one of those bills had its own meaning for me.

My teacher knew of my new employment, and,
with my first pay I bought a little gift for her.  It
also gave me a pretext for explaining to her my
future plans.

Much of her time had been taken up with me, and
I owed all of my new life to her endeavor.  Persistently
she claimed that all her efforts were only a
small return for the favor done for her by me, and
that, besides, it was her duty to help me to gain a
foothold on my new road of life.  This argument
failed to convince me, as my favor amounted to
nothing, and I understood without difficulty that all
the benefit I received from her unceasing toil with
me was inspired by nothing else than the sweet,
Christian spirit which ruled every one of her actions.
I insisted that it would have been an imposition for
me to be a trouble and bother to her any longer,
especially when I had steady employment, which
afforded me the time and means to attend evening
schools and to study at home in spare hours.  I
wanted to thank her, and not be quite so conspicuous
where, because of social differences, I felt I did
not belong.

I mentioned something about coming from the
gutter.  As always, she had an answer, and a
flattering one, ready.  As to coming from the gutter,
she expostulated, why, many a coin is dropped there
and remains until some one picks it up and, by a
little polishing, makes it as good as it ever was.

It was just like her.  She always claimed to have
found in me something good, something I could
never have discovered.  On the other hand, as soon
as we resumed the lessons, she found that quite often
her pupil could be severely trying.

It was the harrowing science of arithmetic which
caused the most trouble, and even to this day—but
that is a different story.  I had a confirmed habit of
becoming hopelessly muddled in my multiplication
table.  When floundering in the numerical labyrinth
I would hear just the faintest little sigh, and,
looking up, would see a dear little forehead showing the
most cunning wrinkles of resignation.  It was then
that horrid wickedness would take possession of me,
and I would intentionally make more mistakes just
to see those eyes reproach me for my stupidity.  I
would also make errors in my spelling and reading
to have the pleasure of being chided in her
modulated voice.

My course of education had now run on for
months and the beginning of winter gave us the
chance to elaborate it.  The free lectures of the Board
of Education were a boon quickly taken advantage
of by us.  Almost every night we went to Cooper
Union or some public school where an interesting
lecture was announced.  To be sure I was not at
first a howling success as an attendant.  I could
stand the illustrated lectures, but astronomy and
political economy without pictures always produced
the lullaby effect on me, and I was often on the verge
of snoring.  All this disappointed my professor, but
did not discourage her.

Summer came and my knowledge of botany was
destined to be enriched.  Strange are the paradoxes
of fate.  No class loves flowers as much as the
poor, and no class has less of them than they.  Ah,
it is pitiful, I tell you, to wander through the streets
inhabited by my people, and to see never a patch of
green, a fragrant oasis, in this stretch of barren,
joyless materialism.  There is no time there for
flowers, where even the cabbages in front of the
dingy grocery stores look withered and seared, and
where there is no other watchword than, "Work,
work, or we will be homeless and starving."  That
one thought rules the brains of my fellows with an
iron grasp.  With the close of their daily toil their
day's worry is not over.  Listen to the talks on the
stoops and in the doorways of the tenements and you
will be the witness of much fretting.  Often all this
mind's botheration is not necessary.  There is no
actual want, no threatening danger of it.  Yet, the
poor find a gruesome pleasure in dwelling in the
midst of their horrors, and the roll of their organ of
misery churns along on an endless chain.

And I believe that this is so because the child life
of the East Side is dwarfed and deprived of all that
is dear to a child's natural desires.  Every year
brings improvements.  Men and women with hearts
of gold are working like Trojans among the children
of the poor, and the harder they work the more are
they appreciated by their charges.  I cannot rid
myself of the opinion that in the aiding of the children
lies the only solution of our social troubles.  Teach
them to be natural—a difficult feat, to swing
themselves above their level in intellect and not by
imitating the modes and fashions of the idle rich in the
shoddy fabrics offered to them by unscrupulous
dealers, and we will have advanced miles nearer
to the goal which is desired by all who love their
fellow men, not with mushy sentiment, but with
intelligence.

Still, in spite of all that is done, the yearning look
in the eyes of the children is still there, and I would
not care to have the heart of the man who can see
the unspoken wish in the childish gaze when
beholding a flower, no matter how scraggy, and then
laugh at it as at a freak of humor.

My acquaintance with the denizens of the kingdom
of flowers was exceedingly limited.  My teacher
had noticed this and forthwith set to work to remedy
this other defect in my education.

As early as May did we begin our out-of-door
course.  We did it by means of excursions.  I did
not care to have this arrangement all one-sided and
we agreed to change off in the management of our
personally conducted tours.  We both had to work
during the week and could only indulge in our
excursions on Sundays.  So, on one outing she would
be the supreme director and dictator; I, on the next.

Candor compels me to confess that my outings
always led us dangerously near to Coney Island, if
not quite to it, yet, people can enjoy themselves even
there, for it is the same old ocean, and the same
sea air there as elsewhere, and it only lies with the
visitor how to spend the holiday.

On her Sundays I was always kept in the dark as
to our destination until we reached it.  It invariably
proved to be some quiet country place, with nooks
and brooks and all the charming props which set
the stage of nature with tranquil loveliness.  After
depositing the luncheon in some shady spot, the
professor would trip from flower to flower, from
tree to tree, and deliver little sermons on birds,
flowers and minerals.  There is no schoolroom like
God's own nature, and in a way which I cannot
describe to you, I learned that there was a life
abounding in purity, in the understanding of things,
and based in the wisdom of a wise Father.  Step by
step my faithful teacher led me on, until there was
no doubt travailing me, until I could stand in street,
or field, or forest, and feel my soul, my own undying
soul.

There never were other days like these and,
surely, there never will be again.

We had then known one another for a long time.
I had become capable of reasoning, and had grave
cause for doing so.  Was it all for the best?  Will
it surprise you to know that constant companionship
with my mentor had awakened in me thoughts very
foreign to grammar and arithmetic?

I loved her.  I knew it, but I also felt that that
love was doomed to be buried unsatisfied.  A cat
may look at a queen, but that is about all a cat may
presume to do.

That is what my reason told me, but in my heart
there echoed a stirring hymn of fondest hope.  It
would not let me rest, and I became a pestering
nuisance to my teacher.  Many times daily would I
ask her the questions, "Why, why do you undergo
this ceaseless labor—why do you set yourself this
gigantic task of making of me a man?"

As in all other matters, I was rough and uncouth
in my annoying questioning, and an answer to it
was long refused.  But my bulldog tenacity came
to my aid and I would not let go.  Determination
will overcome a good many things, and surely a
little school teacher.  I need not tell you how it
happened—you either know, or will know it yourself—but
one day we understood the question and the answer.

Then life for us became a blessed thing indeed.
For the first time in my life I was supremely happy.
I cannot tell you how my little girl felt, but can give
a very strong guess at it, for my sweetheart never
wavered, never failed me, and was my very own
until the very last.

My Mamie Rose, my bride, my dearest friend, my all.

It took me a long time to fully grasp that she had
really said "Yes," to the ever-important question,
but, as soon as I was quite sure of it, I assumed the
grand airs of proprietorship new swains usually
assume.

First of all I exerted my prerogative of calling
her by her first name.

Although long under her tutelage and exposed to
her refining influence, I was by no means, very
polished, and still harbored many prejudices against
customs and usages not common to the social shift
from which I had sprung.  The nomenclature of
my people is very limited.  Only a very small choice
of male and female baptismal names is resorted to
by tenement house folk.  John, James, Michael,
Patrick, Henry, George, Charles are the most used
male names; Maggie, Sadie, Susie, Lizzie, Nellie
and Mamie are the favorite female names, or, at
least, the favorite abbreviations of the names.

The name, Marie R. Deering, sounded a trifle too
fashionable, too "toney," to me, and I proceeded
to acclimatize it.

"Mamie" is the abbreviation or substitute for
"Marie," so my little girl was immediately dubbed
"Mamie."

The "R."—the initial of her middle name, stood
for Rosetta, and it was decidedly against the code
of ethics of the Fourth Ward for any one to be
burdened by such an enormity.  Again I officiated
at the imaginary baptismal font, and "Rosetta"
became a plain "Rose," sweet to me as no other.

Let no one think for a moment that my changing
of names was accomplished without opposition.
Besides other things, little people also possess the
virtue of stubbornness, and many were the
arguments pro and con.  I was told with most charming
emphasis that I could shout "Mamie Rose" to the
winds, but that she, Marie R. Deering, would never—no,
never—answer to that name.  But, you know
the old saying about many little drops of water
penetrating the surface of the hardest stone, and the
same was true in this case.  Also, it should not be
forgotten that she, my Mamie Rose, was of English
descent, I was of Irish stock, and it is in Ireland
where the Blarney stone is, which same instils a
wonderful magic in the love-making of every
descendant of good Erin's folk.

We had barely sealed the compact of our love
when I received a fearful shock.  My Mamie Rose
wanted me to inform her mother concerning what
had happened.

Mrs. Deering and myself had become very good
friends.  On several occasions she had even been
my fellow-conspirator, by helping me to solve some
weird puzzles in multiplication, imposed on me by
her daughter.  I had often sat at her table and had
spent many hours, made pleasant by her, in the cosy
home.  However, all this did not seem sufficient to
screw my courage up to the required pitch.  Many
particularly ticklish situations in my past life had
been met by me without flinching, but I actually
trembled when I was obliged to face this sweet lady
with my portentous information and request.

If I had trembled with fear before telling her, I
trembled with joy after it.

I could hardly believe my senses when I did not
hear one word of regret or reproach from her lips.
And when she said quietly, and, therefore, most
impressively: "I have no fear for Marie's future,"
I became her bonded slave right on the spot, and
hold myself in bondage to her to this very day.

Richard, my brave, crippled Dick—my "other"
pal—was most effusive in his congratulations, but,
he admitted to me his was a selfish reason, for now
I was his big brother in "dead earnest."

Naturally, all this gave me an increased impetus
to earn more money, and I put so much zeal into
my work that my wages were several times
increased.  Nevertheless, I was still nothing more or
less than a "baggage smasher."  However, all of it,
courtship and the rest, was so entirely out of the
ordinary that a little thing like this did not cause us
any worry.  And if one happens to be a "baggage-smasher,"
it does not follow that one must always
remain one.  Besides, the queen did not mind it,
and as to the cat, well—there is no use in talking
to you if you cannot imagine what the cat thought
about it.





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.. _`AMBASSADOR BILL`:

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   AMBASSADOR BILL.

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   CHAPTER XVI.

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   AMBASSADOR BILL.

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One who has been somewhat neglected in the few
preceding pages is my old pal, my Bill.  His soul,
heart, instinct, call it what you will, was
undergoing severe trials.

Mamie Rose was the cause of it.

With her coming into our lives, she sowed the
seed of jealousy between me and Bill.

Bill found a new joy in trotting beside my teacher
at times when he should have been at my side.  He
seemed the proudest dog in all the world and hardly
deigned to notice me.

This I resented.

On the other hand, at times when Mamie Rose
and I would sit close together, Bill could not rest
until, with all his mighty prowess, he had squirmed
himself between us.

For a long time he did not know whom of his
two friends he should love the best.  But, with
coming weeks and months, he decided to share his
affection evenly, and then we understood one another's
feelings and respected our relative positions.

Would that I could take a peep into Bill's doggish
brain and read the memory of those heavenly days!

A man who is born to coarseness and brutality
will sometimes lose control of his acquired
attainments.  There came a day, long forgiven and
forgotten by her, but not yet sufficiently atoned by me,
when I permitted the subdued brute within me to
assert itself for one brief moment.  I saw
immediately what I had done, and realized that my
rowdyism could not be forgiven.

Then was a lapse in deepest shadows.  Regrets,
reproaches, self-accusations—what good were they?
They could not lead me back to paradise.  The room
became a place of silent brooding, and not as
regularly shared by Bill as formerly.  Bill had taken no
part in our estrangement.  Emotional dog as he
was, he never forgot to take care of the inner dog
whenever an opportunity presented itself.  From
the very beginning he had industriously cultivated
the acquaintance of my little girl's mother.  First,
becomingly modest, he had, in the course of time,
insisted on being a regular guest at the dinner-table.
I meant to break him of this habit, but the mother
told me in confidence that Bill had whispered to
her, quite plainly: "I think you are the very best
cook in the world."  Few women can resist such
a compliment.

For two long days I had not seen her—had not
heard her voice.  She lived just around the corner,
and, from the window of my tenement, I could see
the walls that sheltered my treasure, that I thought
forever lost.  I sat and sat and stared at the cruel
bricks that seemed to cry, "Halt!"  Small wonder
that the lesser things of life had lost their importance
to me!  Even Bill had, for the nonce, but little space
in my thoughts; but he lost no time in bringing
himself most forcibly to my notice.

I was at the window, and the door way slightly
ajar.  All was quiet, very quiet, until a slow patter
on the stairs told of my partner's home-coming.
My most casual glance was his share on entering
the room.  He was very anxious to avail himself
of this, and made quickly for the sheltering shadows
under the bed.  But my careless glance had quickly
changed to one of concern on beholding him, and,
after much coaxing, he crawled out to face me.

My valiant knight had met his conqueror.  The
hero of many a battle sat wounded and bandaged
before me.  His left eye was swathed in linen.  He
tried to pass over the matter lightly; he wagged his
tail, but only once, for that, too, was bandaged.
Then he threw himself on my mercy.

It behooved me, as his partner, to investigate
the extent of the damage, and I carefully untied
the bandage that covered his eye.  It was only a
trifling scratch, suspiciously like one made by a
cat.  I also noticed that his badge of honor—his
collar—was missing.  On the point of throwing
aside the bandage, a handkerchief, my eye fell
on a well-known monogram in its corner, and—I
cannot exactly recall how it happened—but, in
the very next minute, my Bill and I were descending
the rickety stairs, two steps at a time.

Just as we turned the corner, a belligerent-looking
tabby made herself exceedingly conspicuous.  Somehow,
Bill found the other side of the street preferable.
At her door he joined me again, and my
queen's ambassador led the way upstairs.

There I stood before her, and stammered uncouth
phrases of apology.  I mentioned Bill's collar.  A
dainty hand took it from the mantel and handed it
to me; our fingers met and—all the world was
singing again the sweet refrain which for days had been
silent.  The impudence of that dog beggars all
description.  He had the unblushing nerve to claim
all the credit for having brought love's jangle into
tune again, and, in his excitement, rapped his
damaged caudal appendage three times on the floor
before he tried to bite it.

Then our happiness began once more.





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.. _`MY DEBUT IN SOCIETY`:

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   MY DÉBUT IN SOCIETY.

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   CHAPTER XVII.

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   MY DÉBUT IN SOCIETY.

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Had our future plans depended on my inclinations,
or rather my impulses, our wedding would
have taken place very soon after our engagement.
All I deemed necessary to insure our future
happiness was our love.  All else was of no importance.
Now I know that her judgment was the better.

I had sense enough to admit her wisdom.  I was
still very much entangled in the forest of ignorance.
It could not have been right for me to force myself
on her, refined and cultured as she was—until, at
least approximately I was on the same level.  I had
still much, very much, to learn before considering
myself capable to class myself with the non-illiterate.
There were years of study before me, yet, with such
a prize dancing before me, I threw myself into my
task with true enthusiasm.

So, though I often grumbled at my fate, I fully
understood that it would be many moons before I
could justly say to my Mamie Rose: "Now I am
ready."

We were both human.  Sometimes, perhaps, in the
hour when the homing of the sun had come and
when the golden wings were folded for the rest
of one more night, we, Mamie Rose and I, in field
or rural quiet, felt the intoned, unison song of our
hearts, which sung to us that we were one, a unit,
and not two different personalities, and then we often
came very near to throwing aside all previous
sagacious resolves and felt ourselves fired by the
desire to end to-morrow this two-fold existence.
These periods never lasted long.  The morrow came
and whispered: "Fools," and we forgot the swerving
from our intentions, in hard work.

Since that time I have had many days of very
hard labor, but I never worked as I did then.
Corporations are not in the habit of paying liberal
salaries unless every cent of them is earned by the
sweat of your brow.  For one in my humble position
I was receiving exceedingly high wages—and, to
be candid, I had to earn them by my sweat.  Often
I was given an opportunity to work "over time" at
extra pay.  It was always welcome, because it meant
so much more added to my deposit in the Savings
Bank, but it simply "played me out."

From the pier I would hurry to Mamie Rose's
house to report or to receive a lesson, although,
sometimes, besides the lessons, other things were
discussed.  Then home and to other work.

I had left the attic and had taken a room, from
where I could see Mamie Rose's roof.  Arrived in the
room, Bill would be given his walk and dinner, and
then would be permitted to watch his master
"making himself educated."  The Standard Oil Company
really ought to give me a discount.  I was a good
customer, yet received not all the benefit possible
from the oil.  My midnight oil often burned away
into morning to no better purpose than to throw
shadows of the sleeping student and his dog.

I blush with deep shame while making this
confession; I invariably fell asleep over Ralph Waldo
Emerson, while I had no trouble in keeping
awake with Alexandre Dumas.  It is not intended
as a criticism of Emerson, although he could well
afford to be criticised by me, but, generally speaking,
it seems to one as unformed as myself, as if
the truths of life, of thought, of science come to
us always on stilts.  I have not been able to learn
very much from present day novels, and am, and
always will be, compelled to fall back on old friends
to supply me with the scaffolding for the rather
meagre structure of my education.  But, in spite
of loving them dearly, I often wish they were better
adapted to my understanding.

So, with books and work and sweet intercourse
with her whom I loved, time marched along with
never-halting step and was recorded by me with
most exact care.  My calendars were model
chronicles of time, and often did I wish they were
practical statesmen, so that, by the usual means, they
could be speeded.

With one exception nothing occurred to change
the even tenor of our lives.  That one exception has,
to this very day left a peculiarly bitter taste in my
mouth.  I admit I am biased in the matter, still, I
can be truthful, and so, that I may be better
understood, the episode will be related here.

Late one Saturday night, I had occasion to call
on one of my former pals, who was lying ill on a
cot in a lodging house near Chinatown.  On my way
home, I passed the entrance to Chinatown—Pell
street, beginning at the Bowery.  I had just greeted
a few of the men loafing about the front of Barney
Flynn's place—the palace of the King of the
Bowery—when I was hailed by some one.

I looked around and saw a party of sightseers
coming in my direction.  I had no more to do with
that sort of business and intended to proceed on my
way without paying any attention to them, but
was called by name by one of them, whose voice
was familiar to me.

"What do you want?" I asked, and halted.

"What's the matter, Kil?  Don't you remember
your friends any more?"

I looked at the speaker and knew him again as one
of my former pupils in the physical culture line.
To mention his name will do no good and I will
only say that he had been my favorite pupil and that
I had believed a mutual liking existed between us.
To prevent error, let me say that he had not been
my patient, being neither too fat nor too lean, but
had only taken a course in boxing to learn the
manly art of self-defense.  I had never seen him
since the closing of my physical culture system and
was overjoyed at this unexpected meeting.

He insisted that, for this one time only, and to
oblige him, I should take him and the party of his
friends through Chinatown and show them the most
interesting sight-places.  His friends were all from
out of town, seemed to be more serious than the
average sightseer, and were so strong in their
persuasion that I could not refuse to act as their guide.

During our journey along the old scenes of my
former days, my ex-pupil inquired into my present
welfare and was very glad to hear I was getting
along by other ways than those formerly employed
by me.  Shortly before I parted from him, he told
me that he had taken very little exercise of late and
wanted me to box with him occasionally.  I laughed
at his proposition, told him that I considered myself
retired for good, but did not think it advisable to
tell him the true reason for my refusal.  He kept
on increasing the terms he was willing to pay me.
I could not help thinking how the additional income
would increase my deposit; thereby bringing me
closer to the realization of my fondest dream, and,
after some reflection, I agreed to call on him twice
a week in the evening to "don the mitts" with him.

I had called on him several times before I told
him how completely my life had been changed.  In
this Mamie Rose was not left out, and, you can
rest assured, my accounts of her sweetness,
devotion and beauty were given in the most glowing
colors.  My regard for this man was sincere and I
supposed that all I told him was received in the
proper spirit.  I am not garrulous, but when it came
to talking about my Mamie Rose, I knew no limits.
My heart simply glowed with love, and I never grew
tired to praise her, who was the truest and best.

My man never omitted to inquire after her and
even sent her a few presents through me.  Mamie
Rose warned me against this, but the things were
beyond my means and added to her charm, and I
would not listen to her.

At the end of one of our sessions, my ex-pupil
extended an invitation to me.  He had told his
mother about me and she was very anxious to know
me.  At a certain date I was expected to call at
his mother's residence—he, himself, lived in bachelor
quarters—to meet a few friends there.

In this invitation Mamie Rose was also included.
I was bubbling over with excitement when telling
her about the honor fallen to us.  The quiet way
in which she received my news disappointed me.

"Aren't you glad?" I asked.  "Doesn't this prove
that my friend is of the right calibre and wishes
to honor both you and me by this invitation to his
mother's house?"

"I wish I could feel quite sure on that point,"
said my little adviser, "but I am afraid that this
invitation instead of bringing us pleasure, will bring
just the opposite."

"Oh, girl o' mine," I coaxed, "I know this fellow
and you don't.  He is as good as gold and you may
believe me that the invitation was extended in good
faith."

I prevailed, and, on the appointed day, we invaded
the most fashionable quarters of the city to enjoy
the hospitality of our friends, the swells.

After we had passed the scrutiny of the man at
the door, who had evidently been told of our coming,
we were ushered into a drawing room.  The only
one I knew among the people was my ex-pupil,
who quickly came forward to greet us and, then, to
introduce us.

In spite of my lack of familiarity with the customs
of the upper classes, I saw at a glance that the
crowd had been expectant and was now disappointed.

To explain this disappointment, I should mention
that my wearing apparel consisted of a black suit
of good material and workmanship.  My necktie
was not colored in imitation of the rainbow and I
had no occasion to look for a convenient spot for
my expectorations.  To carry the disappointment
further, I acted contrarily to expectations at the
dinner table.  I neglected to carry the food to my
mouth at the point of my knife and forgot to dip
my finger into the salt-cellar.

My Mamie Rose was, as always, becomingly
and properly gowned, and carried herself with a
tact which fortified me against giving full reins to
my temper.

Before entering the dining-room, the two freaks
from the Bowery were made the centre of much
curiosity.  The men got around me, expecting to hear
choice stories of a certain kind, which contrary to
accepted ideas, are not original in the Bowery, but
are brought there by these pioneers of refined
civilization.  Their faces fell when I proved a decided
failure at that sort of story-telling.

While in their midst, I did not forget Mamie
Rose, who was the centre of the female
freak-hunters.  I compared her poise, her naturalness,
to the artificial sprightliness of the society ladies,
and found it so admirable and sufficient, that I
could well afford to laugh at the winks and sneers
exchanged behind her back.

One old woman, who with her gray hair, made
a reverential picture of old age, deliberately
surveyed my Mamie Rose through her lorgnette, as
if the sweetest girl there or elsewhere were an
escaped beast from the jungle.  I could not bear this
and started toward my girl.  But she felt my
coming, turned to me and showed in her eye the
competency to withstand the illy veiled sneers and
insults of that horde of her sisters.

A few minutes before dinner was announced, I
had an opportunity to entreat Mamie Rose to have
us leave.

"I did not want to come, but now we are here
and here we stay," was her spirited dictum.

The ceremonial style of the meal and the
conversation during it impressed me very little.  The
emptiness, the superficiality and the desire to "show
off" was too palpable.  I had not then—or now—reached
that altitude of social perfection to make a
meal the most important function of my day's work.
After we, the gentlemen, (I am afraid I was not
included), had had our smoke and bout with the
decanters, we joined the ladies in the drawing room.
One of them had evidently been "laying for me,"
and captured me as soon as I entered.  I was led
to a settee and there we had a very, very serious talk.

She asked me this and she asked me that; if the
dives were really as horrible as pictured; if it was
quite safe to visit them; if I would consent to act
as guide, for a generous compensation; if I had ever
witnessed any "interesting" scenes down on the
Bowery; and—spare me telling the rest.

My answers were not what were desired and,
at last, I had a sample of frank truthfulness.

"Do you know, Mr. Kildare," said my resplendent
companion, "you are a decided disappointment as
a Bowery type, and not at all the entertaining chap
we had been led to believe you to be."

"I am sure that is more the fault of time than of
me," I replied.  "Years often make us lose our
entertaining qualities and, also, our attractiveness."

Our serious talk ended with this, still, she was a
surprisingly well made-up woman.

At last the time for our departure came and I
said my adieus.  Our visit having proved more or
less of a fiasco, one of the more intimate friends
of the family chose this moment to make an attempt
to save the "entertainment" from becoming an
absolute fizzle.

"I say, Kildare," began this worthy young man,
who was doubtless unacquainted with my past
performances in the exhibition of my temper, "you've
been in society now, and it would be very appropriate
if you were to tell us your impressions in your
own language—mind you, in your own language."

For once the pleading in the eye of my Mamie
Rose was of no avail, and I started to give my
impressions in "my own language," which proved
sufficient, and did not oblige me to borrow the
language of anybody else.  My heart was soured.
I did not care a snap of my fingers for the opinion
of these people.  To them I was a freak.  What
they were, what they are to me, need not be
written here.  I could have laughed at it all and
would have been the only one really entertained.
But to think that those people, purse and
caste-proud, should include my Mamie Rose in their
sport, made my blood run like boiling lava.

How far I might have gone in my outburst I
cannot say.  The same little hand, which had always
been my guide, touched my arm, and I followed her
out into the hall.

Before we departed, mother and son came to us
with their sincere apologies.  They were sincere,
we felt that and accepted them.  The son accused
himself of having misunderstood the situation, in
which I agreed with him.  We were most graciously
invited to dine with them "en famille," a few days
hence, but while we left in the best understanding,
the invitation was thankfully declined.

Again out in the air, under God's own heaven,
we walked along silently for quite a while.  My,
but I felt ashamed, and was ready to hear with
perfect composure my Mamie Rose's "I told you so."

But it did not come, and I began rehearsing my
plea for pardon.

"Girl o' mine," I pleaded, "won't you forgive
me this time, and I promise never——"

Ere I could finish, my pardon came with a silvery
laugh, and the world went very well again.

Less than an hour after that, we were without
the pale of society and, strange though it may seem,
we were perfectly happy.  My Mamie Rose was
busy with her school-work, the mother was taking
a well-earned rest—perhaps trying to take a little
nap in the rocker, and the little fellow and I were
racing about the place to the tune of "The Rocky
Road to Dublin," sung—let me call it that—by me
in tones that shook the rafters.

Within the last twelve months, I have been
honored on several occasions with invitations to
functions of the upper set.  They were extended in a
different spirit than the first one, still, I could not see
my way clear to accept them.

I want to say most emphatically that I am not
of anarchistic or nihilistic tendencies.  We all have
our work cut out, and my work is not in the direction
of stirring up emotional outbursts of charity in the
drawing rooms of the upper circles.





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.. _`THE JOURNEY HOME`:

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   THE JOURNEY HOME.

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   CHAPTER XVIII.

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   THE JOURNEY HOME.

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Time passed on, bringing with it many of the
things I was striving for.  To become a learned
man, a scientist, was never my desire, and, most
likely, would have been an impossibility had I
desired it.  What I wanted was to be able to
understand, to acquire a fair amount of mental balance,
and then, to be able to put the acquired knowledge
to the best use.

With the changing of my life, a changing of aims
had also come, and, as in the old life, I was striving
for success in the new life.  The best way to make
an ambition possible is to make the ambition reasonable.

I was still groping and groping, but thank God,
I was groping forward.  From whatever darkness
still enshrouded me I kept steadily emerging closer
to the light.  I felt this and it made me feel that
my probation should be ended.

Success without thrift is not well possible.  My
material advancement had continued.  I had again
been promoted and had soared way above the lowly
position of a "baggage-smasher."  My salary was
more than ample for my needs, and my deposit
in the savings bank had grown wondrously.

Capitalists are proverbially aggressive.  I, being
one of the order acted accordingly and began to
force matters.  Women like to be coaxed and urged,
and I did my proper share of it, because I knew
it would result as it did.

With the consent of the mother, the date of our
wedding was set for February.

Again another glorious period began.

It was over two months until the fixed date
on which we were to become man and wife, and we
thought it necessary to inform ourselves concerning
several practical details.  As I had now almost
succeeded in securing a mentor for life, we agreed to
suspend our evening lecture tours, and spent most
of our time in wandering from store to store.

The time for buying household goods had not
yet come, but it seemed to delight Mamie Rose to
gaze into the shop-windows.  At times, we would
even go so far as to enter a store and price the
goods.  It was then that my admiration for my little
girl increased again.

I had long ago recognized that of common sense
I had only a very small share, and it was a splendid
object-lesson to see my Mamie Rose dealing with
the tradesmen.  Calm and collected, she would listen
to the smooth talk, and then act according to her own
judgment, which was always sound.  I knew nothing
then of the sagacity of women shoppers.

One night I attempted to show off a little of my
business sagacity.  I chose a bad subject to practice
on—diamonds.  I can still hear her words ring in
my ears.  How foolish it was of poor people to
stint and starve themselves for the sake of imitating
flashy people by wearing jewels bought at the
expense of something more useful.  Diamonds and
jewels were often the means of making the ignorance
of the wearers more conspicuous.  A woman who
wears jewels knows that she needs other attractions
than those given to her by nature.

Right here I got the best of my Mamie Rose.

"That may be all true, but nevertheless, I am
going to buy you a ring, girl o' mine," I said very
seriously.

"No, you will not, because you know I do not
want it, and it will only offend me to have you give
me one."

"What?" I retorted, playing my part with perfection.
"Won't you permit me to buy you a ring for
that day in February?"

"Oh, that is different, and—why are you laughing,
Owen Kildare?"

Oh, girl o' mine, girl o' mine, why had it to be!

The day was only weeks distant.

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It was in January, and we were out on one of
our nightly rambles in the shopping district.  It was
one of those mild winter evenings which make
our climate so uneven.  I was glad of it, because
my Mamie Rose was a dainty, delicate little
creature, and on cold evenings I was afraid that she
might suffer from the weather.

We were looking at some furniture displayed
in a window, when a shower fell.  We were caught
right squarely in it.  I wanted her to seek refuge
in a store, or at least, in a doorway, but we were
only a short distance from her home, and she insisted
on reaching it before the shower turned into a
downpour.

I had a heavy overcoat over a stout suit of clothes.
"Let me put, at least, my overcoat over your
shoulders," I insisted.

"No, you foolish boy, no," she laughed in
answer.  "Why, we're only a jump from home, and I
am dressed warm enough to risk these few drops."

For once my Mamie Rose was wrong and it
was the "once" that counted.

My misgivings were many when I left her at
her home, but she assured me that she was in no
danger of feeling the effects of the dampness.

I called on the following evening.

She had been in bed all day.

Of course it was nothing.  "Just a trifling cold,"
that was all—but the beginning of the end had come.

She laughed at us for our fears.

"Why, I'll be up and about the same as ever
to-morrow."

To-morrow!  To-morrow multiplied into dread,
fearsome weeks.  Yes, for weeks she painfully
lingered on her bed, and I marveled with awe at
the heroic spirit of my little girl.

The weakness increased until she looked like a
dainty statue hewn in alabaster.

It was only a trifle more than a week before
the date set for our wedding.  The physician
stepped from her bed and beckoned me to follow him
into the next room.

You know what he told me, and you know that
I did not believe him.

"The end coming?  Pshaw, what nonsense!  Was
there not a loving, a merciful God above us?"

I could not deny the evidence before me.  She
was getting worse every day, but I could not, would
not, believe that, which even her mother had
accepted with resignation.

And next week we were to be married!

Spells came, during which reason left her, but in
all her conscious moments she spoke to me with the
wisdom of another world, and gave me then her
legacy of purest, Godliest love.

Then came the day!

The afternoon sun was low when she asked me to
lift her to the window.  It was a humble neighborhood,
devoid of all picturesqueness.  All we saw
in the last sheen of the sun's departing rays was a
little girl on the opposite sidewalk, playing with a
kitten.  The picture was very simple, but my beloved
one watched with smiling interest until her tired
little head fell on my shoulder.

She was so light, one did hardly know anything
was in his arms, and without disturbing her
reposing position, I carried her back to her couch.
Back in her bed, we clasped hands, as foolish lovers
will do, and, still confident, still hoping, lulled by the
quiet and her happy smile, I fell asleep.

Suddenly I was awakened.

Her hand was not in mine.  Her mother, weeping,
knelt beside the bed.

"Why——?"

I understood, and in that same moment the
edifice reared by her with such infinite care shook
to its very foundations.

In the twinkling of an eye I was my old self again.
The brute, so long subdued and partly tamed, arose
in me with fury.

I drove them from the room.  No one, except me,
had a right there.  And then, alone with her, I
reveled in my sorrow, or burst into wild rage.

There, on the dome above us, were all the glistening
orbs, which she had taught me were radiant
evidences of God.

What mockery!

I rushed to the casement, and bellowing in delirium,
I shook my fist at moon and stars—and cursed
the Mighty Presence.

Then came an interval.

For a time I was cool and realized.

Her soul had flown to the realms above.

Alone with her, I sat for minutes, hours,
eternities, it seemed, and every lovely feature of my
Mamie Rose became forever engraven upon my
mind and heart.  My right hand was resting on hers,
my left was hanging motionless by my side.  Something
rubbed against it.  It was Bill, and all he had
been to me was forgotten.  No one, not even he, had
a right there.

Again the beast flared up, and for the first and
last time my Bill felt the brutal force of my wrath.
He returned defiantly from the corner where he
had landed and spoke his valid claim:

"I have a right here, Kil.  You loved her, so did
I, and I can understand your sorrow."

I let him stay, and through that bitter night man
and dog kept their silent vigil beside the bier of her
who had loved both.

Perhaps I was wrong to profane the quiet
chamber by the presence of my Bill, but I know she
would have sanctioned it—we three were square,
honest comrades.

With the coming of the same sun whose going
she and I had watched only a few hours ago, came
saner, holier thoughts.  A message seemed to float
to me from her sacred lips.

I knelt and prayed, "Thy will be done."

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Spare me telling you where, how and when she
was buried.  What difference does it make to you
how she went her last journey, never to return in
the flesh?  Whether we had her buried in mountains
of her favorite flower or sent her away in the
pine box of the pauper, is of no consequence to you.
She was nothing to you, she was mine, all mine; in
life or in death, on earth or in heaven.

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.. _`THE INHERITANCE`:

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   THE INHERITANCE.

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   CHAPTER XIX.

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   THE INHERITANCE.

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Little more is to be told.

Time has smoothed the jagged edges, and I have
never again dared to measure my puny wisdom to
His.  Yet, and there is a forgiveness, no day passes
without the question: "Is what I have learned worth
the tuition fee?"

True, my knowledge is trifling when compared
to yours, but we also differ in our "Whence."

To me it is all a miracle.  Before it I did not even
grope about in the darkness searching for light.

I was satisfied.

Now I know at least that there is a soul, a mind
within me, and that they were given for a purpose.
There are limits to my understanding, and why it
was that just as the portals of the better life were
slowly opening to me, my little guide should fall
exhausted on the threshold, is now a mystery to me,
but will some day be answered.

Soon after the funeral the mother and the little
brother went West to the elder son to make their
future home with him.  That left just Bill and me.

We got used to it in time.  We had always had
the same likes and hobbies, and we found ways to
spend our time with profit to ourselves.

Down here, where we live, there are few trees
and flowers, and even air is at a premium.  Air is
necessary, and Bill and I have devised a scheme to
get it as pure as possible under the circumstances.

The roaring bustle of lower Broadway turns into
deadly silence with the fall of evening.  For miles,
excepting a watchman or policeman, you will
scarcely see a living being.  That is where Bill and
I enjoy our pleasant pastime.  After the day's work
is ended we travel through the quiet streets until
we reach our stoop in the yawning dark cañon of
the skyscrapers.  We do not talk much; there is
better intercourse.

From where we sit we gaze up at the skies and
greet the merry twinkle of our glistening friends.
Then through the dancing myriads of celestial
bodies our vision winds its way on through the
mazes, and does not stop until it sees the most
beloved spirit in all the glory of the heavenly home.
Every star reflects her face in brilliants, and from
behind the hazy veilings of the cloud-smile her eyes
shine radiantly.  Bill and I go home, not lonely, not
sad or soured, for we have spent the hours in the
anteroom of heaven and have learned another lesson
in the quiet night.

The firmament and the stars are for all of us;
their glories shine for all mankind.  You, gentle
reader, may learn to know them—to own them—but,
alas! you cannot own my Bill.  Perhaps you
would not care for him.  He never was handsome,
and now he is getting old and might not be to you
a pleasant companion.  But he has traveled with
me along life's highway; he has never told a lie;
he has been loyal and true, and there's not in all
this world another dog like my good old pal.

For some time after the going-home of my
Mamie Rose I was ill, but found my position still
open for me after regaining my health.  I was not
so strong as I had been, but did not wish to neglect
my work, and, overtasking myself, an accident
permanently incapacitated me for that kind of
employment.  I had to submit to an operation—to be
repeated later—and the expense of it, with the long
and enforced idleness, soon exhausted the remainder
of my savings.

It was then that the old past crooned the tempter's
lay.  But for only a very short time was I near the
brink, from which it would have been easy to drop
back into the black abyss from whence I had come.

I overcame my temptation, and, since then, have
had no fear that I would revert to my former ways
of wickedness.  I have learned to understand life,
feel mind and soul within me, and I want to go on,
not back.

And, besides, there is the legacy of her who has
taught and inspired me.

Some who will approve of my determination to go
on might disapprove of the immediate methods
employed by me.

I had to go to work and was compelled to accept
the first opportunity offered to me.  I became a
dishwasher in a downtown lunchroom at three
dollars a week.

It was unsavory work, but it was work, and left
me time in the evenings and on Sundays to live
in my books.

Bill and I were again reduced to the attic.  It did
not affect us very much, as we were both in a mood
in which we did not care for the nicety of our
environment.

One day I heard that a man I knew wanted to
see me to tell me about a better job, which, however,
was in the dishwashing line, too.  He was staying
at a lodging house.  He was not in when I called
there, and I sat down in the reading room to wait
for him.  The tables were covered with daily papers
which are furnished free by the lodging house
keepers, and I took one to while the time away.

It was the Evening Journal.  I glanced through
the news columns and then meant to drop the paper.
The only page which had absolutely no interest
for me was the women's page.  Once, indeed, it had
helped to built castles in Spain, and the patterns of
gay frocks and dresses had made our "dreams to
come true" more enjoyable, but now—it was all different.

Throwing the paper to the table it happened that
just that women's page was uppermost.  I did not
read it, but every once in a while my glance would
sweep the page in rambling look.  At the bottom
of it there was a caption in big type: "The Evening
Journal's True Love Story Contest."  The caption
was so conspicuous that my eye could not help
meeting it every time I looked at the page.  My wait
was long.  I did not care to go over the news
columns again, and at last I began reading the True
Love Story.

It was not a bad story, still the features of it
were not very extraordinary.  I finished it, and
then soliloquized.

"If the story of this man is worth printing, why
not mine?  All there is to his story is that he and
the girl had a quarrel before the marriage
eventually took place.  Neither one of them had to
undergo a self-sacrifice.  Would it be sacrilegious to
tell the story of my Mamie Rose?  Or would it not
rather inspire greater unselfishness in those who
are in love?"

I discussed this question with myself for some
time, and then came to the conclusion that the
memory of my little girl would not be profaned by
having the story of our love told.  To this very day I
am not sure whether I did right in giving way to
my inclination.  Perhaps I acted indelicately, but
on the other hand I am not refined or cultured, and
the dictates of my heart are generally decisive in
a question of this kind.

I did not have a scrap of paper in my pocket, but
saw a piece of yellow wrapping paper on the floor.
I examined its cleanliness, and, finding it fairly
clean, began to write my story.  The conditions
were rather severe for an amateur author.  The
story had to be told in less than seven hundred and
fifty words.

After the last line was written I hurried to the
office of the Evening Journal, not trusting the
stability of my impulse.  A very imposing young man
condescended to receive my contribution, and,
instead of reading it immediately, threw it carelessly
aside.

"That is a story for the 'Prize Contest,'" I
whispered, falteringly.

"Is it?  I thought it was an editorial on the
relative positions of England and Russia in Manchuria.
Anyway, don't let it worry you, it won't worry us.
We haven't anything to do with that kind of stuff;
it goes up to the editor of the women's page."

If that young man could have read my thoughts
he would have been surprised to find how near he
was to trouble.  The story of my only blessing
called "stuff" by that young whippersnapper!

Not until many months later did I understand
that "stuff" meant anything and everything from
an essay to a two-line joke.

I firmly believe that I was the first buyer of the
Evening Journal on the following day.  I turned
to the women's page, but did not find my story.
The following day brought the same experience,
and I felt certain then that my "stuff" had found
its way into the waste basket.

On the third day I saw the name, Owen Kildare,
for the first time in print.  I had won the prize and
received my check.  My elation knew no bounds,
and when, after a few days, letters full of sympathy
reached me, I was certain that I had not done wrong
in writing that little story.

My thoughts found something new to think
about.  If this story, written under adverse
circumstances and without any preparation, could win
a prize, why could I not write other stories about
the men and women I had known, and about
the things and scenes I had seen and am still
seeing?  If, as in some of the stories which I had read
in reputable magazines, untruths and deliberate
misrepresentations can find a place in print, the
truth about us—the people of the slums—should
surely be also worthy of publication.

My mind was full of incidents witnessed by me
through the many years I spent in slummery, and,
without any difficulty, I wrote a story of the life I
know best.

I sent the story to McClure's Magazine.  It was
accepted and partly paid for, but later returned to
me because it was a trifle "too true."  I sold it three
days later to the Sunday Press, and the editor,
Mr. William Muller, invited me to become a contributor.
The invitation was gladly accepted, and short stories,
editorials and special articles, all treating of my
peculiar phase, have since then been written by me for
that paper.

During my connection with the Press I learned
much from Andrew McKenzie, who succeeded William
Muller as Sunday editor, and who never tired
of pruning my "copy" with kind care.  There
also I met one of the finest men that it has
ever been my pleasure to know, Hilary Bell, who,
besides being the critic of the paper, was an
artist and literateur of high degree, and so devoted
to his work that the zeal with which he pursued
his studies brought him to a much too early end.
Bright, staunch, manly, Hilary Bell is no more, but
his memory will live forever in my grateful heart.
In the fall of 1901 the Sunday Herald published
a story, "How To Be a Gentleman on Ten Thousand
a Year."  I happened to read it and, providing one
has the other and more essential qualities, thought
it no hard matter to keep from starvation on that
amount.  The story was written in a spirit of
complaint, reciting how difficult it was to be a
"somebody" in society on that figure.  Down here on the
Bowery and East Side we have gentlemen, though
some may doubt it, and they manage to retain their
claim to the title on very much less than ten
thousand.  The contrast was so wide that I could not
refrain from writing about it and submitting it to
the Herald.

Mr. Dinwiddie, the Sunday editor, sent me a
letter asking me to call.  I had called the story "How
To Be a Gentleman on Three Dollars a Week."  The
editor thought my story a trifle exaggerated,
and it took some time to convince him that the truth
had not been stretched.  But at last the story was
printed, and I followed it up with other stories
about my people.

In January, 1902, Mr. Hartley Davis, the editor
of the Sunday News, invited me to become a steady
contributor to that paper.  The News had always
been the paper of the Fourth Ward, and you can
easily imagine what a stir it created among some
of my old friends when they saw my name so
frequently at the bottom of a story.  In the "front
rooms" of many humble homes down there I have
seen some of my stories hang proudly, and framed,
in the place of honor on the wall.  And it has made
me feel good.  Not so much because of the
self-satisfaction, although let me be frank and state that
very often when I know and feel I have written a
fairly good story, I cannot hide my pride in my
work and glory in it, for it proves to me that all was
not in vain—but because it shows that even these
poor people whom you think so vile, so demoralized,
are glad to recognize it with sincerity, when one
from among them succeeds in climbing a few steps
on the ladder of useful decency and manhood.

During my connection with the Sunday News I
had a chat with Hartley Davis which was the starting
point of this book.  I had returned to the office
from an assignment, and, after reporting to the
editor, made a few comments on the scenes just left by
me.  We fell into a discussion on the slums, and
Hartley Davis congratulated me on my escape from
them.  My origin was not known to my readers at
the time.  This point was accentuated by Davis.

"Kildare, if the readers of the Sunday News knew
how you were developed from a seller of the paper
on the streets to a writer for it, they would have
greater faith in your stories of your people and in
you.  A chance was offered to you and you took
advantage of it.  When a man is a Bowery tough at
thirty, unable to read, and at thirty-seven starts
in to earn his living by writing, it is worth the telling."

I said: "It was not a chance, it was a miracle."

There was a difference of opinion.  To settle the
difference and to adopt the suggestion made, I wrote
my story for the Sunday News and was surprised
at the sympathetic response it awakened.

Below, you will find a copy of the epitome written
by Hartley Davis at the publication of my story:

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   NEW YORK SUNDAY NEWS.

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   February 2, 1902.

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   AN EPITOME OF THE CAREER OF OWEN KILDARE.

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That a man should, with the aid of a good woman,
raise himself from the depths of brutish
degradation to an honest manhood and regard for things
pure and holy is a fine thing.

That a man should reach the age of thirty without
being able to read and write, and then, within a
few years, with the aid of this woman and through
his own indomitable will and energy, gain such
mastery over the art of writing as to be able to tell
such a story as is here presented, is so strange, so
unprecedented as to warrant unbelief.

Owen Kildare is a real man and that is his real
name.  He is widely known on the Bowery, where
he lives.  The writer of this knew him when he
was a bartender in Steve Brodie's saloon and when
he was a "bouncer" in the frightful dive to which
he refers.

His article is printed as it was written, with no
more editing than the "copy" of the average trained
writer would receive, and it has a power that is rare
in these days.  Glance at this epitome of his life,
and wonder.

1864—Born in Catharine street.  Orphaned in his
infancy and adopted by a childless couple.

1870—Became a newsboy in the gang of which
Timothy D. Sullivan was the leader, and fended
for himself.

1880—A "beer slinger" in a tough Bowery dive and
a pugilist.  His fighting capacity and
brutishness made him a bouncer in one of the
most infamous resorts New York has ever known.

1894—Met the little school teacher through
protecting her from insult, who taught him to read
and write and who made a man of him.
Gave up working in dives, where he made
sixty dollars a week, more or less
dishonestly, to work for eight dollars a week.

1900—Death of the little school teacher one month
before they were to be married.

1902—From a newsboy, selling the Daily News, he
became a writer for this newspaper.

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In no profession are the changes as frequent as in
journalism, and not long after the appearance of my
story, I became a writer on the staff of the Evening
World.  While there I "ran" a series of sketches on
the editorial page of the paper.  They were written
in language closely resembling the real idiom of the
Bowery.  I called the series "The Bowery Girl
Sketches," and their indorsement by the readers was
exceedingly flattering.

My experiment in Bowery language attracted the
attention of William Guard, editor of The Sunday
Telegraph, who made me a very favorable proposition.
My stories in that paper were written in
Bowery "slang," which is not slang at all, but merely the
primitive way of expression my fellows use.  The
stories were signed by "The Bowery Kipling," a
sobriquet which my old and good friend, John
J. Jennings, of the Evening World, had given me.  At
no time during my work for the Telegraph had the
"other" Kipling occasion to sue me for libel or
infringement.

This newspaper experience has been of great value
to me, but it is not the career I would care to pursue
for the rest of my life.  In it reward is too often the
consequence of accident, instead of being the logical
sequel of merit and striving.  The constant physical
and mental strain affords many excuses for stimulants,
and absolutely temperate newspaper men are
among the rarities.  As said before, the changes are
many in editorial offices, and at every shifting of
editors, the staffs are also included and obliged to
decamp.  There seems to be no stability as far as
permanent employment is concerned, unless a
contract is signed.  But contracts are only signed with
the stars of journalism and the "small fry" is always
in fear and trembling about their jobs.  Still,
personally, throughout my short stay in newspaperdom,
I have had many kindnesses and courtesies extended
to me, and the schooling was appreciated and
digested by me.

In January, 1903, I was asked by the Success
Magazine to write my story for that publication.
While preparing the story I had the pleasure of
making the acquaintance of Hall Caine, the
distinguished novelist from the Isle of Man.  He has
often been made the subject of much criticism, but,
this being a story of facts and not a critical essay,
I can only say that Hall Caine is a man worth
knowing, and I value very highly the letter he sent me
after reading the story for Success in manuscript.

I herewith append the letter:

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"My Dear Mr. Kildare: I have read your story,
and I have been deeply touched by it.  Nothing more
true or human has come my way for many a day.
It is a real transcript from life, and that part of it
which deals with the little lady who was so great
and so ennobling an influence in your life, brought
tears to my eyes and the thrill to my heart.  I am
not using the language of flattery when I say that
no great writer would be ashamed of the true
delicacy and reserve with which you have dealt with the
more solemn and sacred passages of your life.

"It was a true pleasure to me to meet you personally,
and no conversation I have had on this side
of the ocean has moved me to more sympathy.  I
wish you every proper success, and I feel sure that
such a life as yours has been, and such a memory
as brightens and solemnizes your past, can only lead
you from strength to strength, from good to better.

"That this may be so will be my earnest wish for
you long after I have left your American shores.

"With kindest greetings, HALL CAINE."

.. vspace:: 2

The story was published in the February number
of Success, and the response was—I do not know
how to describe it—astounding, amazing, yes,
almost embarrassing.  Over four thousand letters
reached me from all parts of the country, and the
editor received letters from ministers informing him
that the story had been read by them from the pulpit
in place of the regular sermon.  My heart throbbed
when I saw how the miracle performed by my
Mamie Rose in the name of God had moved the
many, and again had I cause to thank my Maker
for having sent her to me—if even for so short a
time.

Through Mr. Powlison I was invited to speak
before several branches of the Y.M.C.A., and,
though my delivery and elocution are very much
at variance with oratorical methods, the story of the
miracle proved again that our God is the same God,
the God of old and of new.

I believe that I can see my path before me.  I
shall write.  Brilliancy, elegance of diction and a
choice vocabulary will not be found in my stories
and articles, but the truth is there, as I have seen it,
as I have lived it, and that is something.

This is the direction in which my ambition lies.
I want to be a writer with a clearly defined purpose.
I want to tell the plain truth about men and things
as I know them and see them every day in the homes
of the tenements, in those abodes of friendless,
hopeless men, many of whom were once as good and
respectable as any of you.  I want to dedicate my
pen, no matter how ungifted, to their service, that
others may know, as I know, of the places and
conditions where fellow-beings begin to rail against
their God and men because they deem themselves
forgotten.  I want to show that often their hearts
hunger most and not their stomachs, and want to
ask you to believe that they, as well as others,
cannot only feel hunger and cold, but can also love and
despair.

I feel that there is work in this field for me, and
it is my ambition to become successful in it and
worthy of it, as a living testimony that one of God's
sweetest daughters has not lived and died in vain.

This is the story of the miracle wrought by my
Mamie Rose.

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   THE END.

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   \*      \*      \*      \*      \*      \*      \*      \*

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   FAMOUS COPYRIGHT BOOKS
   IN POPULAR PRICED EDITIONS

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Re-issues of the great literary successes of the time.  Library
size.  Printed on excellent paper—most of them with
illustrations of marked beauty—and handsomely bound in cloth.
Price, 75 cents a volume, postpaid.

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LAVENDER AND OLD LACE.  By Myrtle Reed.

A charming story of a quaint corner of New England where bygone
romance finds a modern parallel.  One of the prettiest, sweetest, and
quaintest of old-fashioned love stories * * * A rare book,
exquisite in spirit and conception, full of delicate fancy, of tenderness,
of delightful humor and spontaneity.  A dainty volume, especially
suitable for a gift.

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DOCTOR LUKE OF THE LABRADOR.  By Norman
Duncan.  With a frontispiece and inlay cover.

How the doctor came to the bleak Labrador coast and there in saving
life made expiation.  In dignity, simplicity, humor, in sympathetic
etching of a sturdy fisher people, and above all in the echoes of the
sea, *Doctor Luke* is worthy of great praise.  Character, humor,
poignant pathos, and the sad grotesque conjunctions of old and new
civilizations are expressed through the medium of a style that has
distinction and strikes a note of rare personality.

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THE DAY'S WORK.  By Rudyard Kipling.  Illustrated.

The *London Morning Post* says: "It would be hard to find better
reading * * * the book is so varied, so full of color and life from
end to end, that few who read the first two or three stories will lay it
down till they have read the last—and the last is a veritable gem
* * * contains some of the best of his highly vivid work * * *
Kipling is a born story-teller and a man of humor into the bargain."

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ELEANOR LEE.  By Margaret E. Sangster.  With a frontispiece.

A story of married life, and attractive picture of wedded bliss * * *
an entertaining story of a man's redemption through a woman's love
* * * no one who knows anything of marriage or parenthood can
read this story with eyes that are always dry * * * goes straight
to the heart of every one who knows the meaning of "love" and
"home."

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THE COLONEL OF THE RED HUZZARS.  By John
Reed Scott.  Illustrated by Clarence F. Underwood.

"Full of absorbing charm, sustained interest, and a wealth of
thrilling and romantic situations."  "So naively fresh in its handling,
so plausible through its naturalness, that it comes like a mountain
breeze across the far-spreading desert of similar
romances."—*Gazette-Times, Pittsburg*.  "A slap-dashing day
romance."—*New York Sun*.

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THE FAIR GOD; OR, THE LAST OF THE TZINS.
By Lew Wallace.  With illustrations by Eric Pape.

"The story tells of the love of a native princess for Alvarado, and it
is worked out with all of Wallace's skill * * * it gives a fine
picture of the heroism of the Spanish conquerors and of the culture and
nobility of the Aztecs."—*New York Commercial Advertiser*.

"*Ben Hur* sold enormously, but *The Fair God* was the best of the
General's stories—a powerful and romantic treatment of the defeat of
Montezuma by Cortes."—*Athenaeum*.

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THE CAPTAIN OF THE KANSAS.  By Louis Tracy.

A story of love and the salt sea—of a helpless ship whirled into the
hands of cannibal Fuegians—of desperate fighting and tender romance,
enhanced by the art of a master of story telling who describes with
his wonted felicity and power of holding the reader's attention * * *
filled with the swing of adventure.

.. vspace:: 2

A MIDNIGHT GUEST.  A Detective Story.  By Fred M. White.
With a frontispiece.

The scene of the story centers in London and Italy.  The book is
skilfully written and makes one of the most baffling, mystifying,
exciting detective stories ever written—cleverly keeping the suspense
and mystery intact until the surprising discoveries which precede
the end.

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THE HONOUR OF SAVELLI.  A Romance.  By S. Levett
Yeats.  With cover and wrapper in four colors.

Those who enjoyed Stanley Weyman's *A Gentleman of France*
will be engrossed and captivated by this delightful romance of Italian
history.  It is replete with exciting episodes, hair-breath escapes,
magnificent sword-play, and deals with the agitating times in Italian
history when Alexander II was Pope and the famous and infamous
Borgias were tottering to their fall.

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SISTER CARRIE.  By Theodore Drieser.  With a frontispiece,
and wrapper in color.

In all fiction there is probably no more graphic and poignant study
of the way in which man loses his grip on life, lets his pride, his
courage, his self-respect slip from him,
and, finally, even ceases to struggle
in the mire that has engulfed him. * * * There is more tonic value
in *Sister Carrie* than in a whole shelfful of sermons.

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BARREL OF THE BLESSED ISLES.  By Irving Bacheller.
With illustrations by Arthur Keller.

"Barrel, the clock tinker, is a wit, philosopher, and man of mystery.
Learned, strong, kindly, dignified, he towers like a giant above the
people among whom he lives.  It is another tale of the North Country,
full of the odor of wood and field.  Wit, humor, pathos and high
thinking are in this book."—*Boston Transcript*.

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D'RI AND I: A Tale of Daring Deeds in the Second War
with the British.  Being the Memoirs of Colonel Ramon
Bell, U. S. A.  By Irving Bacheller.  With illustrations by
F. C. Yohn.

"Mr. Bacheller is admirable alike in his scenes of peace and war.
D'ri, a mighty hunter, has the same dry humor as Uncle Eb.  He
fights magnificently on the 'Lawrence,' and was among the wounded
when Perry went to the 'Niagara.'  As a romance of early American
history it is great for the enthusiasm it creates."—*New York Times*.

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EBEN HOLDEN: A Tale of the North Country.  By Irving
Bacheller.

"As pure as water and as good as bread," says Mr. Howells.  "Read
'Eben Holden'" is the advice of Margaret Sangster.  "It is a
forest-scented, fresh-aired, bracing and wholly American story of country
and town life.  * * * If in the far future our successors wish to
know what were the real life and atmosphere in which the country
folk that saved this nation grew, loved, wrought and had their being,
they must go back to such true and zestful and poetic tales of 'fiction'
as 'Eben Holden,'" says Edmund Clarence Stedman.

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SILAS STRONG: Emperor of the Woods.  By Irving Bacheller.
With a frontispiece.

"A modern Leatherstocking.  Brings the city dweller the aroma of
the pine and the music of the wind in its branches—an epic poem
* * * forest-scented, fresh-aired, and wholly American.  A stronger
character than Eben Holden."—*Chicago Record-Herald*.

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VERGILIUS: A Tale of the Coming of Christ.  By Irving Bacheller.

A thrilling and beautiful story of two young Roman patricians whose
great and perilous love in the reign of Augustus leads them through
the momentous, exciting events that marked the year just preceding
the birth of Christ.

Splendid character studies of the Emperor Augustus, of Herod and
his degenerate son, Antipater, and of his daughter "the incomparable"
Salome.  A great triumph in the art of historical portrait painting.

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BARBARA WINSLOW, REBEL.  By Elizabeth Ellis.

With illustrations by John Rae, and colored inlay cover.

The following, taken from story, will best describe the heroine:
A TOAST: "To the bravest comrade in misfortune, the sweetest
companion in peace and at all times the most courageous of
women."—*Barbara Winslow*.  "A romantic story, buoyant, eventful, and in
matters of love exactly what the heart could desire."—*New York Sun*.

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SUSAN.  By Ernest Oldmeadow.  With a color frontispiece
by Frank Haviland.  Medalion in color on front cover.

Lord Riddington falls helplessly in love with Miss Langley, whom
he sees in one of her walks accompanied by her maid, Susan.
Through a misapprehension of personalities his lordship addresses
a love missive to the maid.  Susan accepts in perfect good faith,
and an epistolary love-making goes on till they are disillusioned.  It
naturally makes a droll and delightful little comedy; and is a story
that is particularly clever in the telling.

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WHEN PATTY WENT TO COLLEGE.  By Jean Webster.
With illustrations by C. D. Williams.

"The book is a treasure."—*Chicago Daily News*.  "Bright,
whimsical, and thoroughly entertaining."—*Buffalo Express*.  "One
of the best stories of life in a girl's college that has ever been
written."—*N. Y. Press*.  "To any woman who has enjoyed the pleasures
of a college life this book cannot fail to bring back many sweet
recollections; and to those who have not been to college the wit,
lightness,
and charm of Patty are sure to be no less delightful."—*Public Opinion*.

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THE MASQUERADER.  By Katherine Cecil Thurston.
With illustrations by Clarence F. Underwood.

"You can't drop it till you have turned the last page."—*Cleveland
Leader*.  "Its very audacity of motive, of execution, of solution,
almost takes one's breath away.  The boldness of its denouement
is sublime."—*Boston Transcript*.  "The literary hit of a generation.
The best of it is the story deserves all its success.  A masterly
story."—*St. Louis Dispatch*.  "The story is ingeniously told, and
cleverly constructed."—*The Dial*.

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THE GAMBLER.  By Katherine Cecil Thurston.  With
illustrations by John Campbell.

"Tells of a high strung young Irish woman who has a passion for
gambling, inherited from a long line of sporting ancestors.  She has
a high sense of honor, too, and that causes complications.  She is a
very human, lovable character, and love saves her."—*N. Y. Times*.

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THE AFFAIR AT THE INN.  By Kate Douglas Wiggin.
With illustrations by Martin Justice.

"As superlatively clever in the writing as it is entertaining in the
reading.  It is actual comedy of the most artistic sort, and it is
handled with a freshness and originality that is unquestionably
novel."—*Boston Transcript*.  "A feast of humor and good cheer,
yet subtly pervaded by special shades of feeling, fancy, tenderness,
or whimsicality.  A merry thing in prose."—*St. Louis Democrat*.

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ROSE O' THE RIVER.  By Kate Douglas Wiggin.  With
illustrations by George Wright.

"'Rose o' the River,' a charming bit of sentiment, gracefully
written and deftly touched with a gentle humor.  It is a dainty
book—daintily illustrated."—*New York Tribune*.  "A wholesome, bright,
refreshing story, an ideal book to give a young girl."—*Chicago
Record-Herald*.  "An idyllic story, replete with pathos and inimitable
humor.  As story-telling it is perfection, and as portrait-painting
it is true to the life."—*London Mail*.

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TILLIE: A Mennonite Maid.  By Helen R. Martin.  With
illustrations by Florence Scovel Shinn.

The little "Mennonite Maid" who wanders through these pages
is something quite new in fiction.  Tillie is hungry for books and
beauty and love; and she comes into her inheritance at the end.
"Tillie is faulty, sensitive, big-hearted, eminently human, and first,
last and always lovable.  Her charm glows warmly, the story is well
handled, the characters skilfully developed."—*The Book Buyer*.

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LADY ROSE'S DAUGHTER.  By Mrs. Humphry Ward.
With illustrations by Howard Chandler Christy.

"The most marvellous work of its wonderful author."—*New York
World*.  "We touch regions and attain altitudes which it is not given
to the ordinary novelist even to approach."—*London Times*.  "In
no other story has Mrs. Ward approached the brilliancy and vivacity
of Lady Rose's Daughter."—*North American Review*.

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THE BANKER AND THE BEAR.  By Henry K. Webster.

"An exciting and absorbing story."—*New York Times*.  "Intensely
thrilling in parts, but an unusually good story all through.  There
is a love affair of real charm and most novel surroundings, there is a
run on the bank which is almost worth a year's growth, and there is
all manner of exhilarating men and deeds which should bring the
book into high and permanent favor."—*Chicago Evening Post*.

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BEVERLY OF GRAUSTARK.  By George Barr McCutcheon.  With Color
Frontispiece and other illustrations
by Harrison Fisher.  Beautiful inlay picture in colors of
Beverly on the cover.

"The most fascinating, engrossing and picturesque of the season's
novels."—*Boston Herald*.  "'Beverly' is altogether charming—almost
living flesh and blood"—*Louisville Times*.  "Better than
'Graustark'."—*Mail and Express*.  "A sequel quite as impossible
as 'Graustark' and quite as entertaining."—*Bookman*.  "A
charming love story well told."—*Boston Transcript*.

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HALF A ROGUE.  By Harold MacGrath.  With illustrations
and inlay cover picture by Harrison Fisher.

"Here are dexterity of plot, glancing play at witty talk, characters
really human and humanly real, spirit and gladness, freshness and
quick movement.  'Half a Rogue' is as brisk as a horseback ride on
a glorious morning.  It is as varied as an April day.  It is as charming
as two most charming girls can make it.  Love and honor and
success and all the great things worth fighting for and living for the
involved in 'Half a Rogue.'"—*Phila. Press*.

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THE GIRL FROM TIM'S PLACE.  By Charles Clark
Munn.  With illustrations by Frank T. Merrill.

"Figuring in the pages of this story there are several strong
characters.  Typical New England folk and an especially sturdy one, old
Cy Walker, through whose instrumentality Chip comes to happiness
and fortune.  There is a chain of comedy, tragedy, pathos and love,
which makes a dramatic story."—*Boston Herald*.

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THE LION AND THE MOUSE.  A story of American Life.
By Charles Klein, and Arthur Hornblow.  With illustrations
by Stuart Travis, and Scenes from the Play.

The novel duplicated the success of the play; in fact the book is
greater than the play.  A portentous clash of dominant personalities
that form the essence of the play are necessarily touched upon but
briefly in the short space of four acts.  All this is narrated in the
novel with a wealth of fascinating and absorbing detail, making it one
of the most powerfully written and exciting works of fiction given to
the world in years.


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   \*      \*      \*      \*      \*

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   PRINCESS MARITZA

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   A NOVEL OF RAPID ROMANCE.

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   BY PERCY BREBNER

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   With Harrison Fisher Illustrations in Color.

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Offers more real entertainment and keen enjoyment than
any book since "Graustark."  Full of picturesque life and
color and a delightful love-story.  The scene of the story is
Wallaria, one of those mythical kingdoms in Southern Europe.
Maritza is the rightful heir to the throne, but is kept away from
her own country.  The hero is a young Englishman of noble
family.  It is a pleasing book of fiction.  Large 12 mo. size.
Handsomely bound in cloth.  White coated wrapper, with
Harrison Fisher portrait in colors.  Price 75 cents, postpaid.


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   \*      \*      \*      \*      \*

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   Books by George Barr McCutcheon

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BREWSTER'S MILLIONS

Mr. Montgomery Brewster is required to spend a million
dollars in one year in order to inherit seven millions.  He must
be absolutely penniless at that time, and yet have spent the
million in a way that will commend him as fit to inherit the
larger sum.  How he does it forms the basis for one of the
most crisp and breezy romances of recent years.

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CASTLE CRANEYCROW

The story revolves around the abduction of a young
American woman and the adventures created through her rescue.
The title is taken from the name of an old castle on the
Continent, the scene of her imprisonment.

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GRAUSTARK: A Story of a Love Behind a Throne.

This work has been and is to-day one of the most popular
works of fiction of this decade.  The meeting of the Princess
of Graustark with the hero, while travelling incognito in this
country, his efforts to find her, his success, the defeat of
conspiracies to dethrone her, and their happy marriage, provide
entertainment which every type of reader will enjoy.

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THE SHERRODS.  With illustrations by C. D. Williams

A novel quite unlike Mr. McCutcheon's previous works in
the field of romantic fiction and yet possessing the charm
inseparable from anything he writes.  The scene is laid in
Indiana and the theme is best described in the words, "Whom
God hath joined, let no man put asunder."


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   \*      \*      \*      \*      \*

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   *NEW POPULAR EDITIONS OF*

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   MARY JOHNSTON'S NOVELS

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TO HAVE AND TO HOLD

It was something new and startling to see an
author's first novel sell up into the hundreds of
thousands, as did this one.  The ablest critics spoke of
it in such terms as "Breathless interest," "The high
water mark of American fiction since Uncle Tom's
Cabin," "Surpasses all," "Without a rival,"
"Tender and delicate," "As good a story of adventure as
one can find," "The best style of love story, clean,
pure and wholesome."

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AUDREY

With the brilliant imagination and the splendid
courage of youth, she has stormed the very citadel
of adventure.  Indeed it would be impossible to
carry the romantic spirit any deeper into
fiction.—*Agnes Repplier*.

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PRISONERS OF HOPE

Pronounced by the critics classical, accurate,
interesting, American, original, vigorous, full of
movement and life, dramatic and fascinating, instinct with
life and passion, and preserving throughout a
singularly even level of excellence.


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   \*      \*      \*      \*      \*

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   *GET THE BEST OUT-DOOR STORIES*

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   Stewart Edward White's
   Great Novels of Western Life.

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   GROSSET & DUNLAP EDITIONS

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THE BLAZED TRAIL

Mingles the romance of the forest with the romance of
man's heart, making a story that is big and elemental, while
not lacking in sweetness and tenderness.  It is an epic of the
life of the lumberman of the great forest of the Northwest,
permeated by out of door freshness, and the glory of the
struggle with nature.

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THE SILENT PLACES

A powerful story of strenuous endeavor and fateful privation
in the frozen North, embodying also a detective story of
much strength and skill.  The author brings out with sure
touch and deep understanding the mystery and poetry of the
still, frost-bound forest.

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THE CLAIM JUMPERS

A tale of a Western mining camp and the making of a man,
with which a charming young lady has much to do.  The
tenderfoot has a hard time of it, but meets the situation,
shows the stuff he is made of, and "wins out."

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THE WESTERNERS

A tale of the mining camp and the Indian country, full of
color and thrilling incident.

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THE MAGIC FOREST: A Modern Fairy Story.

"No better book could be put in a young boy's hands,"
says the New York *Sun*.  It is a happy blend of knowledge
of wood life with an understanding of Indian character, as
well as that of small boys.


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   \*      \*      \*      \*      \*

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   *THE GROSSET AND DUNLAP SPECIAL
   EDITIONS OF POPULAR NOVELS THAT
   HAVE BEEN DRAMATIZED.*

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BREWSTER'S MILLIONS: By George Barr McCutcheon.

A clever, fascinating tale, with a striking and
unusual plot.  With illustrations from the original New
York production of the play.

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THE LITTLE MINISTER: By J. M. Barrie.

With illustrations from the play as presented by
Maude Adams, and a vignette in gold of Miss Adams
on the cover.

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CHECKERS: By Henry M. Blossom, Jr.

A story of the Race Track.  Illustrated with scenes
from the play as originally presented in New York
by Thomas W. Ross who created the stage character.

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THE CHRISTIAN: By Hall Caine.

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THE ETERNAL CITY: By Hall Caine.

Each has been elaborately and successfully staged

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IN THE PALACE OF THE KING: By F. Marion Crawford.

A love story of Old Madrid, with full page illustrations.
Originally played with great success by Viola
Allen.

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JANICE MEREDITH: By Paul Leicester Ford.

New edition with an especially attractive cover,
a really handsome book.  Originally played by Mary
Mannering, who created the title role.

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MISTRESS NELL, A Merry Tale of a
Merry Time.  (Twixt Fact and Fancy.)  By George Hazelton.

A dainty, handsome volume, beautifully printed
on fine laid paper and bound in extra vellum
cloth.  A charming story, the dramatic version
of which, as produced by Henrietta Crosman,
was one of the conspicuous stage successes of
recent years.  With a rare portrait of Nell Gwyn
in duotone, from an engraving of the painting by
Sir Peter Lely, as a frontispiece.

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BY RIGHT OF SWORD, By Arthur W. Marchmont.

With full page illustrations, by Powell Chase.

This clever and fascinating tale has had a large
sale and seems as popular to-day as when first
published.  It is full of action and incident and
will arouse the keen interest of the reader at the
very start.  The dramatic version was very
successfully produced during several seasons by
Ralph Stuart.

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CAPE COD FOLKS: By Sarah P. McLean Greene.

Illustrated with scenes from the play, as originally
produced at the Boston Theatre.

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IF I WERE KING: By Justin Huntly McCarthy.

Illustrations from the play, as produced by E. H. Sothern.

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DOROTHY VERNON OF HADDON HALL: By Charles Major.

The Bertha Galland Edition, with illustrations from
the play.

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WHEN KNIGHTHOOD WAS IN FLOWER: By Charles Major.

Illustrated with scenes from the remarkably
successful play, as presented by Julia Marlowe.

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THE VIRGINIAN: By Owen Wister.

With full page illustrations by A. I. Kelley.

Dustin Farnum has made the play famous by his
creation of the title role.

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THE MAN ON THE BOX: By Harold MacGrath.

Illustrated with scenes from the play, as originally
produced in New York, by Henry E. Dixey.  A piquant,
charming story, and the author's greatest success.


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   \*      \*      \*      \*      \*

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   HERETOFORE PUBLISHED AT $1.50

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   BOOKS BY JACK LONDON

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   12 MO., CLOTH, 75 CENTS EACH, POSTPAID

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THE CALL OF THE WILD:

With illustrations by Philip R. Goodwin and Charles
Livingston Bull.  Decorated by Charles Edward Hooper.

"A big story in sober English, and with thorough art in the
construction ... a wonderfully perfect bit of work.  The dog
adventures are as exciting as any man's exploits could be, and
Mr. London's workmanship is wholly satisfying."—*The New
York Sun*.

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THE SEA WOLF: Illustrated by W. J. Aylward.

"This story surely has the pure Stevenson ring, the adventurous
glamour, the vertebrate stoicism.  'Tis surely the story
of the making of a man, the sculptor being Captain Larsen,
and the clay, the ease-loving, well-to-do, half-drowned man,
to all appearances his helpless prey."—*Critic*.

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THE PEOPLE OF THE ABYSS:

A vivid and intensely interesting picture of life, as the
author found it, in the slums of London.  Not a survey of
impressions formed on a slumming tour, but a most graphic
account of real life from one who succeeded in getting on the
"inside."  More absorbing than a novel.  A great and vital
book.  Profusely illustrated from photographs.

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THE SON OF THE WOLF:

"Even the most listless reader will be stirred by the virile
force, the strong, sweeping strokes with which the pictures of
the northern wilds and the life therein are painted, and the
insight given into the soul of the primitive of nature."—*Plain
Dealer, Cleveland*.

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A DAUGHTER OF THE SNOWS:

It is a book about a woman, whose personality and plan in
the story are likely to win for her a host of admirers.  The
story has the rapid movement, incident and romantic flavor
which have interested so many in his tales.  The illustrations
are by F. C. Yohn.


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   \*      \*      \*      \*      \*

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   *POPULAR PRICED EDITIONS OF BOOKS BY*

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   LOUIS TRACY

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12mo, cloth, 75 cents each, postpaid

Books that make the nerves tingle—romance and
adventure of the best type—wholesome for family reading

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THE PILLAR OF LIGHT

"Breathless interest is a hackneyed phrase, but every
reader of 'The Pillar of Light' who has red blood in
his or her veins, will agree that the trite saying applies to
the attention which this story commands."—*New York Sun*.

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THE WINGS OF THE MORNING

"Here is a story filled with the swing of adventure.
There are no dragging intervals in this volume: from the
moment of their landing on the island until the rescuing
crew find them there, there is not a dull moment for the
young people—nor for the reader either."—*New York
Times*.

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THE KING OF DIAMONDS

"Verily, Mr. Tracy is a prince of story-tellers.  His
charm is a little hard to describe, but it is as definite as
that of a rainbow.  The reader is carried along by the
robust imagination of the author."—*San Francisco Examiner*.

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   GROSSET & DUNLAP, NEW YORK

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