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Title: More Than Somewhat
Author: Runyon, Damon [Runyan, Alfred Damon] (1880-1946)
Author [introduction]: Bentley, E. C. [Edmund Clerihew] (1875-1956)
Date of first publication: July 1937
Edition used as base for this ebook:
   London: Constable, October 1942
Date first posted: 29 March 2017
Date last updated: 29 March 2017
Project Gutenberg Canada ebook #1417

This ebook was produced by the Online Distributed
Proofreading Canada Team at http://www.pgdpcanada.net



PUBLISHER'S NOTE

Italics in the original printed edition are indicated _thus_.

As part of the conversion of the book to its new digital
format, we have made certain minor adjustments in its layout.

Because of copyright considerations, the illustrations by
Nicolas Bentley (1907-1978) have been omitted from this ebook.

In THE SNATCHING OF BOOKIE BOB, one of two instances of the word
"have" has been deleted in the sentence:

     "He is the only one I can think of who is apt to have have
     such a sum"

In BROADWAY FINANCIER, "same" has been changed to "name" in the
passage:

     "It is through a young guy by the same of Simeon Slotsky....

Hyphenation was inconsistent throughout the printed edition.
Some minor changes to punctuation have been made where required
by capitalization.






MORE THAN SOMEWHAT


     "Only a rank sucker will think of taking two peeks at Dave
     the Dude's doll ... for Dave thinks more than somewhat of
     his dolls."




  E. C. BENTLEY

  selects these stories by

  DAMON RUNYON

  and writes the Introduction

  The publishers are

  CONSTABLE

  Orange Street London WC2


  _First published_ _July 1937_
  _Popular Edition_ _October 1939_
  _Reprinted_ _October 1942_

  Printed in Great Britain by Butler & Tanner Ltd., Frome and London




_CONTENTS_


  INTRODUCTION by E. C. BENTLEY


  _MORE THAN SOMEWHAT_

  1. BREACH OF PROMISE
  2. ROMANCE IN THE ROARING FORTIES
  3. DREAM STREET ROSE
  4. THE OLD DOLL'S HOUSE
  5. BLOOD PRESSURE
  6. THE BLOODHOUNDS OF BROADWAY
  7. TOBIAS THE TERRIBLE
  8. THE SNATCHING OF BOOKIE BOB
  9. THE LILY OF ST. PIERRE
  10. HOLD 'EM, YALE!
  11. EARTHQUAKE
  12. "GENTLEMEN, THE KING!"
  13. A NICE PRICE
  14. BROADWAY FINANCIER
  15. THE BRAIN GOES HOME




INTRODUCTION

by E. C. BENTLEY


Before Damon Runyon began writing his stories of the bandits of
Broadway, he had made himself a national reputation in America as a
newspaper-man; a descriptive reporter who could deal with any event
in the day's doings, from a horserace at Miami to an electrocution
at Ossining, in a manner that put him in a class by himself. In
particular, he wrote of sporting matters with a style and a fund of
expert knowledge that were enjoyed from ocean to ocean. But this was
not, by its nature, the sort of work that endures. He broke into
literature, quite suddenly, with a hilarious short story of the
gangsters and crooks infesting a certain section of Broadway, the main
artery of New York's life--the Hardened Artery, as Walter Winchell has
called it. He followed it up with many others of the same sort; all of
them, in fact, told by the same imaginary narrator, and told in a tone
and a language that make up one of the richest contributions to comic
literature in our time.

So, at least, I think; and I have not yet met any critical reader of
Runyon's tales who does not think so too.

I have made this selection of Damon Runyon's stories with the idea of
showing as many aspects as possible of his narrative genius, ranging
as they do from the most uproarious farce to such sadness as goes to
the depths of the heart. The note of pathos is not often touched, it
is true: when it is, it gains force from the contrast with its setting
of quaint, unemotional, unconscious cynicism. If, after reading _The
Lily of St. Pierre_ in this book you do not agree with that judgment,
then--as Runyon's narrator would say--you must be such a guy as will
never be moved by anything short of an earthquake.

In the little world inhabited by Runyon's people every male human
being is a guy, every female a doll. There are in that world other
names for dolls, it is true, such as broads, or pancakes, or tomatoes;
but the narrator prefers not to use such terms, which he claims are
not respectful. Do not ask me if there really is such a world. I only
know that it is a world, and a very lively world, at that. But it is
certainly founded on fact, if you like things founded on fact. We
have been hearing of guys like Dave the Dude, and Benny South Street,
and Germany Schwartz, and Franky Ferocious (whose square monicker is
Ferroccio), and Milk Ear Willie, and Izzy Cheesecake, for many years
past; ever since gangsters and racketeers began to be news; also of
dolls like Rosa Midnight, and Miss Cleghorn, the Arabian Acrobatic
dancer, and Miss Muriel O'Neill, who works in the Half Moon night club,
and the doll named Silk, who associates so much more with guys than she
does with other dolls that she finally gets so she thinks like a guy,
and has a guy's slant on things in general. We have heard of them all
before; but Damon Runyon puts life into them as no other writer has
done yet, and I do not expect any other in the future to make crime,
and violence, and dissipation, and predatory worthlessness, together
with occasional off-hand decency where you would least expect it, as
keenly interesting and as frantically funny as Damon Runyon does.

You cannot help liking his guys and dolls. I do not mean that they--the
guys, anyway--would be nice to know, or even safe. In fact, if it is
left to me, I will as soon go in bathing with a school of sharks, or
maybe sooner. (I am sorry, but I find it impossible not to drift into
Runyonese when writing of the creatures of his brain.) I do not mean
that they are unselfish, good-hearted, high-minded guys and dolls. I
do not mean that you will shed tears when Angie the Ox gets cooled
off by Lance McGowan, or when Joey Perhaps gets what is coming to him
from Ollie Ortega, which is a short knife in the throat, or when The
Brain gets carved up quite some, and finally hauls off and dies. I
merely mean that they have a reckless, courageous vitality that makes
you like hearing about them; that is, if you are an ordinary human
being, such as has always liked hearing about desperados. As a certain
newspaper guy in one of the Runyon stories puts it, many legitimate
guys are much interested in the doings of tough guys, and consider
them very romantic. I do not see anything against this, so long as you
also consider them very indefensible, and are strongly in favour of
discouraging them in a severely practical manner.

But what you will probably like without reserve is the endless comedy
that Damon Runyon extracts from their dangerous and disreputable way of
life, and the wonderful style in which he gives it expression.

Just as I, an Englishman, cannot say how far the New York underworld he
shows you corresponds to the real thing, so I do not know if the talk
of these guys and dolls is the sort of conversation you will actually
hear in the section between Times Square and Columbus Circle. But those
who ought to know give both them and their speech a high character for
trueness to life. Heywood Broun, for instance, who lives quite near at
hand, declares that he recognizes Runyon's characters as actual people,
and that their talk is put down almost literally.

That "almost" is, no doubt, quite necessary. Damon Runyon, an artist in
words, must have worked up his raw material with loving care; and in
all likelihood he has made some contribution of his own. For Runyon,
be it said, has long been among the recognized personal influences in
the development of current American slang. In the days when he was
known mainly as a sports-writer with a vast public, he was included in
a short list of such influences by W. J. Funk, the New York publisher;
and so high an authority as Henry Mencken, in his work on _The American
Language_, has approved of that inclusion. It is doubtful if the
ineffable felicity of so many passages in these stories could have been
achieved by any merely phonographic method.

Nevertheless, the style of them is exclusively a conversational style.
They are all talk; the talk of the guy who is telling them, or of other
guys as reported by him. For English readers, I suppose, the most
curious thing about that guy's talk will be his resolute avoidance
of the past tense; the remarkable things he does with the historic
present. The same thing is known in our own vulgar tongue, of course;
but it is incidental, and apt to take a debased form--for example, "So
I says to him, 'Did you hear what I said?'" In Runyonese this would
be, "So I say to him, 'Do you hear what I say?'" Runyon's guy will
say, "About three weeks ago, Big Nig is down taking the waters in Hot
Springs, and anything else there may be to take in Hot Springs." He
will not say, "When I heard Bugs Lonigan say this, I wished I had never
been born"; he will say, "When I hear Bugs Lonigan say this, I wish I
am never born." There is a sort of ungrammatical purity about it, an
almost religious exactitude, that to me, at least, has the strongest
appeal. In all the Runyon stories, as published in America, I have
found only one single instance of a verb in the past tense. It occurs
in one of those included in this book; and you may try to find it,
if--as Runyon's guy might say--you figure there is any percentage in
doing so. And, as that same guy might go on to say, I will lay plenty
of 6 to 5 that it is nothing but a misprint; but I do not think it is
the proper caper for me to improve on Runyon's prose, so I leave it.

I do not know what the history of this dread of the past tense may be.
Possibly it is quite a long history. From the literature of the cattle
industry in the West--I mean the serious literature--it is to be seen
that the cowboy of half a century ago, when West was West indeed, had
a dialect all his own, in which the past tense did not figure. For
instance, Alfred Henry Lewis's old cattleman, calling on his memories
of long ago, says:

     The most ornery party I ever knows is Curly Ben. This yere
     Ben is killed, final, by old Captain Moon, when Curly is
     playin' kyards. He's jest dealin', when Moon comes Injunin'
     up from the r'ar, an' drills Curly through the head with
     a .45 Colt's. Which the queer part is this: Curly, as I
     states--an' he never knows what hits him, an' is as dead as
     Santa Anna in a moment--is dealin' the kyards. He's got the
     deck in his hands. An' yet, when the public picks Curly off
     the floor, he's pulled his two guns, an' has got one cocked.

A psychological curiosity which would have fitted very nicely into
Runyon's account of the cooling off of various guys.

       *       *       *       *       *

Very interesting, to my mind, is the personality of the guy who tells
these stories. He does not give himself a name at any time, but it will
do no harm to call him X. In some ways X is a strange guy to be mobbed
up with such characters as he tells about. He is a nervous guy, for
one thing; and even more remarkable, in the circumstances, than his
nervousness, is his passion for respectability. He is "greatly opposed
to guys who violate the law," as he insists again and again; and he can
think of a million things he will rather do than be seen in the company
of such guys. But as he is, on his own showing, practically never in
any other kind of society, he must spend a harassing time. The truth
is, X is very far from being one of the high shots, but is simply known
to one and all as a guy who is just around. In fact, they figure him as
harmless as a bag of marsh-mallows. Just the same, X is well known to
every wrong gee on Broadway; and if one of them sees him and gives him
a huge hello, what can X do? It would be very unsafe indeed if X tried
playing the chill for such a guy. There are the professional assassins,
like Ropes McGonnigle. There are the casual and temperamental killers,
like Rusty Charley, the genial but uncertain-tempered guy in whose
presence even such citizens as Nick the Greek or Joey Uptown become
silent and nervous. There are the dangerous criminals, like Big Jule,
who is wanted for robbery and burglary in a dozen different States,
and who claims that he will catch cold if he goes out of doors without
the holsters under his arms. There are various guys who are known to
have cooled other guys off from time to time, and who are regarded
consequently as rather suspicious characters. There are the git-em-up
guys like Dancing Dan; and the guys who open safes for a living,
like Big Butch; and the guys who are on the snatch (which it is very
illiterate to call kidnapping), like Spanish John; and the guys who
ride the tubs--that is to say, who live by cheating at cards on the
Atlantic liners--like Little Manuel; and the guys who specialize in
telling the tale, like the Lemon Drop Kid. There is also Pussy McGuire,
who does very well at stealing valuable dogs and cats.

Besides these, there are of course the influential citizens who are
interested in wet merchandise; for the Runyon stories reach back into
the days of Prohibition, and if they "date" at all, I suppose it will
be because of that--though I am never sure that the importing dodge
is so very dead, at that, considering what the taxation is on legal
liquor. Naturally, guys who are interested in wet merchandise do not
count seriously as illegal characters; but then many of them are also
interested in artichokes, and extortion, and gambling joints, and other
hot propositions. All such guys as these know X well, and seem to have
a liking for his company; and X will often make himself useful to such
guys by taking a message, for instance, to some citizen that it would
be a good idea if he left town, and stayed away, instead of bringing
beer into another guy's territory. In fact, if you come right down to
it, the chances are that the nearest X ever comes to having a job of
any kind is being more or less on the pay-roll of guys like Dave the
Dude; which is not such a bum connection, at that, as Dave the Dude
handles nothing but genuine champagne and Scotch, wishing no part of
that trade in cut goods which brings in plenty of scratch to other
importers who are not so particular.

The one and only guy in X's circle of acquaintance who is strictly
legit is Judge Henry G. Blake. Of course, Judge Blake is not a judge,
and never has been a judge, but he is called Judge because he looks
like a judge, and talks slow, and puts in many long words. Judge Blake
is very good at poker; and at pool he is just naturally a curly wolf;
so he makes a living by building up suckers into playing against him
for real money at these games.

Much as X is opposed to law-breaking, he is not bigoted about it.
When he happens to hear of a promising job of burglary, with a little
blackmail as a chaser, he remembers Harry the Horse, and throws it
his way; for he knows that Harry the Horse is feeling the economic
depression keenly, because if nobody is making any money, there is
nobody for him to rob. Furthermore, Harry the Horse is never a bargain
at any time, and is such a guy as you would much rather stand good with
than have sored up at you for any reason.

Another curious feature of X's passion for legality is that it does
not make him at all fond of policemen. In fact, the way X figures it,
there are far too many coppers in this world. He believes, naturally,
in being courteous to them at all times, but he does not care for them,
even when they are fairly good guys, such as the copper who has the
tears come into his eyes when he tells about the poor people who have
all their lifetime savings in Israel Ib's busted jug.

Another way in which X seems to be a somewhat inconsistent guy is in
his attitude towards liquor. To hear him tell it, he is by no means a
rumpot, and indeed very seldom indulges in fermented beverages in any
form. Yet from the derogatory things X says about the liquor in Good
Time Charley's little speak, and in various other deadfalls, it is
clear that he knows more than somewhat about the subject. Furthermore,
at least two of X's adventures happen when he certainly has his pots
on, rye whisky being the raw material in both cases; and he knows what
it is like to have such a noggin the morning after that he does not
feel much more than a hop ahead of the undertaker. So if X's putting
himself away as an abstemious guy is not a lie, it will do until a lie
comes along; and the chances are he is not the only guy in the same
position, at that.

Whatever the truth may be about X as regards wine, his reactions to
woman and song are fairly clear. X is a good, even an exacting, judge
of dolls, and many of his remarks on the subject are well worth bearing
in mind. He is by no means blind to the possibilities of romance as
between young guys and dolls; he knows that the right conditions, such
as the moon shining on the river, and what not, may be a dead cold
set-up for love. But X is not such a guy as will get a high blood
pressure over any doll; he has never been in love, and barring a bad
break, never expects to be in love, to say nothing of being married.
Most of the guys in his circle are bachelors, and the rest wish
they were, but at the same time many of them take a great practical
interest in dolls, including The Brain, who maintains four separate
establishments, and guesses that love costs him about as much dough as
any guy that ever lives. But The Brain can easily afford this, being
the biggest guy in gambling operations in the East.

On the other hand, X is an enthusiast about song. If there is one thing
he loves to do more than anything else, it is to sing in quartet,
taking the baritone part. He likes to sing in quartet in Good Time
Charley's little joint, because Good Time Charley sings a nice bass,
and there are seldom any customers there until after the other places
are closed; so that it is fairly quiet in there until about 5 a.m.
Though you can never be quite sure, at that, because things may happen
such as when Jack O'Hearts looks in unexpectedly, and outs with the old
equalizer and shoots the right ear off Louie the Lug, who is singing
a very fair tenor in the quartet, and then chases Louie out the back
door and gets another crack at him which finishes him. Of course this
breaks up the quartet, and nobody is happy, not even Jack O'Hearts, who
complains that the light in Charley's dump is no good, as he ought to
get Louie the first shot, and it is very sloppy work.

Another taste which X has strongly developed is horse-race betting; a
taste which he shares with practically every guy mentioned in these
stories. In fact, the only guy I can think of at the moment who do
not back horses are two guys who happen to be bookmakers. Some of
X's friends, like Hot Horse Herbie, are such guys as never think of
anything else in this world but betting on horses; but those who are
mainly interested in crime, and so cannot be considered as serious
horse-players, mostly devote a good deal of the proceeds to this form
of amusement. Playing the horses is a necessary part of X's life. He
despises football, and he cannot imagine why anybody takes an interest
in such a thing as lawn tennis; baseball means nothing to him, and as
for pugilism, X will not give you a bad two-bit piece to see a fight
anywhere, because half the time the result is arranged beforehand, and
X does not believe in encouraging dishonesty. His thoughts, and the
thoughts of most of his acquaintance, are apt to express themselves in
terms of betting; as for instance when the monkey steals the baby and
carries it off to the roof of a house, and seems disposed to heave the
baby into the street, and Big Nig, the crap shooter, is around among
the hysterical crowd offering to lay 7 to 5 against the baby, which, X
observes, is not a bad price, at that.

       *       *       *       *       *

The most renowned short-story-teller of New York life in the past
was O. Henry, whose work has long been the delight of a multitude
of readers in this country. The question of a comparison between O.
Henry and Damon Runyon is therefore bound to arise; and it can be
easily answered. The two have hardly anything in common, apart from the
faculty of invention. To begin with, O. Henry wrote of the New York
life of thirty to forty years ago, which is a long time in the history
of that metropolis. Also, while he knew its rich and its poor, its
clerks and its shopgirls, its politicians and its sportsmen and its
loafers, there is no sign--despite one or two romantic efforts of the
Jimmy Valentine sort--that he had much acquaintance with the habitual
criminal class. Again, if he had known it as it was in his day, he
would have known a class very different from the one to which most of
Runyon's characters belong, children as they are of a new age of crime,
equipped with all the technical resources of the twentieth century;
freed at the same time, by the advance of a brutish materialism, from
the last rags of scruple and compassion; and to a great extent financed
as crime never was financed before, first, by the enormous profits of
a generally tolerated, not to say welcomed, smuggling trade, and then
by the even easier money from organized extortion on a grand scale.
O. Henry did not live to see national Prohibition, and never heard of
racketeering.

His style and method, too, were wholly different from Damon Runyon's.
All of the Runyon stories, as I have said, are told with the mouth and
in the distinctive speech of one of the characters, who is a very real
person indeed. O. Henry seldom resorted to this way of story-telling;
and when he did--as in _The Gentle Grafter_--both the imaginary
narrator and his talk were obviously not intended to be like life; they
were meant merely for the producing of burlesque effect.

       *       *       *       *       *

One English reader of these stories made the remark--so I am
told--that a glossary would help you to understand them. I do not
suppose he really meant this: if he did, I cannot imagine a more abject
confession of dullness. Let us take it that he was paying an indirect
compliment to the freshness and pungency of this variety of American
speech. The truth is, X is particularly easy to understand. It is the
greatest of the many merits of his style. Even if a term or a phrase
is unfamiliar, the context tells you instantly what it means. It may
be news to you that to cool a guy off means to kill him; or that a
doll taking a run-out powder on her husband means her deserting him;
or that playing the duck for a guy means trying to avoid him: but if
when you read these things in a Runyon story you do not understand what
they mean, then you must be such a guy as will never understand much of
anything in this world.

I can recall several cases of glossaries attached to English editions
of American stories; and they always struck me as fussy and even, in
a vague way, offensive, implying that the kind of slang in question
was an unintelligible lingo of barbarians. One of the most famous
of modern American novels was gravely introduced to English readers
with a glossary, from which one could learn, with surprise, that a
getaway meant an escape, or that junk meant rubbish. I have no idea of
insulting readers by providing them with a glossary to help them to
tear out the hidden significance of the statement, for example, that
Israel Ib has a large snozzle and is as homely as a mud fence, but is
well known to be a coming guy in the banking dodge. The only terms I
can think of that are not self-explanatory refer to sums of money: it
is, from time to time, important to remember that a thousand dollars
are a grand, or a G; a hundred dollars, a yard, or a C; ten dollars, a
sawbuck; five dollars, a finnif, a fin, or a pound note; two dollars, a
deuce; one dollar, a buck, or a bob.

Speaking generally, all this affectation about American speech
being an alien thing is tiresome and many years out of date. Every
office-boy uses the terms he has picked up from the Hollywood films;
and our more sophisticated slang-users of both sexes have a much larger
vocabulary drawn from American books. In fact, we produce little slang
of our own to-day: what we have that is English is of old standing.
Our borrowing in this way is, I suppose, one of the results of the
enormous impression made on us (whether we like it or not) by the
vigour, the vivacity, the originality, the self-sufficiency, the drama
and melodrama of American life. And it is because we are under that
impression that I believe English readers will welcome and enjoy these
stories by Damon Runyon.

  E. C. BENTLEY.




MORE THAN SOMEWHAT




1. BREACH OF PROMISE


One day a certain party by the name of Judge Goldfobber, who is a
lawyer by trade, sends word to me that he wishes me to call on him at
his office in lower Broadway, and while ordinarily I do not care for
any part of lawyers, it happens that Judge Goldfobber is a friend of
mine, so I go to see him.

Of course Judge Goldfobber is not a judge, and never is a judge, and
he is 100 to 1 in my line against ever being a judge, but he is called
Judge because it pleases him, and everybody always wishes to please
Judge Goldfobber, as he is one of the surest-footed lawyers in this
town, and beats more tough beefs for different citizens than seems
possible. He is a wonderful hand for keeping citizens from getting into
the sneezer, and better than Houdini when it comes to getting them out
of the sneezer after they are in.

Personally, I never have any use for the professional services of Judge
Goldfobber, as I am a law-abiding citizen at all times, and am greatly
opposed to guys who violate the law, but I know the Judge from around
and about for many years. I know him from around and about the night
clubs, and other deadfalls, for Judge Goldfobber is such a guy as loves
to mingle with the public in these spots, as he picks up much law
business there, and sometimes a nice doll.

Well, when I call on Judge Goldfobber, he takes me into his private
office and wishes to know if I can think of a couple of deserving guys
who are out of employment, and who will like a job of work, and if so,
Judge Goldfobber says, he can offer them a first-class position.

"Of course," Judge Goldfobber says, "it is not steady employment,
and in fact it is nothing but piece-work, but the parties must be
extremely reliable parties, who can be depended on in a pinch. This is
out-of-town work that requires tact, and," he says, "some nerve."

Well, I am about to tell Judge Goldfobber that I am no employment
agent, and go on about my business, because I can tell from the way he
says the parties must be parties who can be depended on in a pinch,
that a pinch is apt to come up on the job any minute, and I do not care
to steer any friends of mine against a pinch.

But as I get up to go, I look out of Judge Goldfobber's window, and I
can see Brooklyn in the distance beyond the river, and seeing Brooklyn
I get to thinking of certain parties over there that I figure must be
suffering terribly from the unemployment situation. I get to thinking
of Harry the Horse, and Spanish John and Little Isadore, and the reason
I figure they must be suffering from the unemployment situation is
because if nobody is working and making any money, there is nobody for
them to rob, and if there is nobody for them to rob, Harry the Horse
and Spanish John and Little Isadore are just naturally bound to be
feeling the depression keenly.

Anyway, I finally mention the names of these parties to Judge
Goldfobber, and furthermore I speak well of their reliability in a
pinch, and of their nerve, although I cannot conscientiously recommend
their tact, and Judge Goldfobber is greatly delighted, as he often
hears of Harry the Horse, and Spanish John and Little Isadore.

He asks me for their addresses, but of course nobody knows exactly
where Harry the Horse and Spanish John and Little Isadore live, because
they do not live anywhere in particular. However, I tell him about a
certain spot in Clinton Street where he may be able to get track of
them, and then I leave Judge Goldfobber for fear he may wish me to take
word to these parties, and if there is anybody in this whole world I
will not care to take word to, or to have any truck with in any manner,
shape, or form, it is Harry the Horse, and Spanish John and Little
Isadore.

Well, I do not hear anything more of the matter for several weeks, but
one evening when I am in Mindy's restaurant on Broadway enjoying a
little cold borscht, which is a most refreshing matter in hot weather
such as is going on at the time, who bobs up but Harry the Horse, and
Spanish John and Little Isadore, and I am so surprised to see them that
some of my cold borscht goes down the wrong way, and I almost choke to
death.

However, they seem quite friendly, and in fact Harry the Horse pounds
me on the back to keep me from choking, and while he pounds so hard
that he almost caves in my spine, I consider it a most courteous
action, and when I am able to talk again, I say to him as follows:

"Well, Harry," I say, "it is a privilege and a pleasure to see you
again, and I hope and trust you will all join me in some cold borscht,
which you will find very nice, indeed."

"No," Harry says, "we do not care for any cold borscht. We are looking
for Judge Goldfobber. Do you see Judge Goldfobber round and about
lately?"

Well, the idea of Harry the Horse and Spanish John and Little Isadore
looking for Judge Goldfobber sounds somewhat alarming to me, and I
figure maybe the job Judge Goldfobber gives them turns out bad and they
wish to take Judge Goldfobber apart, but the next minute Harry says to
me like this:

"By the way," he says, "we wish to thank you for the job of work you
throw our way. Maybe some day we will be able to do as much for you.
It is a most interesting job," Harry says, "and while you are snuffing
your cold borscht I will give you the details, so you will understand
why we wish to see Judge Goldfobber."

It turns out [Harry the Horse says] that the job is not for Judge
Goldfobber personally, but for a client of his, and who is this client
but Mr. Jabez Tuesday, the rich millionaire, who owns the Tuesday
string of one-arm joints where many citizens go for food and wait on
themselves. Judge Goldfobber comes to see us in Brooklyn in person, and
sends me to see Mr. Jabez Tuesday with a letter of introduction, so
Mr. Jabez Tuesday can explain what he wishes me to do, because Judge
Goldfobber is too smart a guy to be explaining such matters to me
himself.

In fact, for all I know maybe Judge Goldfobber is not aware of what Mr.
Jabez Tuesday wishes me to do, although I am willing to lay a little 6
to 5 that Judge Goldfobber does not think Mr. Jabez Tuesday wishes to
hire me as a cashier in any of his one-arm joints.

Anyway, I go to see Mr. Tuesday at a Fifth Avenue hotel where he makes
his home, and where he has a very swell layout of rooms, and I am by
no means impressed with Mr. Tuesday, as he hems and haws quite a bit
before he tells me the nature of the employment he has in mind for me.
He is a little guy, somewhat dried out, with a bald head, and a small
mouser on his upper lip, and he wears specs, and seems somewhat nervous.

Well, it takes him some time to get down to cases, and tell me what
is eating him, and what he wishes to do, and then it all sounds very
simple, indeed, and in fact it sounds so simple that I think Mr. Jabez
Tuesday is a little daffy when he tells me he will give me ten G's for
the job.

What Mr. Tuesday wishes me to do is to get some letters that he
personally writes to a doll by the name of Miss Amelia Bodkin, who
lives in a house just outside Tarrytown, because it seems that Mr.
Tuesday makes certain cracks in these letters that he is now sorry for,
such as speaking of love and marriage and one thing and another to Miss
Amelia Bodkin, and he is afraid she is going to sue him for breach of
promise.

"Such an idea will be very embarrassing to me," Mr. Jabez Tuesday
says, "as I am about to marry a party who is a member of one of the
most high-toned families in this country. It is true," Mr. Tuesday
says, "that the Scarwater family does not have as much money now as
formerly, but there is no doubt about its being very, very high-toned,
and my fiance, Miss Valerie Scarwater, is one of the high-tonedest of
them all. In fact," he says, "she is so high-toned that the chances are
she will be very huffy about anybody suing me for breach of promise,
and cancel everything."

Well, I ask Mr. Tuesday what a breach of promise is, and he explains
to me that it is when somebody promises to do something and fails to
do this something, although of course we have a different name for a
proposition of this nature in Brooklyn, and deal with it accordingly.

"This is a very easy job for a person of your standing," Mr. Tuesday
says. "Miss Amelia Bodkin lives all alone in her house the other side
of Tarrytown, except for a couple of servants, and they are old and
harmless. Now the idea is," he says, "you are not to go to her house as
if you are looking for the letters, but as if you are after something
else, such as her silverware, which is quite antique, and very valuable.

"She keeps the letters in a big inlaid box in her room," Mr. Tuesday
says, "and if you just pick up this box and carry it away along with
the silverware, no one will ever suspect that you are after the
letters, but that you take the box thinking it contains valuables.
You bring the letters to me and get your ten G's," Mr. Tuesday says,
"and," he says, "you can keep the silverware, too. Be sure you get a
Paul Revere teapot with the silverware," he says. "It is worth plenty."

"Well," I say to Mr. Tuesday, "every guy knows his own business best,
and I do not wish to knock myself out of a nice soft job, but," I say,
"it seems to me the simplest way of carrying on this transaction is
to buy the letters off this doll, and be done with it. Personally," I
say, "I do not believe there is a doll in the world who is not willing
to sell a whole post-office full of letters for ten G's, especially in
these times, and throw in a set of Shakespeare with them."

"No, no," Mr. Tuesday says. "Such a course will not do with Miss Amelia
Bodkin at all. You see," he says, "Miss Bodkin and I are very, very
friendly for a matter of maybe fifteen or sixteen years. In fact, we
are very friendly, indeed. She does not have any idea at this time that
I wish to break off this friendship with her. Now," he says, "if I try
to buy the letters from her, she may become suspicious. The idea," Mr.
Tuesday says, "is for me to get the letters first, and then explain to
her about breaking off the friendship, and make suitable arrangements
with her afterwards.

"Do not get Miss Amelia Bodkin wrong," Mr. Tuesday says. "She is an
excellent person, but," he says, "you know the saying, 'Hell hath no
fury like a woman scorned.' And maybe Miss Amelia Bodkin may figure
I am scorning her if she finds out I am going to marry Miss Valerie
Scarwater, and furthermore," he says, "if she still has the letters she
may fall into the hands of unscrupulous lawyers, and demand a very
large sum, indeed. But," Mr. Tuesday says, "this does not worry me half
as much as the idea that Miss Valerie Scarwater may learn about the
letters and get a wrong impression of my friendship with Miss Amelia
Bodkin."

Well, I round up Spanish John and Little Isadore the next afternoon,
and I find Little Isadore playing klob with a guy by the name of
Educated Edmund, who is called Educated Edmund because he once goes
to Erasmus High School and is considered a very fine scholar, indeed,
so I invite Educated Edmund, to go along with us. The idea is, I
know Educated Edmund makes a fair living playing klob with Little
Isadore, and I figure as long as I am depriving Educated Edmund of a
living for awhile, it is only courteous to toss something else his
way. Furthermore, I figure as long as letters are involved in this
proposition it may be a good thing to have Educated Edmund handy in
case any reading becomes necessary, because Spanish John and Little
Isadore do not read at all, and I read only large print.

We borrow a car off a friend of mine in Clinton Street, and with me
driving we start for Tarrytown, which is a spot up the Hudson River,
and it is a very enjoyable ride for one and all on account of the
scenery. It is the first time Educated Edmund and Spanish John and
Little Isadore ever see the scenery along the Hudson although they
all reside on the banks of this beautiful river for several years at
Ossining. Personally, I am never in Ossining, although once I make
Auburn, and once Comstock, but the scenery in these localities is
nothing to speak of.

We hit Tarrytown about dark, and follow the main drag through this
burg, as Mr. Tuesday tells me, until finally we come to the spot I am
looking for, which is a little white cottage on a slope of ground above
the river, not far off the highway. This little white cottage has quite
a piece of ground around it, and a low stone wall, with a driveway from
the highway to the house, and when I spot the gate to the driveway I
make a quick turn, and what happens but I run the car slap-dab into a
stone gatepost, and the car folds up like an accordion.

You see, the idea is we are figuring to make this a fast stick-up job
without any foolishness about it, maybe leaving any parties we come
across tied up good and tight while we make a getaway, as I am greatly
opposed to house-breaking, or sneak jobs, as I do not consider them
dignified. Furthermore, they take too much time, so I am going to run
the car right up to the front door when this stone post gets in my way.

The next thing I know, I open my eyes to find myself in a strange
bed, and also in a strange bedroom, and while I wake up in many a
strange bed in my time, I never wake up in such a strange bedroom as
this. It is all very soft and dainty, and the only jarring note in my
surroundings is Spanish John sitting beside the bed looking at me.

Naturally I wish to know what is what, and Spanish John says I am
knocked snoring in the collision with the gatepost, although none of
the others are hurt, and that while I am stretched in the driveway with
the blood running out of a bad gash in my noggin, who pops out of the
house but a doll and an old guy who seems to be a butler, or some such,
and the doll insists on them lugging me into the house, and placing me
in this bedroom.

Then she washes the blood off of me, Spanish John says, and wraps my
head up and personally goes to Tarrytown to get a croaker to see if my
wounds are fatal, or what, while Educated Edmund and Little Isadore are
trying to patch up the car. So, Spanish John says, he is sitting there
to watch me until she comes back, although of course I know what he is
really sitting there for is to get first search at me in case I do not
recover.

Well, while I am thinking all this over, and wondering what is to
be done, in pops a doll of maybe forty odd, who is built from the
ground up, but who has a nice, kind-looking pan, with a large smile,
and behind her is a guy I can see at once is a croaker, especially
as he is packing a little black bag, and has a grey goatee. I never
see a nicer-looking doll if you care for middling-old dolls, although
personally I like them young, and when she sees me with my eyes open,
she speaks as follows:

"Oh," she says, "I am glad you are not dead, you poor chap. But," she
says, "here is Doctor Diffingwell, and he will see how badly you are
injured. My name is Miss Amelia Bodkin, and this is my house, and this
is my own bedroom, and I am very, very sorry you are hurt."

Well, naturally I consider this a most embarrassing situation, because
here I am out to clip Miss Amelia Bodkin of her letters and her
silverware, including her Paul Revere teapot, and there she is taking
care of me in first-class style, and saying she is sorry for me.

But there seems to be nothing for me to say at this time, so I hold
still while the croaker looks me over and after he peeks at my noggin,
and gives me a good feel up and down, he states as follows:

"This is a very bad cut," he says. "I will have to stitch it up,
and then he must be very quiet for a few days, otherwise," he says,
"complications may set in. It is best to move him to a hospital at
once."

But Miss Amelia Bodkin will not listen to such an idea as moving me to
a hospital. Miss Amelia Bodkin says I must rest right where I am, and
she will take care of me, because she says I am injured on her premises
by her gatepost, and it is only fair that she does something for me. In
fact, from the way Miss Amelia Bodkin takes on about me being moved,
I figure maybe it is the old sex appeal, although afterwards I find
out it is only because she is lonesome, and nursing me will give her
something to do.

Well, naturally I am not opposing her idea, because the way I look at
it, I will be able to handle the situation about the letters, and also
the silverware, very nicely as an inside job, so I try to act even
worse off than I am, although of course anybody who knows about the
time I carry eight slugs in my body from Broadway and Fiftieth Street
to Brooklyn will laugh very heartily at the idea of a cut on the noggin
keeping me in bed.

After the croaker gets through sewing me up, and goes away, I tell
Spanish John to take Educated Edmund and Little Isadore and go on back
to New York, but to keep in touch with me by telephone, so I can tell
them when to come back, and then I go to sleep, because I seem to be
very tired. When I wake up later in the night, I seem to have a fever,
and am really somewhat sick, and Miss Amelia Bodkin is sitting beside
my bed swabbing my noggin with a cool cloth, which feels very pleasant,
indeed.

I am better in the morning, and am able to knock over a little
breakfast which she brings to me on a tray, and I am commencing to see
where being an invalid is not so bad, at that, especially when there
are no coppers at your bedside every time you open your eyes asking who
does it to you.

I can see Miss Amelia Bodkin gets quite a bang out of having somebody
to take care of, although of course if she knows who she is taking
care of at this time, the chances are she will be running up the road
calling for the gendarmes. It is not until after breakfast that I can
get her to go and grab herself a little sleep, and while she is away
sleeping the old guy who seems to be the butler is in and out of my
room every now and then to see how I am getting along.

He is a gabby old guy, and pretty soon he is telling me all about
Miss Amelia Bodkin, and what he tells me is that she is the old-time
sweetheart of a guy in New York who is at the head of a big business,
and very rich, and of course I know this guy is Mr. Jabez Tuesday,
although the old guy who seems to be the butler never mentions his name.

"They are together many years," he says to me. "He is very poor when
they meet, and she has a little money, and establishes him in business,
and by her management of this business, and of him, she makes it a very
large business, indeed. I know, because I am with them almost from the
start," the old guy says. "She is very smart in business, and also very
kind, and nice, if anybody asks you.

"Now," the old guy says, "I am never able to figure out why they do
not get married, because there is no doubt she loves him, and he loves
her, but Miss Amelia Bodkin once tells me that it is because they are
too poor at the start, and too busy later on to think of such things
as getting married, and so they drift along the way they are, until
all of a sudden he is rich. Then," the old guy says, "I can see he is
getting away from her, although she never sees it herself, and I am not
surprised when a few years ago he convinces her it is best for her to
retire from active work, and move out to this spot.

"He comes out here fairly often at first," the old guy says, "but
gradually he stretches the time between his visits, and now we do not
see him once in a coon's age. Well," the old guy says, "it is just such
a case as often comes up in life. In fact, I personally know of some
others. But Miss Amelia Bodkin still thinks he loves her, and that only
business keeps him away so much, so you can see she either is not as
smart as she looks, or is kidding herself. Well," the old guy says, "I
will now bring you a little orange-juice, although I do not mind saying
you do not look to me like a guy who drinks orange-juice as a steady
proposition."

Now I am taking many a gander around the bedroom to see if I can case
the box of letters that Mr. Jabez Tuesday speaks of, but there is no
box such as he describes in sight. Then in the evening, when Miss
Amelia Bodkin is in the room, and I seem to be dozing, she pulls out
a drawer in the bureau, and hauls out a big inlaid box, and sits down
at a table under a reading-lamp, and opens this box and begins reading
some old letters. And as she sits there reading those letters, with me
watching her through my eyelashes, sometimes she smiles, but once I see
little tears rolling down her cheeks.

All of a sudden she looks at me, and catches me with my eyes wide open,
and I can see her face turn red, and then she laughs, and speaks to me,
as follows:

"Old love letters," she says, tapping the box. "From my old sweetheart,"
she says. "I read some of them every night of my life. Am I not foolish
and sentimental to do such a thing?"

Well, I tell Miss Amelia Bodkin she is sentimental all right, but I do
not tell her just how foolish she is to be letting me in on where she
plants these letters, although of course I am greatly pleased to have
this information. I tell Miss Amelia Bodkin that personally I never
write a love letter, and never get a love letter, and in fact, while I
hear of these propositions, I never even see a love letter before, and
this is all as true as you are a foot high. Then Miss Amelia Bodkin
laughs a little, and says to me as follows:

"Why," she says, "you are a very unusual chap, indeed, not to know what
a love letter is like. Why," she says, "I think I will read you a few
of the most wonderful love letters in this world. It will do no harm,"
she says, "because you do not know the writer, and you must lie there
and think of me, not old and ugly, as you see me now, but as young, and
maybe a little bit pretty."

So Miss Amelia Bodkin opens a letter and reads it to me, and her
voice is soft and low as she reads, but she scarcely ever looks at
the letter as she is reading, so I can see she knows it pretty much
by heart. Furthermore, I can see that she thinks this letter is quite
a masterpiece, but while I am no judge of love letters, because this
is the first one I ever hear, I wish to say I consider it nothing but
great nonsense.

"Sweetheart mine," this love letter says, "I am still thinking of you
as I see you yesterday standing in front of the house with the sunlight
turning your dark brown hair to wonderful bronze. Darling," it says, "I
love the colour of your hair. I am so glad you are not a blonde. I hate
blondes, they are so emptyheaded, and mean, and deceitful. Also they
are bad-tempered," the letter says. "I will never trust a blonde any
farther than I can throw a bull by the tail. I never see a blonde in my
life who is not a plumb washout," it says. "Most of them are nothing
but peroxide, anyway. Business is improving," it says. "Sausage is
going up. I love you now and always, my baby doll."

Well, there are others worse than this, and all of them speak of her
as sweetheart, or baby, or darlingest one, and also as loveykins, and
precious, and angel, and I do not know what all else, and several of
them speak of how things will be after they marry, and as I judge these
are Mr. Jabez Tuesday's letters, all right, I can see where they are
full of dynamite for a guy who is figuring on taking a run-out powder
on a doll. In fact, I say something to this general effect to Miss
Amelia Bodkin, just for something to say.

"Why," she says, "what do you mean?"

"Well," I say, "documents such as these are known to bring large prices
under certain conditions."

Now Miss Amelia Bodkin looks at me a moment, as if wondering what is in
my mind, and then she shakes her head as if she gives it up, and laughs
and speaks as follows:

"Well," she says, "one thing is certain, my letters will never bring a
price, no matter how large, under any conditions, even if anybody ever
wants them. Why," she says, "these are my greatest treasure. They are
my memories of my happiest days. Why," she says, "I will not part with
these letters for a million dollars."

Naturally I can see from this remark that Mr. Jabez Tuesday makes a
very economical deal with me at ten G's for the letters, but of course
I do not mention this to Miss Amelia Bodkin as I watch her put her love
letters back in the inlaid box, and put the box back in the drawer of
the bureau. I thank her for letting me hear the letters, and then I
tell her good-night, and I go to sleep, and the next day I telephone to
a certain number in Clinton Street and leave word for Educated Edmund
and Spanish John and Little Isadore to come and get me, as I am tired
of being an invalid.

Now the next day is Saturday, and the day that comes after is bound to
be Sunday, and they come to see me on Saturday, and promise to come
back for me Sunday, as the car is now unravelled and running all right,
although my friend in Clinton Street is beefing no little about the
way his fenders are bent. But before they arrive Sunday morning, who
is there ahead of them bright and early but Mr. Jabez Tuesday in a big
town car.

Furthermore, as he walks into the house, all dressed up in a cutaway
coat, and a high hat, he grabs Miss Amelia Bodkin in his arms, and
kisses her ker-plump right on the smush, which information I afterwards
receive from the old guy who seems to be the butler. From upstairs I
can personally hear Miss Amelia Bodkin crying more than somewhat, and
then I hear Mr. Jabez Tuesday speak in a loud, hearty voice as follows:

"Now, now, now, 'Mely," Mr. Tuesday says. "Do not be crying, especially
on my new white vest. Cheer up," Mr. Tuesday says, "and listen to the
arrangements I make for our wedding to-morrow, and our honeymoon in
Montreal. Yes, indeed, 'Mely," Mr. Tuesday says, "you are the only one
for me, because you understand me from A to Izzard. Give me another big
kiss, 'Mely, and let us sit down and talk things over."

Well, I judge from the sound that he gets his kiss, and it is a very
large kiss, indeed, with the cut-out open, and then I hear them chewing
the rag at great length in the living-room downstairs. Finally I hear
Mr. Jabez Tuesday speak as follows:

"You know, 'Mely," he says, "you and I are just plain ordinary folks
without any lugs, and," he says, "this is why we fit each other so
well. I am sick and tired of people who pretend to be high-toned and
mighty, when they do not have a white quarter to their name. They have
no manners whatever. Why, only last night," Mr. Jabez Tuesday says, "I
am calling on a high-toned family in New York by the name of Scarwater,
and out of a clear sky I am grossly insulted by the daughter of the
house, and practically turned out in the street. I never receive such
treatment in my life," he says. "'Mely," he says, "give me another
kiss, and see if you feel a bump here on my head."

Of course, Mr. Jabez Tuesday is somewhat surprised to see me present
later on, but he never lets on he knows me, and naturally I do not give
Mr. Jabez any tumble whatever at the moment, and by and by Educated
Edmund and Spanish John and Little Isadore come for me in the car,
and I thank Miss Amelia Bodkin for her kindness to me, and leave her
standing on the lawn with Mr. Jabez Tuesday waving us good-bye.

And Miss Amelia Bodkin looks so happy as she snuggles up close to Mr.
Jabez Tuesday that I am glad I take the chance, which is always better
than an even-money chance these days, that Miss Valerie Scarwater is
a blonde, and send Educated Edmund to her to read her Mr. Tuesday's
letter in which he speaks of blondes. But of course I am sorry that
this and other letters that I tell Educated Edmund to read to her heats
her up so far as to make her forget she is a lady and causes her to
slug Mr. Jabez Tuesday on the bean with an 18-carat vanity case, as she
tells him to get out of her life.

So [Harry the Horse says] there is nothing more to the story, except
we are now looking for Judge Goldfobber to get him to take up a legal
matter for us with Mr. Jabez Tuesday. It is true Mr. Tuesday pays us
the ten G's, but he never lets us take the silverware he speaks of,
not even the Paul Revere teapot, which he says is so valuable, and
in fact when we drop around to Miss Amelia Bodkin's house to pick up
these articles one night not long ago, the old guy who seems to be the
butler lets off a double-barrelled shotgun at us, and acts very nasty
in general.

So [Harry says] we are going to see if we can get Judge Goldfobber to
sue Mr. Jabez Tuesday for breach of promise.




2. ROMANCE IN THE ROARING FORTIES


Only a rank sucker will think of taking two peeks at Dave the Dude's
doll, because while Dave may stand for the first peek, figuring it is
a mistake, it is a sure thing he will get sored up at the second peek,
and Dave the Dude is certainly not a man to have sored up at you.

But this Waldo Winchester is one hundred per cent sucker, which is why
he takes quite a number of peeks at Dave's doll. And what is more, she
takes quite a number of peeks right back at him. And there you are.
When a guy and a doll get to taking peeks back and forth at each other,
why, there you are indeed.

This Waldo Winchester is a nice-looking young guy who writes pieces
about Broadway for the _Morning Item_. He writes about the goings-on in
night clubs, such as fights, and one thing and another, and also about
who is running around with who, including guys and dolls.

Sometimes this is very embarrassing to people who may be married and
are running around with people who are not married, but of course Waldo
Winchester cannot be expected to ask one and all for their marriage
certificates before he writes his pieces for the paper.

The chances are if Waldo Winchester knows Miss Billy Perry is Dave the
Dude's doll, he will never take more than his first peek at her, but
nobody tips him off until his second or third peek, and by this time
Miss Billy Perry is taking her peeks back at him and Waldo Winchester
is hooked.

In fact, he is plumb gone, and being a sucker, like I tell you, he does
not care whose doll she is. Personally, I do not blame him much, for
Miss Billy Perry is worth a few peeks, especially when she is out on
the floor of Miss Missouri Martin's Sixteen Hundred Club doing her tap
dance. Still, I do not think the best tap-dancer that ever lives can
make me take two peeks at her if I know she is Dave the Dude's doll,
for Dave somehow thinks more than somewhat of his dolls.

He especially thinks plenty of Miss Billy Perry, and sends her fur
coats, and diamond rings, and one thing and another, which she sends
back to him at once, because it seems she does not take presents from
guys. This is considered most surprising all along Broadway, but people
figure the chances are she has some other angle.

Anyway, this does not keep Dave the Dude from liking her just the same,
and so she is considered his doll by one and all, and is respected
accordingly until this Waldo Winchester comes along.

It happens that he comes along while Dave the Dude is off in the Modoc
on a little run down to the Bahamas to get some goods for his business,
such as Scotch and champagne, and by the time Dave gets back Miss Billy
Perry and Waldo Winchester are at the stage where they sit in corners
between her numbers and hold hands.

Of course nobody tells Dave the Dude about this, because they do not
wish to get him excited. Not even Miss Missouri Martin tells him, which
is most unusual because Miss Missouri Martin, who is sometimes called
"Mizzoo" for short, tells everything she knows as soon as she knows it,
which is very often before it happens.

You see, the idea is when Dave the Dude is excited he may blow
somebody's brains out, and the chances are it will be nobody's brains
but Waldo Winchester's, although some claim that Waldo Winchester has
no brains or he will not be hanging around Dave the Dude's doll.

I know Dave is very, very fond of Miss Billy Perry, because I hear him
talk to her several times, and he is most polite to her and never gets
out of line in her company by using cuss words, or anything like this.
Furthermore, one night when One-eyed Solly Abrahams is a little stewed
up he refers to Miss Billy Perry as a broad, meaning no harm whatever,
for this is the way many of the boys speak of the dolls.

But right away Dave the Dude reaches across the table and bops One-eyed
Solly right in the mouth, so everybody knows from then on that Dave
thinks well of Miss Billy Perry. Of course Dave is always thinking
fairly well of some doll as far as this goes, but it is seldom he gets
to bopping guys in the mouth over them.

Well, one night what happens but Dave the Dude walks into the Sixteen
Hundred Club, and there in the entrance, what does he see but this
Waldo Winchester and Miss Billy Perry kissing each other back and forth
friendly. Right away Dave reaches for the old equalizer to shoot Waldo
Winchester, but it seems Dave does not happen to have the old equalizer
with him, not expecting to have to shoot anybody this particular
evening.

So Dave the Dude walks over and, as Waldo Winchester hears him coming
and lets go his strangle-hold on Miss Billy Perry, Dave nails him with
a big right hand on the chin. I will say for Dave the Dude that he is a
fair puncher with his right hand, though his left is not so good, and
he knocks Waldo Winchester bow-legged. In fact, Waldo folds right up on
the floor.

Well, Miss Billy Perry lets out a screech you can hear clear to the
Battery and runs over to where Waldo Winchester lights, and falls on
top of him squalling very loud. All anybody can make out of what she
says is that Dave the Dude is a big bum, although Dave is not so big,
at that, and that she loves Waldo Winchester.

Dave walks over and starts to give Waldo Winchester the leather, which
is considered customary in such cases, but he seems to change his mind,
and instead of booting Waldo around, Dave turns and walks out of the
joint looking very black and mad, and the next anybody hears of him he
is over in the Chicken Club doing plenty of drinking.

This is regarded as a very bad sign indeed, because while everybody
goes to the Chicken Club now and then to give Tony Bertazzola, the
owner, a friendly play, very few people care to do any drinking there,
because Tony's liquor is not meant for anybody to drink except the
customers.

Well, Miss Billy Perry gets Waldo Winchester on his pegs again, and
wipes his chin off with her handkerchief, and by and by he is all okay
except for a big lump on his chin. And all the time she is telling
Waldo Winchester what a big bum Dave the Dude is, although afterwards
Miss Missouri Martin gets hold of Miss Billy Perry and puts the blast
on her plenty for chasing a two-handed spender such as Dave the Dude
out of the joint.

"You are nothing but a little sap," Miss Missouri Martin tells Miss
Billy Perry. "You cannot get the right time off this newspaper guy,
while everybody knows Dave the Dude is a very fast man with a dollar."

"But I love Mr. Winchester," says Miss Billy Perry. "He is so romantic.
He is not a bootlegger and a gunman like Dave the Dude. He puts lovely
pieces in the paper about me, and he is a gentleman at all times."

Now of course Miss Missouri Martin is not in a position to argue about
gentlemen, because she meets very few in the Sixteen Hundred Club and
anyway, she does not wish to make Waldo Winchester mad as he is apt to
turn around and put pieces in his paper that will be a knock to the
joint, so she lets the matter drop.

Miss Billy Perry and Waldo Winchester go on holding hands between her
numbers, and maybe kissing each other now and then, as young people
are liable to do, and Dave the Dude plays the chill for the Sixteen
Hundred Club and everything seems to be all right. Naturally we are all
very glad there is no more trouble over the proposition, because the
best Dave can get is the worst of it in a jam with a newspaper guy.

Personally, I figure Dave will soon find himself another doll and
forget all about Miss Billy Perry, because now that I take another
peek at her, I can see where she is just about the same as any other
tap-dancer, except that she is red-headed. Tap-dancers are generally
blackheads, but I do not know why.

Moosh, the doorman at the Sixteen Hundred Club, tells me Miss Missouri
Martin keeps plugging for Dave the Dude with Miss Billy Perry in a
quiet way, because he says he hears Miss Missouri Martin make the
following crack one night to her: "Well, I do not see any Simple Simon
on your lean and linger."

This is Miss Missouri Martin's way of saying she sees no diamond
on Miss Billy Perry's finger, for Miss Missouri Martin is an old
experienced doll, who figures if a guy loves a doll he will prove it
with diamonds. Miss Missouri Martin has many diamonds herself, though
how any guy can ever get himself heated up enough about Miss Missouri
Martin to give her diamonds is more than I can see.

I am not a guy who goes around much, so I do not see Dave the Dude for
a couple of weeks, but late one Sunday afternoon little Johnny McGowan,
who is one of Dave's men, comes and says to me like this: "What do you
think? Dave grabs the scribe a little while ago and is taking him out
for an airing!"

Well, Johnny is so excited it is some time before I can get him cooled
out enough to explain. It seems that Dave the Dude gets his biggest
car out of the garage and sends his driver, Wop Joe, over to the
_Item_ office where Waldo Winchester works, with a message that Miss
Billy Perry wishes to see Waldo right away at Miss Missouri Martin's
apartment on Fifty-ninth Street.

Of course this message is nothing but the phonus bolonus, but Waldo
drops in for it and gets in the car. Then Wop Joe drives him up to Miss
Missouri Martin's apartment, and who gets in the car there but Dave the
Dude. And away they go.

Now this is very bad news indeed, because when Dave the Dude takes
a guy out for an airing the guy very often does not come back. What
happens to him I never ask, because the best a guy can get by asking
questions in this man's town is a bust in the nose.

But I am much worried over this proposition, because I like Dave the
Dude, and I know that taking a newspaper guy like Waldo Winchester out
for an airing is apt to cause talk, especially if he does not come
back. The other guys that Dave the Dude takes out for airings do not
mean much in particular, but here is a guy who may produce trouble,
even if he is a sucker, on account of being connected with a newspaper.

I know enough about newspapers to know that by and by the editor or
somebody will be around wishing to know where Waldo Winchester's
pieces about Broadway are, and if there are no pieces from Waldo
Winchester, the editor will wish to know why. Finally it will get
around to where other people will wish to know, and after a while many
people will be running around saying: "Where is Waldo Winchester?"

And if enough people in this town get to running around saying where
is So-and-so, it becomes a great mystery and the newspapers hop on the
cops and the cops hop on everybody, and by and by there is so much heat
in town that it is no place for a guy to be.

But what is to be done about this situation I do not know. Personally,
it strikes me as very bad indeed, and while Johnny goes away to do a
little telephoning, I am trying to think up some place to go where
people will see me, and remember afterwards that I am there in case it
is necessary for them to remember.

Finally Johnny comes back, very excited, and says: "Hey, the Dude is up
at the Woodcock Inn on the Pelham Parkway, and he is sending out the
word for one and all to come at once. Good Time Charley Bernstein just
gets the wire and tells me. Something is doing. The rest of the mob are
on their way, so let us be moving."

But here is an invitation which does not strike me as a good thing at
all. The way I look at it, Dave the Dude is no company for a guy like
me at this time. The chances are he either does something to Waldo
Winchester already, or is getting ready to do something to him which I
wish no part of.

Personally, I have nothing against newspaper guys, not even the
ones who write pieces about Broadway. If Dave the Dude wishes to do
something to Waldo Winchester, all right, but what is the sense of
bringing outsiders into it? But the next thing I know, I am in Johnny
McGowan's roadster, and he is zipping along very fast indeed, paying
practically no attention to traffic lights or anything else.

As we go busting out the Concourse, I get to thinking the situation
over, and I figure that Dave the Dude probably keeps thinking about
Miss Billy Perry, and drinking liquor such as they sell in the Chicken
Club, until finally he blows his topper. The way I look at it, only a
guy who is off his nut will think of taking a newspaper guy out for an
airing over a doll, when dolls are a dime a dozen in this man's town.

Still, I remember reading in the papers about a lot of different guys
who are considered very sensible until they get tangled up with a doll,
and maybe loving her, and the first thing anybody knows they hop out
of windows, or shoot themselves, or somebody else, and I can see where
even a guy like Dave the Dude may go daffy over a doll.

I can see that little Johnny McGowan is worried, too, but he does
not say much, and we pull up in front of the Woodcock Inn in no time
whatever, to find a lot of other cars there ahead of us, some of which
I recognize as belonging to different parties.

The Woodcock Inn is what is called a road house, and is run by Big
Nig Skolsky, a very nice man indeed, and a friend of everybody's. It
stands back a piece off the Pelham Parkway and is a very pleasant place
to go to, what with Nig having a good band and a floor show with a lot
of fair-looking dolls, and everything else a man can wish for a good
time. It gets a nice play from nice people, although Nig's liquor is
nothing extra.

Personally, I never go there much, because I do not care for road
houses, but it is a great spot for Dave the Dude when he is pitching
parties, or even when he is only drinking single-handed. There is a lot
of racket in the joint as we drive up, and who comes out to meet us
but Dave the Dude himself with a big hello. His face is very red, and
he seems heated up no little, but he does not look like a guy who is
meaning any harm to anybody, especially a newspaper guy.

"Come in, guys!" Dave the Dude yells. "Come right in!"

So we go in, and the place is full of people sitting at tables, or
out on the floor dancing, and I see Miss Missouri Martin with all her
diamonds hanging from her in different places, and Good Time Charley
Bernstein, and Feet Samuels, and Tony Bertazzola, and Skeets Boliver,
and Nick the Greek, and Rochester Red, and a lot of other guys and
dolls from around and about.

In fact, it looks as if everybody from all the joints on Broadway are
present, including Miss Billy Perry, who is all dressed up in white and
is lugging a big bundle of orchids and so forth, and who is giggling
and smiling and shaking hands and going on generally. And finally I
see Waldo Winchester, the scribe, sitting at a ringside table all by
himself, but there is nothing wrong with him as far as I can see. I
mean, he seems to be all in one piece so far.

"Dave," I say to Dave the Dude, very quiet, "what is coming off here?
You know a guy cannot be too careful what he does around this town, and
I will hate to see you tangled up in anything right now."

"Why," Dave says, "what are you talking about? Nothing is coming off
here but a wedding, and it is going to be the best wedding anybody on
Broadway ever sees. We are waiting for the preacher now."

"You mean somebody is going to be married?" I ask, being now somewhat
confused.

"Certainly," Dave the Dude says. "What do you think? What is the idea
of a wedding, anyway?"

"Who is going to be married?" I ask.

"Nobody but Billy and the scribe," Dave says. "This is the greatest
thing I ever do in my life. I run into Billy the other night and she is
crying her eyes out because she loves this scribe and wishes to marry
him, but it seems the scribe has nothing he can use for money. So I
tell Billy to leave it to me, because you know I love her myself so
much I wish to see her happy at all times, even if she has to marry to
be that way.

"So I frame this wedding party, and after they are married I am going
to stake them to a few G's so they can get a good running start," Dave
says. "But I do not tell the scribe and I do not let Billy tell him as
I wish it to be a big surprise to him. I kidnap him this afternoon and
bring him out here and he is scared half to death thinking I am going
to scrag him.

"In fact," Dave says, "I never see a guy so scared. He is still so
scared nothing seems to cheer him up. Go over and tell him to shake
himself together, because nothing but happiness for him is coming off
here."

Well, I wish to say I am greatly relieved to think that Dave intends
doing nothing worse to Waldo Winchester than getting him married up,
so I go over to where Waldo is sitting. He certainly looks somewhat
alarmed. He is all in a huddle with himself, and he has what you call
a vacant stare in his eyes. I can see that he is indeed frightened, so
I give him a jolly slap on the back and I say: "Congratulations, pal!
Cheer up, the worst is yet to come!"

"You bet it is," Waldo Winchester says, his voice so solemn I am
greatly surprised.

"You are a fine-looking bridegroom," I say. "You look as if you are at
a funeral instead of a wedding. Why do you not laugh ha-ha, and maybe
take a dram or two and go to cutting up some?"

"Mister," says Waldo Winchester, "my wife is not going to care for me
getting married to Miss Billy Perry."

"Your wife?" I say, much astonished. "What is this you are speaking
of? How can you have any wife except Miss Billy Perry? This is great
foolishness."

"I know," Waldo says, very sad. "I know. But I got a wife just the
same, and she is going to be very nervous when she hears about this.
My wife is very strict with me. My wife does not allow me to go around
marrying people. My wife is Lola Sapola, of the Rolling Sapolas, the
acrobats, and I am married to her for five years. She is the strong
lady who juggles the other four people in the act. My wife just gets
back from a year's tour of the Interstate time, and she is at the Marx
Hotel right this minute. I am upset by this proposition."

"Does Miss Billy Perry know about this wife?" I ask.

"No," he says. "No. She thinks I am single-o."

"But why do you not tell Dave the Dude you are already married when he
brings you out here to marry you off to Miss Billy Perry?" I ask. "It
seems to me a newspaper guy must know it is against the law for a guy
to marry several different dolls unless he is a Turk, or some such."

"Well," Waldo says, "if I tell Dave the Dude I am married after taking
his doll away from him, I am quite sure Dave will be very much excited,
and maybe do something harmful to my health."

Now there is much in what the guy says, to be sure. I am inclined to
think, myself, that Dave will be somewhat disturbed when he learns
of this situation, especially when Miss Billy Perry starts in being
unhappy about it. But what is to be done I do not know, except maybe to
let the wedding go on, and then when Waldo is out of reach of Dave, to
put in a claim that he is insane, and that the marriage does not count.
It is a sure thing I do not wish to be around when Dave the Dude hears
Waldo is already married.

I am thinking that maybe I better take it on the lam out of there, when
there is a great row at the door and I hear Dave the Dude yelling that
the preacher arrives. He is a very nice-looking preacher, at that,
though he seems somewhat surprised by the goings-on, especially when
Miss Missouri Martin steps up and takes charge of him. Miss Missouri
Martin tells him she is fond of preachers, and is quite used to them,
because she is twice married by preachers, and twice by justices of the
peace, and once by a ship's captain at sea.

By this time one and all present, except maybe myself and Waldo
Winchester, and the preacher and maybe Miss Billy Perry, are somewhat
corned. Waldo is still sitting at his table looking very sad and saying
"Yes" and "No" to Miss Billy Perry whenever she skips past him, for
Miss Billy Perry is too much pleasured up with happiness to stay long
in one spot.

Dave the Dude is more corned than anybody else, because he has two
or three days' running start on everybody. And when Dave the Dude is
corned I wish to say that he is a very unreliable guy as to temper, and
he is apt to explode right in your face any minute. But he seems to be
getting a great bang out of the doings.

Well, by and by Nig Skolsky has the dance floor cleared, and then he
moves out on the floor a sort of arch of very beautiful flowers. The
idea seems to be that Miss Billy Perry and Waldo Winchester are to
be married under this arch. I can see that Dave the Dude must put
in several days planning this whole proposition, and it must cost
him plenty of the old do-re-mi, especially as I see him showing Miss
Missouri Martin a diamond ring as big as a cough drop.

"It is for the bride," Dave the Dude says. "The poor loogan she is
marrying will never have enough dough to buy her such a rock, and she
always wishes a big one. I get it off a guy who brings it in from Los
Angeles. I am going to give the bride away myself in person, so how do
I act, Mizzoo? I want Billy to have everything according to the book."

Well, while Miss Missouri Martin is trying to remember back to one
of her weddings to tell him, I take another peek at Waldo Winchester
to see how he is making out. I once see two guys go to the old warm
squativoo up in Sing Sing, and I wish to say both are laughing heartily
compared to Waldo Winchester at this moment.

Miss Billy Perry is sitting with him and the orchestra leader is
calling his men dirty names because none of them can think of how "Oh,
Promise Me" goes, when Dave the Dude yells: "Well, we are all set! Let
the happy couple step forward!"

Miss Billy Perry bounces up and grabs Waldo Winchester by the arm and
pulls him up out of his chair. After a peek at his face I am willing to
lay 6 to 5 he does not make the arch. But he finally gets there with
everybody laughing and clapping their hands, and the preacher comes
forward, and Dave the Dude looks happier than I ever see him look
before in his life as they all get together under the arch of flowers.

Well, all of a sudden there is a terrible racket at the front door of
the Woodcock Inn, with some doll doing a lot of hollering in a deep
voice that sounds like a man's, and naturally everybody turns and looks
that way. The doorman, a guy by the name of Slugsy Sachs, who is a very
hard man indeed, seems to be trying to keep somebody out, but pretty
soon there is a heavy bump and Slugsy Sachs falls down, and in comes a
doll about four feet high and five feet wide.

In fact, I never see such a wide doll. She looks all hammered down. Her
face is almost as wide as her shoulders, and makes me think of a great
big full moon. She comes in bounding-like, and I can see that she is
all churned up about something. As she bounces in, I hear a gurgle,
and I look around to see Waldo Winchester slumping down to the floor,
almost dragging Miss Billy Perry with him.

Well, the wide doll walks right up to the bunch under the arch and says
in a large bass voice: "Which one is Dave the Dude?"

"I am Dave the Dude," says Dave the Dude, stepping up. "What do you
mean by busting in here like a walrus and gumming up our wedding?"

"So you are the guy who kidnaps my ever-loving husband to marry him off
to this little red-headed pancake here, are you?" the wide doll says,
looking at Dave the Dude, but pointing at Miss Billy Perry.

Well now, calling Miss Billy Perry a pancake to Dave the Dude is a
very serious proposition, and Dave the Dude gets very angry. He is
usually rather polite to dolls, but you can see he does not care for
the wide doll's manner whatever.

"Say, listen here," Dave the Dude says, "you better take a walk before
somebody clips you. You must be drunk," he says. "Or daffy," he says.
"What are you talking about, anyway?"

"You will see what I am talking about," the wide doll yells. "The guy
on the floor there is my lawful husband. You probably frighten him to
death, the poor dear. You kidnap him to marry this red-headed thing,
and I am going to get you arrested as sure as my name is Lola Sapola,
you simple-looking tramp!"

Naturally, everybody is greatly horrified at a doll using such language
to Dave the Dude, because Dave is known to shoot guys for much less,
but instead of doing something to the wide doll at once, Dave says:
"What is this talk I hear? Who is married to who? Get out of here!"
Dave says, grabbing the wide doll's arm.

Well, she makes out as if she is going to slap Dave in the face with
her left hand, and Dave naturally pulls his kisser out of the way. But
instead of doing anything with her left, Lola Sapola suddenly drives
her right fist smack-dab into Dave the Dude's stomach, which naturally
comes forward as his face goes back.

I wish to say I see many a body punch delivered in my life, but I never
see a prettier one than this. What is more, Lola Sapola steps in with
the punch, so there is plenty on it.

Now a guy who eats and drinks like Dave the Dude does cannot take them
so good in the stomach, so Dave goes "oof," and sits down very hard
on the dance floor, and as he is sitting there he is fumbling in his
pants pocket for the old equalizer, so everybody around tears for cover
except Lola Sapola, and Miss Billy Perry, and Waldo Winchester.

But before he can get his pistol out, Lola Sapola reaches down and
grabs Dave by the collar and hoists him to his feet. She lets go her
hold on him, leaving Dave standing on his pins, but teetering around
somewhat, and then she drives her right hand to Dave's stomach a second
time.

The punch drops Dave again, and Lola steps up to him as if she is going
to give him the foot. But she only gathers up Waldo Winchester from off
the floor and slings him across her shoulder like he is a sack of oats,
and starts for the door. Dave the Dude sits up on the floor again and
by this time he has the old equalizer in his duke.

"Only for me being a gentleman I will fill you full of slugs," he yells.

Lola Sapola never even looks back, because by this time she is petting
Waldo Winchester's head and calling him loving names and saying what
a shame it is for bad characters like Dave the Dude to be abusing her
precious one. It all sounds to me as if Lola Sapola thinks well of
Waldo Winchester.

Well, after she gets out of sight, Dave the Dude gets up off the floor
and stands there looking at Miss Billy Perry, who is out to break all
crying records. The rest of us come out from under cover, including
the preacher, and we are wondering how mad Dave the Dude is going
to be about the wedding being ruined. But Dave the Dude seems only
disappointed and sad.

"Billy," he says to Miss Billy Perry, "I am mighty sorry you do not get
your wedding. All I wish for is your happiness, but I do not believe
you can ever be happy with this scribe if he also has to have his lion
tamer around. As Cupid I am a total bust. This is the only nice thing
I ever try to do in my whole life, and it is too bad it does not come
off. Maybe if you wait until he can drown her, or something----"

"Dave," says Miss Billy Perry, dropping so many tears that she seems to
finally wash herself right into Dave the Dude's arms, "I will never,
never be happy with such a guy as Waldo Winchester. I can see now you
are the only man for me."

"Well, well, well," Dave the Dude says, cheering right up. "Where is
the preacher? Bring on the preacher and let us have our wedding anyway."

I see Mr. and Mrs. Dave the Dude the other day, and they seem very
happy. But you never can tell about married people, so of course I am
never going to let on to Dave the Dude that I am the one who telephones
Lola Sapola at the Marx Hotel, because maybe I do not do Dave any too
much of a favour, at that.




3. DREAM STREET ROSE


Of an early evening when there is nothing much doing anywhere else, I
go around to Good Time Charley's little speak in West Forty-seventh
Street that he calls the Gingham Shoppe, and play a little klob with
Charley, because business is quiet in the Gingham Shoppe at such an
hour, and Charley gets very lonesome.

He once has a much livelier spot in Forty-eighth Street that he calls
the Crystal Room, but one night a bunch of G-guys step into the joint
and bust it wide open, besides confiscating all of Charley's stock of
merchandise. It seems that these G-guys are members of a squad that
comes on from Washington, and being strangers in the city they do not
know that Good Time Charley's joint is not supposed to be busted up, so
they go ahead and bust it, just the same as if it is any other joint.

Well, this action causes great indignation in many quarters, and a lot
of citizens advise Charley to see somebody about it. But Charley says
no. Charley says if this is the way the government is going to treat
him after the way he walks himself bow-legged over in France with the
Rainbow Division, making the Germans hard to catch, why, all right. But
he is not going to holler copper about it, although Charley says he has
his own opinion of Mr. Hoover, at that.

Personally, I greatly admire Charley for taking the disaster so
calmly, especially as it catches him with very few potatoes. Charley is
a great hand for playing the horses with any dough he makes out of the
Crystal Room, and this particular season the guys who play the horses
are being murdered by the bookies all over the country, and are in
terrible distress.

So I know if Charley is not plumb broke that he has a terrible crack
across his belly, and I am not surprised that I do not see him for a
couple of weeks after the government guys knock off the Crystal Room. I
hear rumours that he is at home reading the newspapers very carefully
every day, especially the obituary notices, for it seems that Charley
figures that some of the G-guys may be tempted to take a belt or two
at the merchandise they confiscate, and Charley says if they do, he is
even for life.

Finally I hear that Charley is seen buying a bolt of gingham in
Bloomington's one day, so I know he will be in action again very soon,
for all Charley needs to go into action is a bolt of gingham and a
few bottles of Golden Wedding. In fact, I know Charley to go into
action without the gingham, but as a rule he likes to drape a place of
business with gingham to make it seem more homelike to his customers,
and I wish to say that when it comes to draping gingham, Charley can
make a sucker of Joseph Urban, or anybody else.

Well, when I arrive at the Gingham Shoppe this night I am talking
about, which is around ten o'clock, I find Charley in a very indignant
state of mind, because an old tomato by the name of Dream Street Rose
comes in and tracks up his floor, just after Charley gets through
mopping it up, for Charley does his mopping in person, not being able
as yet to afford any help.

Rose is sitting at a table in a corner, paying no attention to
Charley's remarks about wiping her feet on the Welcome mat at the door
before she comes in, because Rose knows there is no Welcome mat at
Charley's door, anyway, but I can see where Charley has a right to a
few beefs, at that, as she leaves a trail of black hoofprints across
the clean floor as if she is walking around in mud somewhere before she
comes in, although I do not seem to remember that it is raining when I
arrive.

Now this Dream Street Rose is an old doll of maybe fifty-odd, and is a
very well-known character around and about, as she is wandering through
the Forties for many a year, and especially through West Forty-seventh
Street between Sixth and Seventh Avenues, and this block is called
Dream Street. And the reason it is called Dream Street is because in
this block are many characters of one kind and another who always seem
to be dreaming of different matters.

In Dream Street there are many theatrical hotels, and rooming houses,
and restaurants, and speaks, including Good Time Charley's Gingham
Shoppe, and in the summer time the characters I mention sit on the
stoops or lean against the railings along Dream Street, and the gab you
hear sometimes sounds very dreamy indeed. In fact, it sometimes sounds
very pipe-dreamy.

Many actors, male and female, and especially vaudeville actors, live in
the hotels and rooming houses, and vaudeville actors, both male and
female, are great hands for sitting around dreaming out loud about how
they will practically assassinate the public in the Palace if ever they
get a chance.

Furthermore, in Dream Street are always many handbookies and horse
players, who sit on the church steps on the cool side of Dream Street
in the summer and dream about big killings on the races, and there are
also nearly always many fight managers, and sometimes fighters, hanging
out in front of the restaurants, picking their teeth and dreaming
about winning championships of the world, although up to this time no
champion of the world has yet come out of Dream Street.

In this street you see burlesque dolls, and hoofers, and guys who write
songs, and saxophone players, and newsboys, and newspaper scribes, and
taxi drivers, and blind guys, and midgets, and blondes with Pomeranian
pooches, or maybe French poodles, and guys with whiskers, and
night-club entertainers, and I do not know what all else. And all of
these characters are interesting to look at, and some of them are very
interesting to talk to, although if you listen to several I know long
enough, you may get the idea that they are somewhat daffy, especially
the horse players.

But personally I consider all horse players more or less daffy anyway.
In fact, the way I look at it, if a guy is not daffy he will not be
playing the horses.

Now this Dream Street Rose is a short, thick-set, square-looking old
doll, with a square pan, and square shoulders, and she has heavy
iron-grey hair that she wears in a square bob, and she stands very
square on her feet. In fact, Rose is the squarest-looking doll I ever
see, and she is as strong and lively as Jim Londos, the wrestler. In
fact, Jim Londos will never be any better than 6 to 5 in my line over
Dream Street Rose, if she is in any kind of shape.

Nobody in this town wishes any truck with Rose if she has a few shots
of grog in her, and especially Good Time Charley's grog, for she can
fight like the dickens when she is grogged up. In fact, Rose holds many
a decision in this town, especially over coppers, because if there is
one thing she hates and despises more than somewhat it is a copper,
as coppers are always heaving her into the old can when they find her
jerking citizens around and cutting up other didoes.

For many years Rose works in the different hotels along Dream Street
as a chambermaid. She never works in any one hotel very long, because
the minute she gets a few bobs together she likes to go out and enjoy
a little recreation, such as visiting around the speaks, although she
is about as welcome in most speaks as a G-guy with a search warrant.
You see, nobody can ever tell when Rose may feel like taking the speak
apart, and also the customers.

She never has any trouble getting a job back in any hotel she ever
works in, for Rose is a wonderful hand for making up beds, although
several times, when she is in a hurry to get off, I hear she makes up
beds with guests still in them, which causes a few mild beefs to the
management, but does not bother Rose. I speak of this matter only to
show you that she is a very quaint character indeed, and full of zest.

Well, I sit down to play klob with Good Time Charley, but about this
time several customers come into the Gingham Shoppe, so Charley has
to go and take care of them, leaving me alone. And while I am sitting
there alone I hear Dream Street Rose mumbling to herself over in the
corner, but I pay no attention to her, although I wish to say I am by
no means unfriendly with Rose.

In fact, I say hello to her at all times, and am always very courteous
to her, as I do not wish to have her bawling me out in public, and
maybe circulating rumours about me, as she is apt to do, if she feels I
am snubbing her.

Finally I notice her motioning to me to come over to her table, and
I go over at once and sit down, because I can see that Rose is well
grogged up at this time, and I do not care to have her attracting my
attention by chucking a cuspidor at me. She offers me a drink when I
sit down, but of course I never drink anything that is sold in Good
Time Charley's, as a personal favour to Charley. He says he wishes to
retain my friendship.

So I just sit there saying nothing much whatever, and Rose keeps on
mumbling to herself, and I am not able to make much of her mumbling,
until finally she looks at me and says to me like this:

"I am now going to tell you about my friend," Rose says.

"Well, Rose," I say, "personally I do not care to hear about your
friend, although," I say, "I have no doubt that what you wish to tell
me about this friend is very interesting. But I am here to play a
little klob with Good Time Charley, and I do not have time to hear
about your friend."

"Charley is busy selling his poison to the suckers," Rose says. "I am
now going to tell you about my friend. It is quite a story," she says.
"You will listen."

So I listen.

It is a matter of thirty-five years ago [Dream Street Rose says] and
the spot is a town in Colorado by the name of Pueblo, where there
are smelters and one thing and another. My friend is at this time
maybe sixteen or seventeen years old, and a first-class looker in
every respect. Her papa is dead, and her mamma runs a boarding-house
for the guys who work in the smelters, and who are very hearty
eaters. My friend deals them off the arm for the guys in her mamma's
boarding-house to save her mamma the expense of a waitress.

Now among the boarders in this boarding-house are many guys who are
always doing a little pitching to my friend, and trying to make dates
with her to take her places, but my friend never gives them much of a
tumble, because after she gets through dealing them off the arm all day
her feet generally pain her too much to go anywhere on them except to
the hay.

Finally, however, along comes a tall, skinny young guy from the East
by the name of Frank something, who has things to say to my friend that
are much more interesting than anything that has ever been said to her
by a guy before, including such things as love and marriage, which are
always very interesting subjects to any young doll.

This Frank is maybe twenty-five years old, and he comes from the East
with the idea of making his fortune in the West, and while it is true
that fortunes are being made in the West at this time, there is little
chance that Frank is going to make any part of a fortune, as he does
not care to work very hard. In fact, he does not care to work at all,
being much more partial to playing a little poker, or shooting a few
craps, or maybe hustling a sucker around Mike's pool room on Santa Fe
Avenue, for Frank is an excellent pool player, especially when he is
playing a sucker.

Now my friend is at this time a very innocent young doll, and a good
doll in every respect, and her idea of love includes a nice little
home, and children running here and there and around and about, and
she never has a wrong thought in her life, and believes that everybody
else in the world is like herself. And the chances are if this Frank
does not happen along, my friend will marry a young guy in Pueblo by
the name of Higginbottom, who is very fond of her indeed, and who is a
decent young guy and afterwards makes plenty of potatoes in the grocery
dodge.

But my friend goes very daffy over Frank and cannot see anybody but
him, and the upshot of it all is she runs away with him one day to
Denver, being dumb enough to believe that he means it when he tells her
that he loves her and is going to marry her. Why Frank ever bothers
with such a doll as my friend in the first place is always a great
mystery to one and all, and the only way anybody can explain it is that
she is young and fresh, and he is a heel at heart.

"Well, Rose," I say, "I am now commencing to see the finish of this
story about your friend, and," I say, "it is such a story as anybody
can hear in a speak at any time in this town, except," I say, "maybe
your story is longer than somewhat. So I will now thank you, and excuse
myself, and play a little klob with Good Time Charley."

"You will listen," Dream Street Rose says, looking me slap-dab in the
eye.

So I listen.

Moreover, I notice now that Good Time Charley is standing behind me,
bending in an ear, as it seems that his customers take the wind after
a couple of slams of Good Time Charley's merchandise, a couple of
slams being about all that even a very hardy customer can stand at one
session.

Of course [Rose goes on] the chances are Frank never intends marrying
my friend at all, and she never knows until long afterward that the
reason he leads her to the parson is that the young guy from Pueblo
by the name of Higginbottom catches up with them at the old Windsor
Hotel where they are stopping and privately pokes a six-pistol against
Frank's ribs and promises faithfully to come back and blow a hole in
Frank you can throw a water-melon through if Frank tries any phenagling
around with my friend.

Well, in practically no time whatever, love's young dream is over
as far as my friend is concerned. This Frank turns out to be a most
repulsive character indeed, especially if you are figuring him as an
ever-loving husband. In fact, he is no good. He mistreats my friend in
every way any guy ever thought of mistreating a doll, and besides the
old established ways of mistreating a doll, Frank thinks up quite a
number of new ways, being really quite ingenious in this respect.

Yes, this Frank is one hundred per cent heel.

It is not so much that he gives her a thumping now and then, because,
after all, a thumping wears off, and hurts heal up, even when they
are such hurts as a broken nose and fractured ribs, and once an
ankle cracked by a kick. It is what he does to her heart, and to her
innocence. He is by no means a good husband, and does not know how to
treat an ever-loving wife with any respect, especially as he winds up
by taking my friend to San Francisco and hiring her out to a very loose
character there by the name of Black Emanuel, who has a dance joint on
the Barbary Coast, which, at the time I am talking about, is hotter
than a stove. In this joint my friend has to dance with the customers,
and get them to buy beer for her and one thing and another, and this
occupation is most distasteful to my friend, as she never cares for
beer.

It is there Frank leaves her for good after giving her an extra big
thumping for a keepsake, and when my friend tries to leave Black
Emanuel's to go looking for her ever-loving husband, she is somewhat
surprised to hear Black Emanuel state that he pays Frank three C's for
her to remain there and continue working. Furthermore, Black Emanuel
resumes the thumpings where Frank leaves off, and by and by my friend
is much bewildered and down-hearted and does not care what happens to
her.

Well, there is nothing much of interest in my friend's life for the
next thirty-odd years, except that she finally gets so she does not
mind the beer so much, and, in fact, takes quite a fondness for it, and
also for light wines and Bourbon whisky, and that she comes to realize
that Frank does not love her after all, in spite of what he says.
Furthermore, in later years, after she drifts around the country quite
some, in and out of different joints, she realizes that the chances are
she will never have a nice little home, with children running here and
there, and she often thinks of what a disagreeable influence Frank has
on her life.

In fact, this Frank is always on her mind more than somewhat. In fact,
she thinks of him night and day, and says many a prayer that he will
do well. She manages to keep track of him, which is not hard to do, at
that, as Frank is in New York, and is becoming quite a guy in business,
and is often in the newspapers. Maybe his success is due to my friend's
prayers, but the chances are it is more because he connects up with
some guy who has an invention for doing something very interesting to
steel, and by grabbing an interest in this invention Frank gets a shove
toward plenty of potatoes. Furthermore, he is married, and is raising
up a family.

About ten or twelve years ago my friend comes to New York, and by this
time she is getting a little faded around the edges. She is not so
old, at that, but the air of the Western and Southern joints is bad on
the complexion, and beer is no good for the figure. In fact, my friend
is now quite a haybag, and she does not get any better-looking in the
years she spends in New York as she is practically all out of the old
sex appeal, and has to do a little heavy lifting to keep eating. But
she never forgets to keep praying that Frank will continue to do well,
and Frank certainly does this, as he is finally spoken of everywhere
very respectfully as a millionaire and a high-class guy.

In all the years she is in New York my friend never runs into Frank, as
Frank is by no means accustomed to visiting the spots where my friend
hangs out, but my friend goes to a lot of bother to get acquainted
with a doll who is a maid for some time in Frank's town house in East
Seventy-fourth Street, and through this doll my friend keeps a pretty
fair line on the way Frank lives. In fact, one day when Frank and his
family are absent, my friend goes to Frank's house with her friend,
just to see what it looks like, and after an hour there my friend has
the joint pretty well cased.

So now my friend knows through her friend that on very hot nights such
as to-night Frank's family is bound to be at their country place at
Port Washington, but that Frank himself is spending the night at his
town house, because he wishes to work on a lot of papers of some kind.
My friend knows through her friend that all of Frank's servants are at
Port Washington, too, except my friend's friend, who is in charge of
the town house, and Frank's valet, a guy by the name of Sloggins.

Furthermore, my friend knows through her friend that both her friend
and Sloggins have a date to go to a movie at 8.30 o'clock, to be gone a
couple of hours, as it seems Frank is very big-hearted about giving his
servants time off for such a purpose when he is at home alone; although
one night he squawks no little when my friend is out with her friend
drinking a little beer, and my friend's friend loses her door key and
has to ring the bell to the servants' entrance, and rousts Frank out of
a sound sleep.

Naturally, my friend's friend will be greatly astonished if she ever
learns that it is with this key that my friend steps into Frank's house
along about nine o'clock to-night. An electric light hangs over the
servants' entrance, and my friend locates the button that controls
this light just inside the door and turns it off, as my friend figures
that maybe Frank and his family will not care to have any of their
high-class neighbours, or anyone else, see an old doll who has no
better hat than she is wearing, entering or leaving their house at such
an hour.

It is an old-fashioned sort of house, four or five stories high, with
the library on the third floor in the rear, looking out through French
windows over a nice little garden, and my friend finds Frank in the
library where she expects to find him, because she is smart enough to
figure that a guy who is working on papers is not apt to be doing this
work in the cellar.

But Frank is not working on anything when my friend moves in on him. He
is dozing in a chair by the window, and, looking at him after all these
years, she finds something of a change, indeed. He is much heavier
than he is thirty-five years back, and his hair is white, but he looks
pretty well to my friend, at that, as she stands there for maybe five
minutes watching him. Then he seems to realize somebody is in the room,
as sleeping guys will do, for his regular breathing stops with a snort,
and he opens his eyes, and looks into my friend's eyes, but without
hardly stirring. And finally my friend speaks to Frank as follows:

"Well, Frank," she says, "do you know me?"

"Yes," he says, after a while, "I know you. At first I think maybe you
are a ghost, as I once hear something about your being dead. But," he
says, "I see now the report is a canard. You are too fat to be a ghost."

Well, of course, this is a most insulting crack, indeed, but my friend
passes it off as she does not wish to get in any arguments with Frank
at this time. She can see that he is upset more than somewhat and he
keeps looking around the room as if he hopes he can see somebody else
he can cut in on the conversation. In fact, he acts as if my friend is
by no means a welcome visitor.

"Well, Frank," my friend says, very pleasant, "there you are, and here
I am. I understand you are now a wealthy and prominent citizen of this
town. I am glad to know this, Frank," she says. "You will be surprised
to hear that for years and years I pray that you will do well for
yourself and become a big guy in every respect, with a nice family, and
everything else. I judge my prayers are answered," she says. "I see by
the papers that you have two sons at Yale, and a daughter in Vassar,
and that your ever-loving wife is getting to be very high mucky-mucky
in society. Well, Frank," she says, "I am very glad. I pray something
like all this will happen to you."

Now, at such a speech, Frank naturally figures that my friend is all
right, at that, and the chances are he also figures that she still has
a mighty soft spot in her heart for him, just as she has in the days
when she deals them off the arm to keep him in gambling and drinking
money. In fact, Frank brightens up somewhat, and he says to my friend
like this:

"You pray for my success?" he says. "Why, this is very thoughtful of
you, indeed. Well," he says, "I am sitting on top of the world. I have
everything to live for."

"Yes," my friend says, "and this is exactly where I pray I will find
you. On top of the world," she says, "and with everything to live for.
It is where I am when you take my life. It is where I am when you kill
me as surely as if you strangle me with your hands. I always pray you
will not become a bum," my friend says, "because a bum has nothing to
live for, anyway. I want to find you liking to live, so you will hate
so much to die."

Naturally, this does not sound so good to Frank, and he begins all of a
sudden to shake and shiver and to stutter somewhat.

"Why," he says, "what do you mean? Are you going to kill me?"

"Well," my friend says, "that remains to be seen. Personally," she
says, "I will be much obliged if you will kill yourself, but it
can be arranged one way or the other. However, I will explain the
disadvantages of me killing you.

"The chances are," my friend says, "if I kill you I will be caught and
a very great scandal will result, because," she says, "I have on my
person the certificate of my marriage to you in Denver, and something
tells me you never think to get a divorce. So," she says, "you are a
bigamist."

"I can pay," Frank says. "I can pay plenty."

"Furthermore," my friend says, paying no attention to his remark, "I
have a sworn statement from Black Emanuel about your transaction with
him, for Black Emanuel gets religion before he dies from being shivved
by Johnny Mizzoo, and he tries to round himself up by confessing
all the sins he can think of, which are quite a lot. It is a very
interesting statement," my friend says.

"Now then," she says, "if you knock yourself off you will leave an
unsullied, respected name. If I kill you, all the years and effort you
have devoted to building up your reputation will go for nothing. You
are past sixty," my friend says, "and any way you figure it, you do
not have so very far to go. If I kill you," she says, "you will go in
horrible disgrace, and everybody around you will feel the disgrace, no
matter how much dough you leave them. Your children will hang their
heads in shame. Your ever-loving wife will not like it," my friend says.

"I wait on you a long time, Frank," my friend says. "A dozen times in
the past twenty years I figure I may as well call on you and close up
my case with you, but," she says, "then I always persuade myself to
wait a little longer so you would rise higher and higher and life will
be a bit sweeter to you. And there you are, Frank," she says, "and here
I am."

Well, Frank sits there as if he is knocked plumb out, and he does not
answer a word; so finally my friend outs with a large John Roscoe which
she is packing in the bosom of her dress, and tosses it in his lap, and
speaks as follows:

"Frank," she says, "do not think it will do you any good to pot me in
the back when I turn around, because," she says, "you will be worse off
than ever. I leave plenty of letters scattered around in case anything
happens to me. And remember," she says, "if you do not do this job
yourself, I will be back. Sooner or later, I will be back."

So [Dream Street Rose says] my friend goes out of the library and down
the stairs, leaving Frank sprawled out in his chair, and when she
reaches the first floor she hears what may be a shot in the upper part
of the house, and then again maybe only a door slamming. My friend
never knows for sure what it is, because a little later as she nears
the servants' entrance she hears quite a commotion outside, and a
guy cussing a blue streak, and a doll tee-heeing, and pretty soon my
friend's friend, the maid, and Sloggins, the valet, come walking in.

Well, my friend just has time to scroonch herself back in a dark
corner, and they go upstairs, the guy still cussing and the doll
still giggling, and my friend cannot make out what it is all about
except that they come home earlier than she figures. So my friend goes
tippy-toe out of the servants' entrance, to grab a taxi not far from
the house and get away from this neighbourhood, and now you will soon
hear of the suicide of a guy who is a millionaire, and it will be all
even with my friend.

"Well, Rose," I say, "it is a nice long story, and full of romance
and all this and that, and," I say, "of course I will never be
ungentlemanly enough to call a lady a liar, but," I say, "if it is not
a lie, it will do until a lie comes along."

"All right," Rose says. "Anyway, I tell you about my friend. Now,"
she says, "I am going where the liquor is better, which can be any
other place in town, because," she says, "there is no chance of liquor
anywhere being any worse."

So she goes out, making more tracks on Good Time Charley's floor, and
Charley speaks most impolitely of her after she goes, and gets out his
mop to clean the floor, for one thing about Charley, he is as neat as a
pin, and maybe neater.

Well, along toward one o'clock I hear a newsboy in the street outside
yelling something I cannot make out, because he is yelling as if he
has a mouthful of mush, as newsboys are bound to do. But I am anxious
to see what goes in the first race at Belmont, on account of having a
first-class tip, so I poke my noggin outside Good Time Charley's and
buy a paper, and across the front page, in large letters, it states
that the wealthy Mr. Frank Billingsworth McQuiggan knocks himself off
by putting a slug through his own noggin.

It says Mr. McQuiggan is found in a chair in his library as dead as a
door-nail with the pistol in his lap with which he knocks himself off,
and the paper states that nobody can figure what causes Mr. McQuiggan
to do such a thing to himself as he is in good health and has plenty of
potatoes and is at the peak of his career. Then there is a lot about
his history.

When Mr. McQuiggan is a young fellow returning from a visit to the
Pacific Coast with about two hundred dollars in his pocket after
paying his railroad fare, he meets in the train Jonas Calloway, famous
inventor of the Calloway steel process. Calloway, also then young,
is desperately in need of funds and he offers Mr. McQuiggan a third
interest in his invention for what now seems the paltry sum of one
hundred dollars. Mr. McQuiggan accepts the offer and thus paves the way
to his own fortune.

I am telling all this to Good Time Charley while he is mopping away
at the floor, and finally I come on a paragraph down near the finish
which goes like this: "The body was discovered by Mr. McQuiggan's
faithful valet, Thomas Sloggins, at eleven o'clock. Mr. McQuiggan was
then apparently dead a couple of hours. Sloggins returned home shortly
before ten o'clock with another servant after changing his mind about
going to a movie. Instead of going to see his employer at once, as is
his usual custom, Sloggins went to his own quarters and changed his
clothes.

"'The light over the servants' entrance was out when I returned home,'
the valet said, 'and in the darkness I stumbled over some scaffolding
and other material left near this entrance by workmen who are to
regravel the roof of the house to-morrow, upsetting all over the
entranceway a large bucket of tar, much of which got on my apparel when
I fell, making a change necessary before going to see Mr. McQuiggan.'"

Well, Good Time Charley keeps on mopping harder than ever, though
finally he stops a minute and speaks to me as follows:

"Listen," Charley says, "understand I do not say the guy does not
deserve what he gets, and I am by no means hollering copper, but,"
Charley says, "if he knocks himself off, how does it come the rod is
still in his lap where Dream Street Rose says her friend tosses it?
Well, never mind," Charley says, "but can you think of something that
will remove tar from a wood floor? It positively will not mop off."




4. THE OLD DOLL'S HOUSE


Now it seems that one cold winter night, a party of residents of
Brooklyn comes across the Manhattan Bridge in an automobile wishing to
pay a call on a guy by the name of Lance McGowan, who is well known to
one and all along Broadway as a coming guy in the business world.

In fact, it is generally conceded that, barring accident, Lance will
someday be one of the biggest guys in this country as an importer, and
especially as an importer of such merchandise as fine liquors, because
he is very bright, and has many good connections throughout the United
States and Canada.

Furthermore, Lance McGowan is a nice-looking young guy and he has
plenty of ticker, although some citizens say he does not show very
sound business judgment in trying to move in on Angie the Ox over in
Brooklyn, as Angie the Ox is an importer himself, besides enjoying a
splendid trade in other lines, including artichokes and extortion.

Of course Lance McGowan is not interested in artichokes at all, and
very little in extortion, but he does not see any reason why he shall
not place his imports in a thriving territory such as Brooklyn,
especially as his line of merchandise is much superior to anything
handled by Angie the Ox.

Anyway, Angie is one of the residents of Brooklyn in the party that
wishes to call on Lance McGowan, and besides Angie the party includes
a guy by the name of Mockie Max, who is a very prominent character in
Brooklyn, and another guy by the name of The Louse Kid, who is not so
prominent, but who is considered a very promising young guy in many
respects, although personally I think The Louse Kid has a very weak
face.

He is supposed to be a wonderful hand with a burlap bag when anybody
wishes to put somebody in such a bag, which is considered a great
practical joke in Brooklyn, and in fact The Louse Kid has a burlap bag
with him on the night in question, and they are figuring on putting
Lance McGowan in the bag when they call on him, just for a laugh.
Personally, I consider this a very crude form of humour, but then Angie
the Ox and the other members of his party are very crude characters,
anyway.

Well, it seems they have Lance McGowan pretty well cased, and they
know that of an evening along toward ten o'clock he nearly always
strolls through West Fifty-fourth Street on his way to a certain spot
on Park Avenue that is called the Humming Bird Club, which has a very
high-toned clientele, and the reason Lance goes there is because he has
a piece of the joint, and furthermore he loves to show off his shape in
a tuxedo to the swell dolls.

So these residents of Brooklyn drive in their automobile along this
route, and as they roll past Lance McGowan, Angie the Ox and Mockie
Max let fly at Lance with a couple of sawed-offs, while The Louse
Kid holds the burlap bag, figuring for all I know that Lance will be
startled by the sawed-offs and will hop into the bag like a rabbit.

But Lance is by no means a sucker, and when the first blast of slugs
from the sawed-offs breezes past him without hitting him, what does he
do but hop over a brick wall alongside him and drop into a yard on the
other side. So Angie the Ox, and Mockie Max and The Louse Kid get out
of their automobile and run up close to the wall themselves because
they commence figuring that if Lance McGowan starts popping at them
from behind this wall, they will be taking plenty the worst of it, for
of course they cannot figure Lance to be strolling about without being
rodded up somewhat.

But Lance is by no means rodded up, because a rod is apt to create a
bump in his shape when he has his tuxedo on, so the story really begins
with Lance McGowan behind the brick wall, practically defenceless, and
the reason I know this story is because Lance McGowan tells most of it
to me, as Lance knows that I know his real name is Lancelot, and he
feels under great obligation to me because I never mention the matter
publicly.

Now, the brick wall Lance hops over is a wall around a pretty
fair-sized yard, and the yard belongs to an old two-story stone house,
and this house is well known to one and all in this man's town as a
house of great mystery, and it is pointed out as such by the drivers of
sight-seeing buses.

This house belongs to an old doll by the name of Miss Abigail Ardsley,
and anybody who ever reads the newspapers will tell you that Miss
Abigail Ardsley has so many potatoes that it is really painful to think
of, especially to people who have no potatoes whatever. In fact, Miss
Abigail Ardsley has practically all the potatoes in the world, except
maybe a few left over for general circulation.

These potatoes are left to her by her papa, old Waldo Ardsley, who
accumulates same in the early days of this town by buying corner real
estate very cheap before people realize this real estate will be quite
valuable later on for fruit-juice stands and cigar stores.

It seems that Waldo is a most eccentric old bloke, and is very strict
with his daughter, and will never let her marry, or even as much as
look as if she wishes to marry, until finally she is so old she does
not care a cuss about marrying, or anything else, and becomes very
eccentric herself.

In fact, Miss Abigail Ardsley becomes so eccentric that she cuts
herself off from everybody, and especially from a lot of relatives who
are wishing to live off of her, and any time anybody cuts themselves
off from such characters they are considered very eccentric, indeed,
especially by the relatives. She lives in the big house all alone,
except for a couple of old servants, and it is very seldom that anybody
sees her around and about, and many strange stories are told of her.

Well, no sooner is he in the yard than Lance McGowan begins looking
for a way to get out, and one way he does not wish to get out is over
the wall again, because he figures Angie the Ox and his sawed-offs
are bound to be waiting for him in Fifty-fourth Street. So Lance
looks around to see if there is some way out of the yard in another
direction, but it seems there is no such way, and pretty soon he sees
the snozzle of a sawed-off come poking over the wall, with the ugly
kisser of Angie the Ox behind it, looking for him, and there is Lance
McGowan all cornered up in the yard, and not feeling so good, at that.

Then Lance happens to try a door on one side of the house, and the
door opens at once and Lance McGowan hastens in to find himself in the
living-room of the house. It is a very large living-room with very nice
furniture standing around and about, and oil paintings on the walls,
and a big old grandfather's clock as high as the ceiling, and statuary
here and there. In fact, it is such a nice, comfortable-looking room
that Lance McGowan is greatly surprised, as he is expecting to find a
regular mystery-house room such as you see in the movies, with cobwebs
here and there, and everything all rotted up, and maybe Boris Karloff
wandering about making strange noises.

But the only person in this room seems to be a little old doll all
dressed in soft white, who is sitting in a low rocking-chair by an open
fireplace in which a bright fire is going, doing some tatting.

Well, naturally Lance McGowan is somewhat startled by this scene, and
he is figuring that the best thing he can do is to guzzle the old doll
before she can commence yelling for the gendarmes, when she looks up
at him and gives him a soft smile, and speaks to him in a soft voice,
as follows:

"Good evening," the old doll says.

Well, Lance cannot think of any reply to make to this at once, as it is
certainly not a good evening for him, and he stands there looking at
the old doll, somewhat dazed, when she smiles again and tells him to
sit down.

So the next thing Lance knows, he is sitting there in a chair in front
of the fireplace chewing the fat with the old doll as pleasant as you
please, and of course the old doll is nobody but Miss Abigail Ardsley.
Furthermore, she does not seem at all alarmed, or even much surprised,
at seeing Lance in her house, but then Lance is never such a looking
guy as is apt to scare old dolls, or young dolls either, especially
when he is all slicked up.

Of course Lance knows who Miss Abigail Ardsley is, because he often
reads stories in the newspapers about her the same as everybody else,
and he always figures such a character must be slightly daffy to cut
herself off from everybody when she has all the potatoes in the world,
and there is so much fun going on, but he is very courteous to her,
because after all he is a guest in her home.

"You are young," the old doll says to Lance McGowan, looking him in the
kisser. "It is many years since a young man comes through yonder door.
Ah, yes," she says, "so many years."

And with this she lets out a big sigh, and looks so very sad that Lance
McGowan's heart is touched.

"Forty-five years now," the old doll says in a low voice, as if she is
talking to herself. "So young, so handsome, and so good."

And although Lance is in no mood to listen to reminiscences at this
time, the next thing he knows he is hearing a very pathetic love story,
because it seems that Miss Abigail Ardsley is once all hotted up over a
young guy who is nothing but a clerk in her papa's office.

It seems from what Lance McGowan gathers that there is nothing wrong
with the young guy that a million bobs will not cure, but Miss Abigail
Ardsley's papa is a mean old waffle, and he will never listen to her
having any truck with a poor guy, so they dast not let him know how
much they love each other.

But it seems that Miss Abigail Ardsley's ever-loving young guy has
plenty of moxie, and every night he comes to see her after her papa
goes to the hay, and she lets him in through the same side-door Lance
McGowan comes through, and they sit by the fire and hold hands, and
talk in low tones, and plan what they will do when the young guy makes
a scratch.

Then one night it seems Miss Abigail Ardsley's papa has the stomach
ache, or some such, and cannot sleep a wink, so he comes wandering
downstairs looking for the Jamaica ginger, and catches Miss Abigail
Ardsley and her ever-loving guy in a clutch that will win the title for
any wrestler that can ever learn it.

Well, this scene is so repulsive to Miss Abigail Ardsley's papa that he
is practically speechless for a minute, and then he orders the young
guy out of his life in every respect, and tells him never to darken
his door again, especially the side-door.

But it seems that by this time a great storm is raging outside, and
Miss Abigail Ardsley begs and pleads with her papa to let the young
guy at least remain until the storm subsides, but between being all
sored up at the clutching scene he witnesses, and his stomach ache, Mr.
Ardsley is very hard-hearted, indeed, and he makes the young guy take
the wind.

The next morning the poor young guy is found at the side-door frozen as
stiff as a board, because it seems that the storm that is raging is the
blizzard of 1888, which is a very famous event in the history of New
York, although up to this time Lance McGowan never hears of it before,
and does not believe it until he looks the matter up afterwards. It
seems from what Miss Abigail Ardsley says that as near as anyone can
make out, the young guy must return to the door seeking shelter after
wandering about in the storm a while, but of course by this time her
papa has the door all bolted up, and nobody hears the young guy.

"And," Miss Abigail Ardsley says to Lance McGowan, after giving him all
these details, "I never speak to my papa again as long as he lives, and
no other man ever comes in or out of yonder door, or any other door
of this house, until your appearance to-night, although," she says,
"this side-door is never locked in case such a young man comes seeking
shelter."

Then she looks at Lance McGowan in such a way that he wonders if Miss
Abigail Ardsley hears the sawed-offs going when Angie the Ox and
Mockie Max are tossing slugs at him, but he is too polite to ask.

Well, all these old-time memories seem to make Miss Abigail Ardsley
feel very tough, and by and by she starts to weep, and if there is one
thing Lance McGowan cannot stand it is a doll weeping, even if she is
nothing but an old doll. So he starts in to cheer Miss Abigail Ardsley
up, and he pats her on the arm, and says to her like this:

"Why," Lance says, "I am greatly surprised to hear your statement
about the doors around here being so little used. Why, Sweetheart,"
Lance says, "if I know there is a doll as good-looking as you in the
neighbourhood, and a door unlocked, I will be busting in myself every
night. Come, come, come," Lance says, "let us talk things over and
maybe have a few laughs, because I may have to stick around here a
while. Listen, Sweetheart," he says, "do you happen to have a drink in
the joint?"

Well, at this Miss Abigail Ardsley dries her eyes, and smiles again,
and then she pulls a sort of a rope near her, and in comes a guy who
seems about ninety years old, and who seems greatly surprised to
see Lance there. In fact, he is so surprised that he is practically
tottering when he leaves the room after hearing Miss Abigail Ardsley
tell him to bring some wine and sandwiches.

And the wine he brings is such wine that Lance McGowan has half a mind
to send some of the lads around afterwards to see if there is any
more of it in the joint, especially when he thinks of the unlocked
side-door, because he can sell this kind of wine by the carat.

Well, Lance sits there with Miss Abigail Ardsley sipping wine and
eating sandwiches, and all the time he is telling her stories of one
kind and another, some of which he cleans up a little when he figures
they may be a little too snappy for her, and by and by he has her
laughing quite heartily indeed.

Finally he figures there is no chance of Angie and his sawed-offs being
outside waiting for him, so he says he guesses he will be going, and
Miss Abigail Ardsley personally sees him to the door, and this time it
is the front door, and as Lance is leaving he thinks of something he
once sees a guy do on the stage, and he takes Miss Abigail Ardsley's
hand and raises it to his lips and gives it a large kiss, all of which
is very surprising to Miss Abigail Ardsley, but more so to Lance
McGowan when he gets to thinking about it afterwards.

Just as he figures, there is no one in sight when he gets out in the
street, so he goes on over to the Humming Bird Club, where he learns
that many citizens are greatly disturbed by his absence, and are
wondering if he is in The Louse Kid's burlap bag, for by this time
it is pretty well known that Angie the Ox and his fellow citizens of
Brooklyn are around and about.

In fact, somebody tells Lance that Angie is at the moment over in Good
Time Charley's little speak in West Forty-ninth Street, buying drinks
for one and all, and telling how he makes Lance McGowan hop a brick
wall, which of course sounds most disparaging of Lance.

Well, while Angie is still buying these drinks, and still speaking of
making Lance a brick-wall hopper, all of a sudden the door of Good Time
Charley's speak opens and in comes a guy with a Betsy in his hand and
this guy throws four slugs into Angie the Ox before anybody can say
hello.

Furthermore, the guy throws one slug into Mockie Max, and one slug
into The Louse Kid, who are still with Angie the Ox, so the next thing
anybody knows there is Angie as dead as a door-nail, and there is
Mockie Max even deader than Angie, and there is The Louse making a
terrible fuss over a slug in his leg, and nobody can remember what the
guy who plugs them looks like, except a couple of stool pigeons who
state that the guy looks very much like Lance McGowan.

So what happens but early the next morning Johnny Brannigan, the
plain-clothes copper, puts the arm on Lance McGowan for plugging Angie
the Ox, and Mockie Max and The Louse Kid, and there is great rejoicing
in copper circles generally because at this time the newspapers are
weighing in the sacks on the coppers quite some, claiming there is too
much lawlessness going on around and about and asking why somebody is
not arrested for something.

So the collar of Lance McGowan is water on the wheel of one and all
because Lance is so prominent, and anybody will tell you that it looks
as if it is a sure thing that Lance will be very severely punished, and
maybe sent to the electric chair, although he hires Judge Goldstein,
who is one of the surest-footed lawyers in this town, to defend
him. But even Judge Goldstein admits that Lance is in a tough spot,
especially as the newspapers are demanding justice, and printing long
stories about Lance, and pictures of him, and calling him some very
uncouth names.

Finally Lance himself commences to worry about his predicament,
although up to this time a little thing like being charged with murder
in the first degree never bothers Lance very much. And in fact he will
not be bothering very much about this particular charge if he does not
find the D. A. very fussy about letting him out on bail. In fact, it is
nearly two weeks before he lets Lance out on bail, and all this time
Lance is in the sneezer, which is a most mortifying situation to a guy
as sensitive as Lance.

Well, by the time Lance's trial comes up, you can get 3 to 1 anywhere
that he will be convicted, and the price goes up to 5 when the
prosecution gets through with its case, and proves by the stool pigeons
that at exactly twelve o'clock on the night of January 5th, Lance
McGowan steps into Good Time Charley's little speak and plugs Angie the
Ox, Mockie Max and The Louse Kid.

Furthermore, several other witnesses who claim they know Lance McGowan
by sight testify that they see Lance in the neighbourhood of Good
Time Charley's around twelve o'clock, so by the time it comes Judge
Goldstein's turn to put on the defence, many citizens are saying that
if he can do no more than beat the chair for Lance he will be doing a
wonderful job.

Well, it is late in the afternoon when Judge Goldstein gets up and
looks all around the courtroom, and without making any opening
statement to the jury for the defence, as these mouthpieces usually do,
he says like this:

"Call Miss Abigail Ardsley," he says.

At first nobody quite realizes just who Judge Goldstein is calling for,
although the name sounds familiar to one and all present who read the
newspapers, when in comes a little old doll in a black silk dress that
almost reaches the floor, and a black bonnet that makes a sort of a
frame for her white hair and face.

Afterwards I read in one of the newspapers that she looks like she
steps down out of an old-fashioned ivory miniature and that she is
practically beautiful, but of course Miss Abigail Ardsley has so many
potatoes that no newspaper dast to say she looks like an old chromo.

Anyway, she comes into the courtroom surrounded by so many old guys you
will think it must be recess at the Old Men's Home, except they are all
dressed up in clawhammer coat tails, and high collars, and afterwards
it turns out that they are the biggest lawyers in this town, and they
all represent Miss Abigail Ardsley one way or another, and they are
present to see that her interests are protected, especially from each
other.

Nobody ever sees so much bowing and scraping before in a courtroom.
In fact, even the judge bows, and although I am only a spectator I
find myself bowing too, because the way I look at it, anybody with as
many potatoes as Miss Abigail Ardsley is entitled to a general bowing.
When she takes the witness-stand, her lawyers grab chairs and move
up as close to her as possible, and in the street outside there is
practically a riot as word goes around that Miss Abigail Ardsley is in
the court, and citizens come running from every which way, hoping to
get a peek at the richest old doll in the world.

Well, when all hands finally get settled down a little, Judge Goldstein
speaks to Miss Abigail Ardsley as follows:

"Miss Ardsley," he says, "I am going to ask you just two or three
questions. Kindly look at this defendant," Judge Goldstein says,
pointing at Lance McGowan, and giving Lance the office to stand up. "Do
you recognize him?"

Well, the little old doll takes a gander at Lance, and nods her head
yes, and Lance gives her a large smile, and Judge Goldstein says:

"Is he a caller in your home on the night of January fifth?" Judge
Goldstein asks.

"He is," Miss Abigail Ardsley says.

"Is there a clock in the living-room in which you receive this
defendant?" Judge Goldstein says.

"There is," Miss Abigail Ardsley says. "A large clock," she says. "A
grandfather's clock."

"Do you happen to notice," Judge Goldstein says, "and do you now recall
the hour indicated by this clock when the defendant leaves your home?"

"Yes," Miss Abigail Ardsley says, "I do happen to notice. It is just
twelve o'clock by my clock," she says. "Exactly twelve o'clock," she
says.

Well, this statement creates a large sensation in the courtroom,
because if it is twelve o'clock when Lance McGowan leaves Miss Abigail
Ardsley's house in West Fifty-fourth Street, anybody can see that
there is no way he can be in Good Time Charley's little speak over
five blocks away at the same minute unless he is a magician, and the
judge begins peeking over his specs at the coppers in the courtroom
very severe, and the cops begin scowling at the stool pigeons, and I
am willing to lay plenty of 6 to 5 that the stools will wish they are
never born before they hear the last of this matter from the gendarmes.

Furthermore, the guys from the D. A.'s office who are handling the
prosecution are looking much embarrassed, and the jurors are muttering
to each other, and right away Judge Goldstein says he moves that
the case against his client be dismissed, and the judge says he is
in favour of the motion, and he also says he thinks it is high time
the gendarmes in this town learn to be a little careful who they are
arresting for murder, and the guys from the D. A.'s office do not seem
to be able to think of anything whatever to say.

So there is Lance as free as anybody, and as he starts to leave the
courtroom he stops by Miss Abigail Ardsley, who is still sitting in the
witness-chair surrounded by her mouthpieces, and he shakes her hand
and thanks her, and while I do not hear it myself, somebody tells me
afterwards that Miss Abigail Ardsley says to Lance in a low voice, like
this:

"I will be expecting you again some night, young man," she says.

"Some night, Sweetheart," Lance says, "at twelve o'clock."

And then he goes on about his business, and Miss Abigail Ardsley goes
on about hers, and everybody says it is certainly a wonderful thing
that a doll as rich as Miss Abigail Ardsley comes forward in the
interests of justice to save a guy like Lance McGowan from a wrong rap.

But of course it is just as well for Lance that Miss Abigail Ardsley
does not explain to the court that when she recovers from the shock of
the finding of her ever-loving young guy frozen to death, she stops
all the clocks in her house at the hour she sees him last, so for
forty-five years it is always twelve o'clock in her house.




5. BLOOD PRESSURE


It is maybe eleven-thirty of a Wednesday night, and I am standing at
the corner of Forty-eighth Street and Seventh Avenue, thinking about my
blood pressure, which is a proposition I never before think much about.

In fact, I never hear of my blood pressure before this Wednesday
afternoon when I go around to see Doc Brennan about my stomach, and he
puts a gag on my arm and tells me that my blood pressure is higher than
a cat's back, and the idea is for me to be careful about what I eat,
and to avoid excitement, or I may pop off all of a sudden when I am
least expecting it.

"A nervous man such as you with a blood pressure away up in the paint
cards must live quietly," Doc Brennan says. "Ten bucks, please," he
says.

Well, I am standing there thinking it is not going to be so tough to
avoid excitement the way things are around this town right now, and
wishing I have my ten bucks back to bet it on Sun Beau in the fourth
race at Pimlico the next day, when all of a sudden I look up, and who
is in front of me but Rusty Charley.

Now if I have any idea Rusty Charley is coming my way, you can go and
bet all the coffee in Java I will be somewhere else at once, for Rusty
Charley is not a guy I wish to have any truck with whatever. In fact, I
wish no part of him. Furthermore, nobody else in this town wishes to
have any part of Rusty Charley, for he is a hard guy indeed. In fact,
there is no harder guy anywhere in the world. He is a big wide guy with
two large hard hands and a great deal of very bad disposition, and he
thinks nothing of knocking people down and stepping on their kissers if
he feels like it.

In fact, this Rusty Charley is what is called a gorill, because he is
known to often carry a gun in his pants pocket, and sometimes to shoot
people down as dead as door-nails with it if he does not like the way
they wear their hats--and Rusty Charley is very critical of hats. The
chances are Rusty Charley shoots many a guy in this man's town, and
those he does not shoot he sticks with his shiv--which is a knife--and
the only reason he is not in jail is because he just gets out of it,
and the law does not have time to think up something to put him back in
again for.

Anyway, the first thing I know about Rusty Charley being in my
neighbourhood is when I hear him saying: "Well, well, well, here we
are!"

Then he grabs me by the collar, so it is no use of me thinking of
taking it on the lam away from there, although I greatly wish to do so.

"Hello, Rusty," I say, very pleasant. "What is the score?"

"Everything is about even," Rusty says. "I am glad to see you, because
I am looking for company. I am over in Philadelphia for three days on
business."

"I hope and trust that you do all right for yourself in Philly,
Rusty," I say; but his news makes me very nervous, because I am a great
hand for reading the papers and I have a pretty good idea what Rusty's
business in Philly is. It is only the day before that I see a little
item from Philly in the papers about how Gloomy Gus Smallwood, who is a
very large operator in the alcohol business there, is guzzled right at
his front door.

Of course, I do not know that Rusty Charley is the party who guzzles
Gloomy Gus Smallwood, but Rusty Charley is in Philly when Gus is
guzzled, and I can put two and two together as well as anybody. It
is the same thing as if there is a bank robbery in Cleveland, Ohio,
and Rusty Charley is in Cleveland, Ohio, or near there. So I am very
nervous, and I figure it is a sure thing my blood pressure is going up
every second.

"How much dough do you have on you?" Rusty says. "I am plumb broke."

"I do not have more than a couple of bobs, Rusty," I say. "I pay a
doctor ten bucks to-day to find out my blood pressure is very bad. But
of course you are welcome to what I have."

"Well, a couple of bobs is no good to high-class guys like you and
me," Rusty says. "Let us go to Nathan Detroit's crap game and win some
money."

Now, of course, I do not wish to go to Nathan Detroit's crap game;
and if I do wish to go there I do not wish to go with Rusty Charley,
because a guy is sometimes judged by the company he keeps, especially
around crap games, and Rusty Charley is apt to be considered bad
company. Anyway, I do not have any dough to shoot craps with, and if I
do have dough to shoot craps with, I will not shoot craps with it at
all, but will bet it on Sun Beau, or maybe take it home and pay off
some of the overhead around my joint, such as rent.

Furthermore, I remember what Doc Brennan tells me about avoiding
excitement, and I know there is apt to be excitement around Nathan
Detroit's crap game if Rusty Charley goes there, and maybe run my blood
pressure up and cause me to pop off very unexpected. In fact, I already
feel my blood jumping more than somewhat inside me, but naturally I
am not going to give Rusty Charley any argument, so we go to Nathan
Detroit's crap game.

This crap game is over a garage in Fifty-second Street this particular
night, though sometimes it is over a restaurant in Forty-seventh
Street, or in back of a cigar store in Forty-fourth Street. In fact,
Nathan Detroit's crap game is apt to be anywhere, because it moves
around every night, as there is no sense in a crap game staying in one
spot until the coppers find out where it is.

So Nathan Detroit moves his crap game from spot to spot, and citizens
wishing to do business with him have to ask where he is every night;
and of course almost everybody on Broadway knows this, as Nathan
Detroit has guys walking up and down, and around and about, telling the
public his address, and giving out the password for the evening.

Well, Jack the Beefer is sitting in an automobile outside the garage in
Fifty-second Street when Rusty Charley and I come along, and he says
"Kansas City," very low, as we pass, this being the password for the
evening; but we do not have to use any password whatever when we climb
the stairs over the garage, because the minute Solid John, the doorman,
peeks out through his peephole when we knock, and sees Rusty Charley
with me, he opens up very quick indeed, and gives us a big castor-oil
smile, for nobody in this town is keeping doors shut on Rusty Charley
very long.

It is a very dirty room over the garage, and full of smoke, and the
crap game is on an old pool table; and around the table, and packed
in so close you cannot get a knitting-needle between any two guys
with a mawl, are all the high shots in town, for there is plenty of
money around at this time, and many citizens are very prosperous.
Furthermore, I wish to say there are some very tough guys around the
table, too, including guys who will shoot you in the head, or maybe the
stomach, and think nothing whatever about the matter.

In fact, when I see such guys as Harry the Horse, from Brooklyn, and
Sleepout Sam Levinsky, and Lone Louie, from Harlem, I know this is a
bad place for my blood pressure, for these are very tough guys indeed,
and are known as such to one and all in this town.

But there they are wedged up against the table with Nick the Greek, Big
Nig, Grey John, Okay Okun, and many other high shots, and they all have
big coarse G notes in their hands which they are tossing around back
and forth as if these G notes are nothing but pieces of waste paper.

On the outside of the mob at the table are a lot of small operators
who are trying to cram their fists in between the high shots now and
then to get down a bet, and there are also guys present who are called
Shylocks, because they will lend you dough when you go broke at the
table, on watches or rings, or maybe cuff-links, at very good interest.

Well, as I say, there is no room at the table for as many as one more
very thin guy when we walk into the joint, but Rusty Charley lets
out a big hello as we enter, and the guys all look around, and the
next minute there is space at the table big enough not only for Rusty
Charley but for me, too. It really is quite magical the way there is
suddenly room for us when there is no room whatever for anybody when we
come in.

"Who is the gunner?" Rusty Charley asks, looking all around.

"Why, you are, Charley," Big Nig, the stick man in the game, says very
quick, handing Charley a pair of dice, although afterward I hear that
his pal is right in the middle of a roll trying to make nine when we
step up to the table. Everybody is very quiet, just looking at Charley.
Nobody pays any attention to me, because I am known to one and all
as a guy who is just around, and nobody figures me in on any part of
Charley, although Harry the Horse looks at me once in a way that I know
is no good for my blood pressure, or for anybody else's blood pressure
as far as this goes.

Well, Charley takes the dice and turns to a little guy in a derby hat
who is standing next to him scrooching back so Charley will not notice
him, and Charley lifts the derby hat off the little guy's head, and
rattles the dice in his hand and chucks them into the hat and goes
"Hah!" like crap shooters always do when they are rolling the dice.
Then Charley peeks into the hat and says "Ten," although he does not
let anybody else look in the hat, not even me, so nobody knows if
Charley throws a ten, or what.

But, of course, nobody around is going to up and doubt that Rusty
Charley throws a ten, because Charley may figure it is the same thing
as calling him a liar, and Charley is such a guy as is apt to hate
being called a liar.

Now Nathan Detroit's crap game is what is called a head-and-head game,
although some guys call it a fading game, because the guys bet against
each other rather than against the bank, or house. It is just the same
kind of game as when two guys get together and start shooting craps
against each other, and Nathan Detroit does not have to bother with a
regular crap table and a layout such as they have in gambling houses.
In fact, about all Nathan Detroit has to do with the game is to find a
spot, furnish the dice and take his percentage, which is by no means
bad.

In such a game as this there is no real action until a guy is out on a
point, and then the guys around commence to bet he makes this point,
or that he does not make this point, and the odds in any country in
the world that a guy does not make a ten with a pair of dice before he
rolls seven, is 2 to 1.

Well, when Charley says he rolls ten in the derby hat nobody opens
their trap, and Charley looks all around the table, and all of a sudden
he sees Jew Louie at one end, although Jew Louie seems to be trying to
shrink himself up when Charley's eyes light on him.

"I will take the odds for five C's," Charley says, "and Louie, you get
it"--meaning he is letting Louie bet him $1000 to $500 that he does not
make his ten.

Now Jew Louie is a small operator at all times and more of a Shylock
than he is a player, and the only reason he is up there against the
table at all at this moment is because he moves up to lend Nick the
Greek some dough; and ordinarily there is no more chance of Jew Louie
betting a thousand to five hundred on any proposition whatever than
there is of him giving his dough to the Salvation Army, which is no
chance at all. It is a sure thing he will never think of betting
a thousand to five hundred a guy will not make ten with the dice,
and when Rusty Charley tells Louie he has such a bet, Louie starts
trembling all over.

The others around the table do not say a word, and so Charley rattles
the dice again in his duke, blows on them, and chucks them into the
derby hat and says "Hah!" But, of course, nobody can see in the derby
hat except Charley, and he peeks in at the dice and says "Five." He
rattles the dice once more and chucks them into the derby and says
"Hah!" and then after peeking into the hat at the dice he says
"Eight." I am commencing to sweat for fear he may heave a seven in the
hat and blow his bet, and I know Charley has no five C's to pay off
with, although, of course, I also know Charley has no idea of paying
off, no matter what he heaves.

On the next chuck, Charley yells "Money!"--meaning he finally makes his
ten, although nobody sees it but him; and he reaches out his hand to
Jew Louie, and Jew Louie hands him a big fat G note, very, very slow.
In all my life I never see a sadder-looking guy than Louie when he is
parting with his dough. If Louie has any idea of asking Charley to let
him see the dice in the hat to make sure about the ten, he does not
speak about the matter, and as Charley does not seem to wish to show
the ten around, nobody else says anything either, probably figuring
Rusty Charley isn't a guy who is apt to let anybody question his word,
especially over such a small matter as a ten.

"Well," Charley says, putting Louie's G note in his pocket, "I think
this is enough for me to-night," and he hands the derby hat back to
the little guy who owns it and motions me to come on, which I am glad
to do, as the silence in the joint is making my stomach go up and down
inside me, and I know this is bad for my blood pressure. Nobody as much
as opens his face from the time we go in until we start out, and you
will be surprised how nervous it makes you to be in a big crowd with
everybody dead still, especially when you figure it a spot that is
liable to get hot any minute. It is only just as we get to the door
that anybody speaks, and who is it but Jew Louie, who pipes up and says
to Rusty Charley like this:

"Charley," he says, "do you make it the hard way?"

Well, everybody laughs, and we go on out, but I never hear myself
whether Charley makes his ten with a six and a four, or with two
fives--which is the hard way to make a ten with the dice--although I
often wonder about the matter afterward.

I am hoping that I can now get away from Rusty Charley and go on home,
because I can see he is the last guy in the world to have around a
blood pressure, and, furthermore, that people may get the wrong idea of
me if I stick around with him, but when I suggest going to Charley, he
seems to be hurt.

"Why," Charley says, "you are a fine guy to be talking of quitting
a pal just as we are starting out. You will certainly stay with me
because I like company, and we will go down to Ikey the Pig's and play
stuss. Ikey is an old friend of mine, and I owe him a complimentary
play."

Now, of course, I do not wish to go to Ikey the Pig's, because it is a
place away downtown, and I do not wish to play stuss, because this is
a game which I am never able to figure out myself, and, furthermore, I
remember Doc Brennan says I ought to get a little sleep now and then;
but I see no use in hurting Charley's feelings, especially as he is apt
to do something drastic to me if I do not go.

So he calls a taxi, and we start downtown for Ikey the Pig's, and the
jockey who is driving the short goes so fast that it makes my blood
pressure go up a foot to a foot and a half from the way I feel inside,
although Rusty Charley pays no attention to the speed. Finally I stick
my head out the window and ask the jockey to please take it a little
easy, as I wish to get where I am going all in one piece, but the guy
only keeps busting along.

We are at the corner of Nineteenth and Broadway when all of a sudden
Rusty Charley yells at the jockey to pull up a minute, which the guy
does. Then Charley steps out of the cab and says to the jockey like
this:

"When a customer asks you to take it easy, why do you not be nice and
take it easy? Now see what you get."

And Rusty Charley hauls off and clips the jockey a punch on the chin
that knocks the poor guy right off the seat into the street, and then
Charley climbs into the seat himself and away we go with Charley
driving, leaving the guy stretched out as stiff as a board. Now Rusty
Charley once drives a short for a living himself, until the coppers get
an idea that he is not always delivering his customers to the right
address, especially such as may happen to be drunk when he gets them,
and he is a pretty fair driver, but he only looks one way, which is
straight ahead.

Personally, I never wish to ride with Charley in a taxicab under any
circumstances, especially if he is driving, because he certainly
drives very fast. He pulls up a block from Ikey the Pig's, and says we
will leave the short there until somebody finds it and turns it in, but
just as we are walking away from the short up steps a copper in uniform
and claims we cannot park the short in this spot without a driver.

Well, Rusty Charley just naturally hates to have coppers give him any
advice, so what does he do but peek up and down the street to see if
anybody is looking, and then haul off and clout the copper on the chin,
knocking him bow-legged. I wish to say I never see a more accurate
puncher than Rusty Charley, because he always connects with that old
button. As the copper tumbles, Rusty Charley grabs me by the arm and
starts me running up a side street, and after we go about a block we
dodge into Ikey the Pig's.

It is what is called a stuss house, and many prominent citizens of the
neighbourhood are present playing stuss. Nobody seems any too glad to
see Rusty Charley, although Ikey the Pig lets on he is tickled half to
death. This Ikey the Pig is a short fat-necked guy who will look very
natural at New Year's, undressed, and with an apple in his mouth, but
it seems he and Rusty Charley are really old-time friends, and think
fairly well of each other in spots.

But I can see that Ikey the Pig is not so tickled when he finds Charley
is there to gamble, although Charley flashes his G note at once, and
says he does not mind losing a little dough to Ikey just for old time's
sake. But I judge Ikey the Pig knows he is never going to handle
Charley's G note, because Charley puts it back in his pocket and it
never comes out again even though Charley gets off loser playing stuss
right away.

Well, at five o'clock in the morning, Charley is stuck one hundred and
thirty G's, which is plenty of money even when a guy is playing on his
muscle, and of course Ikey the Pig knows there is no chance of getting
one hundred and thirty cents off of Rusty Charley, let alone that many
thousands. Everybody else is gone by this time and Ikey wishes to close
up. He is willing to take Charley's marker for a million if necessary
to get Charley out, but the trouble is in stuss a guy is entitled
to get back a percentage of what he loses, and Ikey figures Charley
is sure to wish this percentage even if he gives a marker, and the
percentage will wreck Ikey's joint.

Furthermore, Rusty Charley says he will not quit loser under such
circumstances because Ikey is his friend, so what happens but Ikey
finally sends out and hires a cheater by the name of Dopey Goldberg,
who takes to dealing the game and in no time he has Rusty Charley even
by cheating in Rusty Charley's favour.

Personally, I do not pay much attention to the play, but grab myself
a few winks of sleep in a chair in a corner, and the rest seems to
help my blood pressure no little. In fact, I am not noticing my blood
pressure at all when Rusty Charley and I get out of Ikey the Pig's,
because I figure Charley will let me go home and I can go to bed. But
although it is six o'clock, and coming on broad daylight when we leave
Ikey's, Charley is still full of zing, and nothing will do him but we
must go to a joint that is called the Bohemian Club.

Well, this idea starts my blood pressure going again, because the
Bohemian Club is nothing but a deadfall where guys and dolls go when
there is positively no other place in town open, and it is run by a guy
by the name of Knife O'Halloran, who comes from down around Greenwich
Village and is considered a very bad character. It is well known to
one and all that a guy is apt to lose his life in Knife O'Halloran's
any night, even if he does nothing more than drink Knife O'Halloran's
liquor.

But Rusty Charley insists on going there, so naturally I go with him;
and at first everything is very quiet and peaceful, except that a lot
of guys and dolls in evening clothes, who wind up there after being
in the night clubs all night, are yelling in one corner of the joint.
Rusty Charley and Knife O'Halloran are having a drink together out of a
bottle which Knife carries in his pocket, so as not to get it mixed up
with the liquor he sells his customers, and are cutting up old touches
of the time when they run with the Hudson Dusters together, when all of
a sudden in comes four coppers in plain clothes.

Now these coppers are off duty and are meaning no harm to anybody,
and are only wishing to have a dram or two before going home, and the
chances are they will pay no attention to Rusty Charley if he minds his
own business, although of course they know who he is very well indeed
and will take great pleasure in putting the old sleeve on him if they
only have a few charges against him, which they do not. So they do not
give him a tumble. But if there is one thing Rusty Charley hates it is
a copper, and he starts eyeing them from the minute they sit down at a
table, and by and by I hear him say to Knife O'Halloran like this:

"Knife," Charley says, "what is the most beautiful sight in the world?"

"I do not know, Charley," Knife says. "What is the most beautiful sight
in the world?"

"Four dead coppers in a row," Charley says.

Well, at this I personally ease myself over toward the door, because I
never wish to have any trouble with coppers and especially with four
coppers, so I do not see everything that comes off. All I see is Rusty
Charley grabbing at the big foot which one of the coppers kicks at him,
and then everybody seems to go into a huddle, and the guys and dolls in
evening dress start squawking, and my blood pressure goes up to maybe a
million.

I get outside the door, but I do not go away at once as anybody with
any sense will do, but stand there listening to what is going on
inside, which seems to be nothing more than a loud noise like ker-bump,
ker-bump, ker-bump. I am not afraid there will be any shooting, because
as far as Rusty Charley is concerned he is too smart to shoot any
coppers, which is the worst thing a guy can do in this town, and the
coppers are not likely to start any blasting because they will not wish
it to come out that they are in a joint such as the Bohemian Club off
duty. So I figure they will all just take it out in pulling and hauling.

Finally the noise inside dies down, and by and by the door opens and
out comes Rusty Charley, dusting himself off here and there with his
hands and looking very much pleased indeed, and through the door before
it flies shut again I catch a glimpse of a lot of guys stretched out on
the floor. Furthermore, I can still hear guys and dolls hollering.

"Well, well," Rusty Charley says, "I am commencing to think you take
the wind on me, and am just about to get mad at you, but here you are.
Let us go away from this joint, because they are making so much noise
inside you cannot hear yourself think. Let us go to my joint and make
my old woman cook us up some breakfast, and then we can catch some
sleep. A little ham and eggs will not be bad to take right now."

Well, naturally ham and eggs are appealing to me no little at this
time, but I do not care to go to Rusty Charley's joint. As far as I am
personally concerned, I have enough of Rusty Charley to do me a long,
long time, and I do not care to enter into his home life to any extent
whatever, although to tell the truth I am somewhat surprised to learn
he has any such life. I believe I do once hear that Rusty Charley
marries one of the neighbours' children, and that he lives somewhere
over on Tenth Avenue in the Forties, but nobody really knows much about
this, and everybody figures if it is true his wife must lead a terrible
dog's life.

But while I do not wish to go to Charley's joint, I cannot very well
refuse a civil invitation to eat ham and eggs, especially as Charley
is looking at me in a very much surprised way because I do not seem
so glad, and I can see that it is not everyone that he invites to his
joint. So I thank him, and say there is nothing I will enjoy more than
ham and eggs such as his old woman will cook for us, and by and by we
are walking along Tenth Avenue up around Forty-fifth Street.

It is still fairly early in the morning, and business guys are opening
up their joints for the day, and little children are skipping along
the sidewalks going to school and laughing tee-hee, and old dolls are
shaking bedclothes and one thing and another out of the windows of the
tenement houses, but when they spot Rusty Charley and me everybody
becomes very quiet indeed, and I can see that Charley is greatly
respected in his own neighbourhood. The business guys hurry into their
joints, and the little children stop skipping and tee-heeing and go
tip-toeing along, and the old dolls yank in their noodles, and a great
quiet comes to the street. In fact, about all you can hear is the heels
of Rusty Charley and me hitting on the sidewalk.

There is an ice wagon with a couple of horses hitched to it standing
in front of a store, and when he sees the horses Rusty Charley seems
to get a big idea. He stops and looks the horses over very carefully,
although as far as I can see they are nothing but horses, and big and
fat, and sleepy-looking horses, at that. Finally Rusty Charley says to
me like this:

"When I am a young guy," he says, "I am a very good puncher with my
right hand, and often I hit a horse on the skull with my fist and knock
it down. I wonder," he says, "if I lose my punch. The last copper I hit
back there gets up twice on me."

Then he steps up to one of the ice-wagon horses and hauls off and biffs
it right between the eyes with a right-hand smack that does not travel
more than four inches, and down goes old Mister Horse to his knees
looking very much surprised indeed. I see many a hard puncher in my day
including Dempsey when he really can punch, but I never see a harder
punch than Rusty Charley gives this horse.

Well, the ice-wagon driver comes busting out of the store all heated
up over what happens to his horse, but he cools out the minute he sees
Rusty Charley, and goes on back into the store leaving the horse still
taking a count, while Rusty Charley and I keep walking. Finally we come
to the entrance of a tenement house that Rusty Charley says is where he
lives, and in front of this house is a wop with a push-cart loaded with
fruit and vegetables and one thing and another, which Rusty Charley
tips over as we go into the house, leaving the wop yelling very loud,
and maybe cussing us in wop for all I know. I am very glad, personally,
we finally get somewhere, because I can feel that my blood pressure is
getting worse every minute I am with Rusty Charley.

We climb two flights of stairs, and then Charley opens a door and we
step into a room where there is a pretty little red-headed doll about
knee high to a flivver, who looks as if she may just get out of the
hay, because her red hair is flying around every which way on her head,
and her eyes seem still gummed up with sleep. At first I think she is a
very cute sight indeed, and then I see something in her eyes that tells
me this doll, whoever she is, is feeling very hostile to one and all.

"Hello, tootsie," Rusty Charley says. "How about some ham and eggs for
me and my pal here? We are all tired out going around and about."

Well, the little red-headed doll just looks at him without saying a
word. She is standing in the middle of the floor with one hand behind
her, and all of a sudden she brings this hand around, and what does she
have in it but a young baseball bat, such as kids play ball with, and
which cost maybe two bits; and the next thing I know I hear something
go ker-bap, and I can see she smacks Rusty Charley on the side of the
noggin with the bat.

Naturally I am greatly horrified at this business, and figure Rusty
Charley will kill her at once, and then I will be in a jam for
witnessing the murder and will be held in jail several years like all
witnesses to anything in this man's town; but Rusty Charley only falls
into a big rocking-chair in a corner of the room and sits there with
one hand to his head, saying, "Now hold on, tootsie," and "Wait a
minute there, honey." I recollect hearing him say, "We have company for
breakfast," and then the little red-headed doll turns on me and gives
me a look such as I will always remember, although I smile at her very
pleasant and mention it is a nice morning.

Finally she says to me like this:

"So you are the trambo who keeps my husband out all night, are you, you
trambo?" she says, and with this she starts for me, and I start for the
door; and by this time my blood pressure is all out of whack, because I
can see that Mrs. Rusty Charley is excited more than somewhat. I get my
hand on the knob and just then something hits me alongside the noggin,
which I afterward figure must be the baseball bat, although I remember
having a sneaking idea the roof caves in on me.

How I get the door open I do not know, because I am very dizzy in the
head and my legs are wobbling, but when I think back over the situation
I remember going down a lot of steps very fast, and by and by the fresh
air strikes me, and I figure I am in the clear. But all of a sudden I
feel another strange sensation back of my head and something goes plop
against my noggin, and I figure at first that maybe my blood pressure
runs up so high that it squirts out the top of my bean. Then I peek
around over my shoulder just once to see that Mrs. Rusty Charley is
standing beside the wop peddler's cart snatching fruit and vegetables
of one kind and another off the cart and chucking them at me.

But what she hits me with back of the head is not an apple, or a peach,
or a rutabaga, or a cabbage, or even a casaba melon, but a brickbat
that the wop has on his cart to weight down the paper sacks in which
he sells his goods. It is this brickbat which makes a lump on the back
of my head so big that Doc Brennan thinks it is a tumour when I go to
him the next day about my stomach, and I never tell him any different.

"But," Doc Brennan says, when he takes my blood pressure again, "your
pressure is down below normal now, and as far as it is concerned you
are in no danger whatever. It only goes to show what just a little
bit of quiet living will do for a guy," Doc Brennan says. "Ten bucks,
please," he says.




6. THE BLOODHOUNDS OF BROADWAY


One morning along about four bells, I am standing in front of Mindy's
restaurant on Broadway with a guy by the name of Regret, who has this
name because it seems he wins a very large bet the year the Whitney
filly, Regret, grabs the Kentucky Derby, and can never forget it, which
is maybe because it is the only very large bet he ever wins in his life.

What this guy's real name is I never hear, and anyway names make no
difference to me, especially on Broadway, because the chances are that
no matter what name a guy has, it is not his square name. So, as far as
I am concerned, Regret is as good a name as any other for this guy I am
talking about, who is a fat guy, and very gabby, though generally he
is talking about nothing but horses, and how he gets beat three dirty
noses the day before at Belmont, or wherever the horses are running.

In all the years I know Regret he must get beat ten thousand noses,
and always they are dirty noses, to hear him tell it. In fact, I never
once hear him say he is beat a clean nose, but of course this is only
the way horse-racing guys talk. What Regret does for a living besides
betting on horses I do not know, but he seems to do pretty well at it,
because he is always around and about, and generally well dressed, and
with a lot of big cigars sticking up out of his vest pocket.

It is generally pretty quiet on Broadway along about four bells in
the morning, because at such an hour the citizens are mostly in
speakeasies, and night clubs, and on this morning I am talking about
it is very quiet, indeed, except for a guy by the name of Marvin Clay
hollering at a young doll because she will not get into a taxicab with
him to go to his apartment. But of course Regret and I do not pay much
attention to such a scene, except that Regret remarks that the young
doll seems to have more sense than you will expect to see in a doll
loose on Broadway at four bells in the morning, because it is well
known to one and all that any doll who goes to Marvin Clay's apartment,
either has no brains whatever, or wishes to go there.

This Marvin Clay is a very prominent society guy, who is a great hand
for hanging out in night clubs, and he has plenty of scratch which
comes down to him from his old man, who makes it out of railroads and
one thing and another. But Marvin Clay is a most obnoxious character,
being loud and ungentlemanly at all times, on account of having all
this scratch, and being always very rough and abusive with young dolls
such as work in night clubs, and who have to stand for such treatment
from Marvin Clay because he is a very good customer.

He is generally in evening clothes, as he is seldom around and about
except in the evening, and he is maybe fifty years old, and has a very
ugly mugg, which is covered with blotches, and pimples, but of course
a guy who has so much scratch as Marvin Clay does not have to be so
very handsome, at that, and he is very welcome indeed wherever he goes
on Broadway. Personally, I wish no part of such a guy as Marvin Clay,
although I suppose in my time on Broadway I must see a thousand guys
like him, and there will always be guys like Marvin Clay on Broadway as
long as they have old men to make plenty of scratch out of railroads to
keep them going.

Well, by and by Marvin Clay gets the doll in the taxicab, and away
they go, and it is all quiet again on Broadway, and Regret and I stand
there speaking of this and that, and one thing and another, when along
comes a very strange-looking guy leading two very strange-looking dogs.
The guy is so thin I figure he must be about two pounds lighter than a
stack of wheats. He has a long nose, and a sad face, and he is wearing
a floppy old black felt hat, and he has on a flannel shirt, and baggy
corduroy pants, and a see-more coat, which is a coat that lets you see
more hip pockets than coat.

Personally, I never see a stranger-looking guy on Broadway, and I wish
to say I see some very strange-looking guys on Broadway in my day. But
if the guy is strange-looking, the dogs are even stranger-looking,
because they have big heads, and jowls that hang down like an old-time
faro bank dealer's, and long ears the size of bed sheets. Furthermore,
they have wrinkled faces, and big, round eyes that seem so sad I half
expect to see them bust out crying.

The dogs are a sort of black and yellow in colour, and have long tails,
and they are so thin you can see their ribs sticking out of their
hides. I can see at once that the dogs and the guy leading them can use
a few Hamburgers very nicely, but then so can a lot of other guys on
Broadway at this time, leaving out the dogs.

Well, Regret is much interested in the dogs right away, because he is a
guy who is very fond of animals of all kinds, and nothing will do but
he must stop the guy and start asking questions about what sort of dogs
they are, and in fact I am also anxious to hear myself, because while I
see many a pooch in my time I never see anything like these.

"They is bloodhounds," the sad-looking guy says in a very sad voice,
and with one of these accents such as Southern guys always have. "They
is man-tracking bloodhounds from Georgia."

Now of course both Regret and me know what bloodhounds are because we
see such animals chasing Eliza across the ice in Uncle Tom's Cabin when
we are young squirts, but this is the first time either of us meet up
with any bloodhounds personally, especially on Broadway. So we get to
talking quite a bit to the guy, and his story is as sad as his face,
and makes us both feel very sorry for him.

In fact, the first thing we know we have him and the bloodhounds in
Mindy's and are feeding one and all big steaks, although Mindy puts
up an awful squawk about us bringing the dogs in, and asks us what we
think he is running, anyway. When Regret starts to tell him, Mindy
says never mind, but not to bring any more Shetland ponies into his
joint again as long as we live.

Well, it seems that the sad-looking guy's name is John Wangle, and
he comes from a town down in Georgia where his uncle is the high
sheriff, and one of the bloodhounds' name is Nip, and the other Tuck,
and they are both trained from infancy to track down guys such as
lags who escape from the county pokey, and bad niggers, and one thing
and another, and after John Wangle gets the kinks out of his belly on
Mindy's steaks, and starts talking good, you must either figure him a
high-class liar, or the hounds the greatest man-trackers the world ever
sees.

Now, looking at the dogs after they swallow six big sirloins apiece,
and a lot of matzoths, which Mindy has left over from the Jewish
holidays, and a job lot of goulash from the dinner bill, and some other
odds and ends, the best I can figure them is hearty eaters, because
they are now lying down on the floor with their faces hidden behind
their ears, and are snoring so loud you can scarcely hear yourself
think.

How John Wangle comes to be in New York with these bloodhounds is
quite a story, indeed. It seems that a New York guy drifts into John's
old home town in Georgia when the bloodhounds are tracking down a bad
nigger, and this guy figures it will be a wonderful idea to take John
Wangle and the dogs to New York and hire them out to the movies to
track down the villains in the pictures. But when they get to New
York, it seems the movies have other arrangements for tracking down
their villains, and the guy runs out of scratch and blows away, leaving
John Wangle and the bloodhounds stranded.

So here John Wangle is with Nip and Tuck in New York, and they are
all living together in one room in a tenement house over in West
Forty-ninth Street, and things are pretty tough with them, because John
does not know how to get back to Georgia unless he walks, and he hears
the walking is no good south of Roanoke. When I ask him why he does not
write to his uncle, the high sheriff down there in Georgia, John Wangle
says there are two reasons, one being that he cannot write, and the
other that his uncle cannot read.

Then I ask him why he does not sell the bloodhounds, and he says it
is because the market for bloodhounds is very quiet in New York, and
furthermore if he goes back to Georgia without the bloodhounds his
uncle is apt to knock his ears down. Anyway, John Wangle says he
personally loves Nip and Tuck very dearly, and in fact he says it is
only his great love for them that keeps him from eating one or the
other, and maybe both, the past week, when his hunger is very great
indeed.

Well, I never before see Regret so much interested in any situation as
he is in John Wangle and the bloodhounds, but personally I am getting
very tired of them, because the one that is called Nip finally wakes up
and starts chewing on my leg, thinking it is maybe more steak, and when
I kick him in the snoot, John Wangle scowls at me, and Regret says
only very mean guys are unkind to dumb animals.

But to show you that John Wangle and his bloodhounds are not so dumb,
they come moseying along past Mindy's every morning after this at about
the same time, and Regret is always there ready to feed them, although
he now has to take the grub out on the sidewalk, as Mindy will not
allow the hounds in the joint again. Naturally Nip and Tuck become very
fond of Regret, but they are by no means as fond of him as John Wangle,
because John is commencing to fat up very nicely, and the bloodhounds
are also taking on weight.

Now what happens but Regret does not show up in front of Mindy's for
several mornings hand running, because it seems that Regret makes
a very nice score for himself one day against the horses, and buys
himself a brand-new Tuxedo, and starts stepping out around the night
clubs, and especially around Miss Missouri Martin's Three Hundred Club,
where there are many beautiful young dolls who dance around with no
more clothes on them than will make a pad for a crutch, and it is well
known that Regret dearly loves such scenes.

Furthermore, I hear reports around and about of Regret becoming very
fond of a doll by the name of Miss Lovey Lou, who works in Miss
Missouri Martin's Three Hundred Club, and of him getting in some kind
of a jam with Marvin Clay over this doll, and smacking Marvin Clay in
the kisser, so I figure Regret is getting a little simple, as guys
who hang around Broadway long enough are bound to do. Now, when John
Wangle and Nip and Tuck come around looking for a hand-out, there is
nothing much doing for them, as nobody else around Mindy's feels any
great interest in bloodhounds, especially such interest as will cause
them to buy steaks, and soon Nip and Tuck are commencing to look very
sad again, and John Wangle is downcast more than somewhat.

It is early morning again, and warm, and a number of citizens are out
in front of Mindy's as usual, breathing the fresh air, when along comes
a police inspector by the name of McNamara, who is a friend of mine,
with a bunch of plain-clothes coppers with him, and Inspector McNamara
tells me he is on his way to investigate a situation in an apartment
house over in West Fifty-fourth Street, about three blocks away, where
it seems a guy is shot; and not having anything else to do, I go with
them, although as a rule I do not care to associate with coppers,
because it arouses criticism from other citizens.

Well, who is the guy who is shot but Marvin Clay, and he is stretched
out on the floor in the living-room of his apartment in evening
clothes, with his shirt front covered with blood, and after Inspector
McNamara takes a close peek at him, he sees that Marvin Clay is
plugged smack dab in the chest, and that he seems to be fairly dead.
Furthermore, there seems to be no clue whatever to who does the
shooting, and Inspector McNamara says it is undoubtedly a very great
mystery, and will be duck soup for the newspapers, especially as they
do not have a good shooting mystery for several days.

"Well, of course all this is none of my business, but all of a sudden I
happen to think of John Wangle and his bloodhounds, and it seems to me
it will be a great opportunity for them, so I say to the Inspector as
follows:

"Listen, Mac," I say, "there is a guy here with a pair of man-tracking
bloodhounds from Georgia who are very expert in tracking down matters
such as this, and," I say, "maybe they can track down the rascal who
shoots Marvin Clay, because the trail must be hotter than mustard right
now."

Well, afterwards I hear there is much indignation over my suggestion,
because many citizens feel that the party who shoots Marvin Clay is
entitled to more consideration than being tracked with bloodhounds. In
fact, some think the party is entitled to a medal, but this discussion
does not come up until later.

Anyway, at first the Inspector does not think much of my idea, and
the other coppers are very sceptical, and claim that the best way to
do under the circumstances is to arrest everybody in sight and hold
them as material witnesses for a month or so, but the trouble is there
is nobody in sight to arrest at this time, except maybe me, and the
Inspector is a broad-minded guy, and finally he says all right, bring
on the bloodhounds.

So I hasten back to Mindy's, and sure enough John Wangle and Nip and
Tuck are out on the sidewalk peering at every passing face in the hope
that maybe one of these faces will belong to Regret. It is a very
pathetic sight, indeed, but John Wangle cheers up when I explain about
Marvin Clay to him, and hurries back to the apartment house with me so
fast that he stretches Nip's neck a foot, and is pulling Tuck along on
his stomach half the time.

Well, when we get back to the apartment, John Wangle leads Nip and
Tuck up to Marvin Clay, and they snuffle him all over, because it
seems bloodhounds are quite accustomed to dead guys. Then John Wangle
unhooks their leashes, and yells something at them, and the hounds
begin snuffling all around and about the joint, with Inspector McNamara
and the other coppers watching with great interest. All of a sudden Nip
and Tuck go busting out of the apartment and into the street, with John
Wangle after them, and all the rest of us after John Wangle. They head
across Fifty-fourth Street back to Broadway, and the next thing anybody
knows they are doing plenty of snuffling around in front of Mindy's.

By and by they take off up Broadway with their snozzles to the
sidewalk, and we follow them very excited, because even the coppers now
admit that it seems to be a sure thing they are red hot on the trail of
the party who shoots Marvin Clay. At first Nip and Tuck are walking,
but pretty soon they break into a lope, and there we are loping after
them, John Wangle, the Inspector, and me, and the coppers.

Naturally, such a sight as this attracts quite some attention as we go
along from any citizens stirring at this hour, and by and by milkmen
are climbing down off their wagons, and scavenger guys are leaving
their trucks standing where they are, and newsboys are dropping
everything, and one and all joining in the chase, so by the time we
hit Broadway and Fifty-sixth there is quite a delegation following the
hounds with John Wangle in front, just behind Nip and Tuck, and yelling
at them now and then as follows:

"Hold to it, boys!"

At Fifty-sixth the hounds turn east off Broadway and stop at the
door of what seems to be an old garage, this door being closed very
tight, and Nip and Tuck seem to wish to get through this door, so
the Inspector and the coppers kick the door open, and who is in the
garage having a big crap game but many prominent citizens of Broadway.
Naturally, these citizens are greatly astonished at seeing the
bloodhounds, and the rest of us, especially the coppers, and they start
running every which way trying to get out of the joint, because crap
shooting is quite illegal in these parts.

But the Inspector only says Ah-ha, and starts jotting down names
in a note-book as if it is something he will refer to later, and
Nip and Tuck are out of the joint almost as soon as they get in and
are snuffling on down Fifty-sixth. They stop at four more doors in
Fifty-sixth Street along, and when the coppers kick open these doors
they find they are nothing but speakeasies, although one is a hop
joint, and the citizens in these places are greatly put out by the
excitement, especially as Inspector McNamara keeps jotting down things
in his note-book.

Finally the Inspector starts glaring very fiercely at the coppers with
us, and anybody can see that he is much displeased to find so much
illegality going on in this district, and the coppers are starting in
to hate Nip and Tuck quite freely, and one copper says to me like this:

"Why," he says, "these mutts are nothing but stool pigeons."

Well, naturally, the noise of John Wangle's yelling, and the gabble of
the mob following the hounds makes quite a disturbance, and arouses
many of the neighbours in the apartment houses and hotels in the side
streets, especially as this is summer, and most everybody has their
windows open.

In fact, we see many tousled heads poked out of windows, and hear guys
and dolls inquiring as follows:

"What is going on?"

It seems that when word gets about that bloodhounds are tracking down
a wrongdoer it causes great uneasiness all through the Fifties, and
in fact I afterwards hear that three guys are taken to the Polyclinic
suffering with broken ankles and severe bruises from hopping out of
windows in the hotels we pass in the chase, or from falling off of
fire-escapes.

Well, all of a sudden Nip and Tuck swing back into Seventh Avenue, and
pop into the entrance of a small apartment house, and go tearing up
the stairs to the first floor, and when we get there these bloodhounds
are scratching vigorously at the door of Apartment B-2, and going
woofle-woofle, and we are all greatly excited, indeed, but the door
opens, and who is standing there but a doll by the name of Maud
Milligan, who is well known to one and all as the ever-loving doll of
Big Nig, the crap shooter, who is down in Hot Springs at this time
taking the waters, or whatever it is guys take in Hot Springs.

Now, Maud Milligan is not such a doll as I will care to have any part
of, being red-headed, and very stern, and I am glad Nip and Tuck do
not waste any more time in her apartment than it takes for them to run
through her living-room and across her bed, because Maud is commencing
to put the old eye on such of us present as she happens to know. But
Nip and Tuck are in and out of the joint before you can say scat,
because it is only a two-room apartment, at that, and we are on our
way down the stairs and back into Seventh Avenue again while Inspector
McNamara is still jotting down something in his note-book.

Finally, where do these hounds wind up, with about four hundred
citizens behind them, and everybody perspiring quite freely indeed from
the exercise, but at the door of Miss Missouri Martin's Three Hundred
Club, and the doorman, who is a guy by the name of Soldier Sweeney,
tries to shoo them away, but Nip runs between the Soldier's legs and
upsets him, and Tuck steps in the Soldier's eye in trotting over him,
and most of the crowd behind the hounds tread on him in passing, so the
old Soldier is pretty well flattened out at the finish.

Nip and Tuck are now more excited than somewhat, and are going
zoople-zoople in loud voices as they bust into the Three Hundred
Club with John Wangle and the law, and all these citizens behind
them. There is a very large crowd present and Miss Missouri Martin is
squatted on the back of a chair in the middle of the dance floor when
we enter, and is about to start her show when she sees the mob surge
in, and at first she is greatly pleased because she thinks new business
arrives, and if there is anything Miss Missouri Martin dearly loves, it
is new business.

But before she can say hello, sucker, or anything else whatever, Nip
runs under her chair, thinking maybe he is a dachshund, and dumps Miss
Missouri Martin on the dance floor, and she lays there squawking no
little, while the next thing anybody knows, Nip and Tuck are over in
one corner of the joint, and are eagerly crawling up and down a fat guy
who is sitting there with a doll alongside of him, and who is the fat
guy but Regret!

Well, as Nip and Tuck rush at Regret he naturally gets up to defend
himself, but they both hit him at the same time, and over he goes on
top of the doll who is with him, and who seems to be nobody but Miss
Lovey Lou. She is getting quite a squashing with Regret's heft spread
out over her, and she is screaming quite some, especially when Nip lets
out a foot of tongue and washes her make-up off her face, reaching
for Regret. In fact, Miss Lovey Lou seems to be more afraid of the
bloodhounds than she does of being squashed to death, for when John
Wangle and I hasten to her rescue and pull her out from under Regret
she is moaning as follows:

"Oh, do not let them devour me--I will confess."

Well, as nobody but me and John Wangle seem to hear this crack, because
everybody else is busy trying to split out Regret and the bloodhounds,
and as John Wangle does not seem to understand what Miss Lovey Lou is
mumbling about, I shove her off into the crowd, and on back into the
kitchen, which is now quite deserted, what with all the help being out
watching the muss in the corner, and I say to her like this:

"What is it you confess?" I say. "Is it about Marvin Clay?"

"Yes," she says. "It is about him. He is a pig," she says. "I shoot
him, and I am glad of it. He is not satisfied with what he does to me
two years ago, but he tries his deviltry on my baby sister. He has her
in his apartment and when I find it out and go to get her, he says he
will not let her go. So I shoot him. With my brother's pistol," she
says, "and I take my baby sister home with me, and I hope he is dead,
and gone where he belongs."

"Well, now," I say, "I am not going to give you any argument as to
where Marvin Clay belongs, but," I say, "you skip out of here and go on
home, and wait until we can do something about this situation, while I
go back and help Regret, who seems to be in a tough spot."

"Oh, do not let these terrible dogs eat him up," she says, and with
this she takes the breeze and I return to the other room to find there
is much confusion indeed, because it seems that Regret is now very
indignant at Nip and Tuck, especially when he discovers that one of
them plants his big old paw right on the front of Regret's shirt bosom,
leaving a dirty mark. So when he struggles to his feet, Regret starts
letting go with both hands, and he is by no means a bad puncher for a
guy who does not do much punching as a rule. In fact, he flattens Nip
with a right-hand to the jaw, and knocks Tuck plumb across the room
with a left hook.

Well, poor Tuck slides over the slick dance floor into Miss Missouri
Martin just as she is getting to her feet again, and bowls her over
once more, but Miss Missouri Martin is also indignant by this time, and
she gets up and kicks Tuck in a most unladylike manner. Of course, Tuck
does not know so much about Miss Martin, but he is pretty sure his old
friend Regret is only playing with him, so back he goes to Regret with
his tongue out, and his tail wagging, and there is no telling how long
this may go on if John Wangle does not step in and grab both hounds,
while Inspector McNamara puts the arm on Regret and tells him he is
under arrest for shooting Marvin Clay.

Well, of course everybody can see at once that Regret must be the
guilty party all right, especially when it is remembered that he once
had trouble with Marvin Clay, and one and all present are looking at
Regret in great disgust, and saying you can see by his face that he is
nothing but a degenerate type.

Furthermore, Inspector McNamara makes a speech to Miss Missouri
Martin's customers in which he congratulates John Wangle and Nip and
Tuck on their wonderful work in tracking down this terrible criminal
and at the same time putting in a few boosts for the police department,
while Regret stands there paying very little attention to what the
Inspector is saying, but trying to edge himself over close enough to
Nip and Tuck to give them the old foot.

Well, the customers applaud what Inspector McNamara says, and Miss
Missouri Martin gets up a collection of over two C's for John Wangle
and his hounds, not counting what she holds out for herself. Also the
chef comes forward and takes John Wangle and Nip and Tuck back into the
kitchen, and stuffs them full of food, although personally I will just
as soon not have any of the food they serve in the Three Hundred Club.

They take Regret to the jail-house, and he does not seem to understand
why he is under arrest, but he knows it has something to do with
Nip and Tuck and he tries to bribe one of the coppers to put the
bloodhounds in the same cell with him for awhile, though naturally the
copper will not consider such a proposition. While Regret is being
booked at the jail-house, word comes around that Marvin Clay is not
only not dead, but the chances are he will get well, which he finally
does, at that.

Moreover, he finally bails Regret out, and not only refuses to
prosecute him but skips the country as soon as he is able to move,
although Regret lays in the sneezer for several weeks, at that, never
letting on after he learns the real situation that he is not the party
who plugs Marvin Clay. Naturally, Miss Lovey Lou is very grateful to
Regret for his wonderful sacrifice, and will no doubt become his
ever-loving wife in a minute, if Regret thinks to ask her, but it seems
Regret finds himself brooding so much over the idea of an ever-loving
wife who is so handy with a Roscoe that he never really asks.

In the meantime, John Wangle and Nip and Tuck go back to Georgia on
the dough collected by Miss Missouri Martin, and with a big reputation
as man-trackers. So this is all there is to the story, except that
one night I run into Regret with a suit-case in his hand, and he is
perspiring very freely, although it is not so hot, at that, and when I
ask him if he is going away, he says this is indeed his general idea.
Moreover, he says he is going very far away. Naturally, I ask him why
this is, and Regret says to me as follows:

"Well," he says, "ever since Big Nig, the crap shooter, comes back
from Hot Springs, and hears how the bloodhounds track the shooter of
Marvin Clay, he is walking up and down looking at me out of the corner
of his eye. In fact," Regret says, "I can see that Big Nig is studying
something over in his mind, and while Big Nig is a guy who is not such
a fast thinker as others, I am afraid he may finally think himself to a
bad conclusion.

"I am afraid," Regret says, "that Big Nig will think himself to the
conclusion that Nip and Tuck are tracking me instead of the shooter, as
many evil-minded guys are already whispering around and about, and that
he may get the wrong idea about the trail leading to Maud Milligan's
door."




7. TOBIAS THE TERRIBLE


One night I am sitting in Mindy's restaurant on Broadway partaking
heartily of some Hungarian goulash which comes very nice in Mindy's,
what with the chef being personally somewhat Hungarian himself, when in
pops a guy who is a stranger to me and sits down at my table.

I do not pay any attention to the guy at first as I am busy looking
over the entries for the next day at Laurel, but I hear him tell the
waiter to bring him some goulash, too. By and by I hear the guy making
a strange noise and I look at him over my paper and see that he is
crying. In fact, large tears are rolling down his face into his goulash
and going plop-plop as they fall.

Now it is by no means usual to see guys crying in Mindy's restaurant,
though thousands of guys come in there who often feel like crying,
especially after a tough day at the track, so I commence weighing the
guy up with great interest. I can see he is a very little guy, maybe a
shade over five feet high and weighing maybe as much as a dime's worth
of liver, and he has a moustache like a mosquito's whiskers across his
upper lip, and pale blond hair and a very sad look in his eyes.

Furthermore, he is a young guy and he is wearing a suit of clothes the
colour of French mustard, with slanting pockets, and I notice when he
comes in that he has a brown hat sitting jack-deuce on his noggin.
Anybody can see that this guy does not belong in these parts, with
such a sad look and especially with such a hat.

Naturally, I figure his crying is some kind of a dodge. In fact, I
figure that maybe the guy is trying to cry me out of the price of his
Hungarian goulash, although if he takes the trouble to ask anybody
before he comes in, he will learn that he may just as well try to cry
Al Smith out of the Empire State Building.

But the guy does not say anything whatever to me but just goes on
shedding tears into his goulash, and finally I get very curious about
this proposition, and I speak to him as follows:

"Listen, pally," I say, "if you are crying about the goulash, you
better dry your tears before the chef sees you, because," I say, "the
chef is very sensitive about his goulash, and may take your tears as
criticism."

"The goulash seems all right," the guy says in a voice that is just
about his size. "Anyway, I am not crying about the goulash. I am crying
about my sad life. Friend," the guy says, "are you ever in love?"

Well, of course, at this crack I know what is eating the guy. If I
have all the tears that are shed on Broadway by guys in love, I will
have enough salt water to start an opposition ocean to the Atlantic
and Pacific, with enough left over to run the Great Salt Lake out of
business. But I wish to say I never shed any of these tears personally,
because I am never in love, and furthermore, barring a bad break, I
never expect to be in love, for the way I look at it love is strictly
the old phedinkus, and I tell the little guy as much.

"Well," he says, "you will not speak so harshly of love if you are
acquainted with Miss Deborah Weems."

With this he starts crying more than somewhat, and his grief is such
that it touches my heart and I have half a notion to start crying with
him as I am now convinced that the guy is levelling with his tears.

Finally the guy slacks up a little in his crying, and begins eating
his goulash, and by and by he seems more cheerful, but then it is well
known to one and all that a fair dose of Mindy's goulash will cheer up
anybody no matter how sad they feel. Pretty soon the guy starts talking
to me, and I make out that his name is Tobias Tweeney, and that he
comes from a spot over in Bucks County, Pennsylvania, by the name of
Erasmus, or some such.

Furthermore, I judge that this Erasmus is not such a large city, but
very pleasant, and that Tobias Tweeney is born and raised there and is
never much of any place else in his life, although he is now rising
twenty-five.

Well, it seems that Tobias Tweeney has a fine position in a shoe store
selling shoes and is going along all right when he happens to fall in
love with a doll by the name of Miss Deborah Weems, whose papa owns a
gas station in Erasmus and is a very prominent citizen. I judge from
what Tobias tells me that this Miss Deborah Weems tosses him around
quite some, which proves to me that dolls in small towns are just the
same as they are on Broadway.

"She is beautiful," Tobias Tweeney says, speaking of Miss Deborah
Weems. "I do not think I can live without her. But," he says, "Miss
Deborah Weems will have no part of me because she is daffy over
desperate characters of the underworld such as she sees in the movies
at the Model Theatre in Erasmus.

"She wishes to know," Tobias Tweeney says, "why I cannot be a big
gunman and go around plugging people here and there and talking up to
politicians and policemen, and maybe looking picturesque and romantic
like Edward G. Robinson or James Cagney or even Georgie Raft. But, of
course," Tobias says, "I am not the type for such a character. Anyway,"
he says, "Constable Wendell will never permit me to be such a character
in Erasmus.

"So Miss Deborah Weems says I have no more nerve than a catfish,"
Tobias says, "and she goes around with a guy by the name of Joe
Trivett, who runs the Smoke Shop, and bootlegs ginger extract to the
boys in his back room and claims Al Capone once says 'Hello' to him,
although," Tobias says, "personally, I think Joe Trivett is nothing but
a great big liar."

At this, Tobias Tweeney starts crying again, and I feel very sorry for
him indeed, because I can see he is a friendly, harmless little fellow,
and by no means accustomed to being tossed around by a doll, and a guy
who is not accustomed to being tossed around by a doll always finds it
most painful the first time.

"Why," I say, very indignant, "this Miss Deborah Weems talks great
foolishness, because big gunmen always wind up nowadays with the score
nine to nought against them, even in the movies. In fact." I say, "if
they do not wind up this way in the movies, the censors will not permit
the movies to be displayed. Why do you not hit this guy Trivett a punch
in the snoot," I say, "and tell him to go on about his business?"

"Well," Tobias says, "the reason I do not hit him a punch in the snoot
is because he has the idea of punching snoots first, and whose snoot
does he punch but mine. Furthermore," Tobias says, "he makes my snoot
bleed with the punch, and he says he will do it again if I keep hanging
around Miss Deborah Weems. And," Tobias says, "it is mainly because
I do not return the punch, being too busy stopping my snoot from
bleeding, that Miss Deborah Weems renounces me for ever.

"She says she can never stand for a guy who has no more nerve than me,"
Tobias says, "but," he says, "I ask you if I am to blame if my mother
is frightened by a rabbit a few weeks before I am born, and marks me
for life?

"So I leave town," Tobias says. "I take my savings of two hundred
dollars out of the Erasmus bank, and I come here, figuring maybe I will
meet up with some big gunmen and other desperate characters of the
underworld, and get to know them, and then I can go back to Erasmus
and make Joe Trivett look sick. By the way," he says, "do you know any
desperate characters of the underworld?"

Well, of course I do not know any such characters, and if I do know
them I am not going to speak about it, because the best a guy can get
in this town if he goes around speaking of these matters is a nice kick
in the pants. So I say no to Tobias Tweeney, and tell him I am more or
less of a stranger myself, and then he wishes to know if I can show him
a tough joint, such as he sees in the movies.

Naturally, I do not know of such a joint, but then I get to thinking
about Good Time Charley's little Gingham Shoppe over in Forty-seventh
Street, and how Charley is not going so good the last time I am in
there, and here is maybe a chance for me to steer a little trade his
way, because, after all, guys with two yards in their pocket are by no
means common nowadays.

So I take Tobias Tweeney around to Good Time Charley's, but the moment
we get in there I am sorry we go, because who is present but a dozen
parties from different parts of the city, and none of these parties
are any bargain at any time. Some of these parties, such as Harry the
Horse and Angie the Ox, are from Brooklyn, and three are from Harlem,
including Little Mitzi and Germany Schwartz, and several are from the
Bronx, because I recognize Joey Uptown, and Joey never goes around
without a few intimate friends from his own neighbourhood with him.

Afterwards I learn that these parties are to a meeting on business
matters at a spot near Good Time Charley's, and when they get through
with their business they drop in to give Charley a little complimentary
play, for Charley stands very good with one and all in this town.
Anyway, they are sitting around a table when Tobias Tweeney and I
arrive, and I give them all a big hello, and they hello me back, and
ask me and my friend to sit down as it seems they are in a most
hospitable frame of mind.

Naturally I sit down because it is never good policy to decline an
invitation from parties such as these, and I motion Tobias to sit down,
too, and I introduce Tobias all around, and we all have a couple of
drinks, and then I explain to those present just who Tobias is, and how
his ever-loving doll tosses him around, and how Joe Trivett punches him
in the snoot.

Well, Tobias begins crying again, because no inexperienced guy can
take a couple of drinks of Good Time Charley's liquor and not bust out
crying, even if it is Charley's company liquor, and one and all are at
once very sympathetic with Tobias, especially Little Mitzi, who is just
tossed around himself more than somewhat by a doll. In fact, Little
Mitzi starts crying with him.

"Why," Joey Uptown says, "I never hear of a greater outrage in my life,
although," he says, "I can see there is some puppy in you at that, when
you do not return this Trivett's punch. But even so," Joey says, "if I
have time I will go back to this town you speak of with you and make
the guy hard to catch. Furthermore," he says, "I will give this Miss
Deborah Weems a piece of my mind."

Then I tell them how Tobias Tweeney comes to New York figuring he may
meet up with some desperate characters of the underworld, and they hear
this with great interest, and Angie the Ox speaks as follows:

"I wonder," Angie says, "if we can get in touch with anybody who knows
such characters and arrange to have Mr. Tweeney meet them, although
personally," Angie says, "I loathe and despise characters of this
nature."

Well, while Angie is wondering this there comes a large knock at the
front door, and it is such a knock as only the gendarmes can knock, and
everybody at the table jumps up. Good Time Charley goes to the door and
takes a quiet gander through his peephole and we hear a loud, coarse
voice speaking as follows:

"Open up, Charley," the voice says. "We wish to look over your guests.
Furthermore," the voice says, "tell them not to try the back door,
because we are there, too."

"It is Lieutenant Harrigan and his squad," Charley says as he comes
back to the table where we are all standing. "Someone must tip him off
you are here. Well," Charley says, "those who have rods to shed will
shed them now."

At this, Joey Uptown steps up to Tobias Tweeney and hands him a large
Betsy and says to Tobias like this:

"Put this away on you somewhere," Joey says, "and then sit down and be
quiet. These coppers are not apt to bother with you," Joey says, "if
you sit still and mind your own business, but," Joey says, "it will
be very tough on any of us they find with a rod, especially any of us
who owe the state any time, and," Joey says, "I seem to remember I owe
some."

Now of course what Joey says is very true, because he is only walking
around and about on parole, and some of the others present are walking
around the same way, and it is a very serious matter for a guy who is
walking around on parole to be caught with a John Roscoe in his pocket.
So it is a very ticklish situation, and somewhat embarrassing.

Well, Tobias Tweeney is somewhat dazed by his couple of drinks of Good
Time Charley's liquor and the chances are he does not realize what is
coming off, so he takes Joey's rod and puts it in his hip kick. Then
all of a sudden Harry the Horse and Angie the Ox and Little Mitzi and
all the others step up to him and hand him their Roscoes, and Tobias
Tweeney somehow manages to stow the guns away on himself and sit down
before Good Time Charley opens the door and in come the gendarmes.

By this time Joey Uptown and all the others are scattered at different
tables around the room, with no more than three at any one table,
leaving Tobias Tweeney and me alone at the table where we are first
sitting. Furthermore, everybody is looking very innocent indeed, and
all hands seem somewhat surprised at the intrusion of the gendarmes,
who are all young guys belonging to Harrigan's Broadway squad, and very
rude.

I know Harrigan by sight, and I know most of his men, and they know
there is no more harm in me than there is in a two-year-old baby, so
they pay no attention to me whatever, or to Tobias Tweeney, either,
but go around making Joey Uptown, and Angie the Ox, and all the others
stand up while the gendarmes fan them to see if they have any rods on
them, because these gendarmes are always laying for parties such as
these hoping to catch them rodded up.

Naturally the gendarmes do not find any rods on anybody, because the
rods are all on Tobias Tweeney, and no gendarme is going to fan Tobias
Tweeney looking for a rod after one gander at Tobias, especially at
this particular moment, as Tobias is now half-asleep from Good Time
Charley's liquor, and has no interest whatever in anything that is
going on. In fact, Tobias is nodding in his chair.

Of course the gendarmes are greatly disgusted at not finding any rods,
and Angie the Ox and Joey Uptown are telling them that they are going
to see their aldermen and find out if law-abiding citizens can be stood
up and fanned for rods, and put in a very undignified position like
this, but the gendarmes do not seem disturbed by these threats, and
Lieutenant Harrigan states as follows:

"Well," he says, "I guess maybe I get a bum steer, but," he says, "for
two cents I will give all you wrong gees a good going-over just for
luck."

Of course this is no way to speak to parties such as these, as they are
all very prominent in their different parts of the city, but Lieutenant
Harrigan is a guy who seldom cares how he talks to anybody. In fact,
Lieutenant Harrigan is a very tough copper.

But he is just about to take his gendarmes out of the joint when Tobias
Tweeney nods a little too far forward in his chair, and then all of
sudden topples over on the floor, and five large rods pop out of his
pockets and go sliding every which way around the floor, and the next
thing anybody knows there is Tobias Tweeney under arrest with all the
gendarmes holding on to some part of him.

Well, the next day the newspapers are plumb full of the capture of a
guy they call Twelve-Gun Tweeney, and the papers say the police state
that this is undoubtedly the toughest guy the world ever sees, because
while they hear of two-gun guys, and even three-gun guys, they never
before hear of a guy going around rodded up with twelve guns.

The gendarmes say they can tell by the way he acts that Twelve-Gun
Tweeney is a mighty bloodthirsty guy, because he says nothing whatever
but only glares at them with a steely glint in his eyes, although of
course the reason Tobias stares at them is because he is still too
dumfounded to think of anything to say.

Naturally, I figure that when Tobias comes up for air he is a sure
thing to spill the whole business, and all the parties who are in Good
Time Charley's when he is arrested figure the same way, and go into
retirement for a time. But it seems that when Tobias finally realizes
what time it is, he is getting so much attention that it swells him
all up and he decides to keep on being Twelve-Gun Tweeney as long as
he can, which is a decision that is a very nice break for all parties
concerned.

I sneak down to Judge Rascover's court the day Tobias is arraigned
on a charge of violation of the Sullivan law, which is a law against
carrying rods, and the courtroom is packed with citizens eager to see
a character desperate enough to lug twelve rods, and among these
citizens are many dolls, pulling and hauling for position, and
some of these dolls are by no means crows. Many photographers are
hanging around to take pictures of Twelve-Gun Tweeney as he is led in
handcuffed to gendarmes on either side of him, and with other gendarmes
in front and behind him.

But one and all are greatly surprised and somewhat disappointed when
they see what a little squirt Tobias is, and Judge Rascover looks down
at him once, and then puts on his specs and takes another gander as
if he does not believe what he sees in the first place. After looking
at Tobias awhile through his specs, and shaking his head as if he
is greatly puzzled, Judge Rascover speaks to Lieutenant Harrigan as
follows:

"Do you mean to tell this court," Judge Rascover says, "that this
half-portion here is the desperate Twelve-Gun Tweeney?"

Well, Lieutenant Harrigan says there is no doubt whatever about it,
and Judge Rascover wishes to know how Tobias carries all these rods,
and whereabouts, so Lieutenant Harrigan collects twelve rods from the
gendarmes around the courtroom, unloads these rods, and starts in
putting the guns here and there on Tobias as near as he can remember
where they are found on him in the first place, with Tobias giving him
a little friendly assistance.

Lieutenant Harrigan puts two guns in each of the side pockets of
Tobias's coat, one in each hip pocket, one in the waistband of
Tobias's pants, one in each side pocket of the pants, one up each of
Tobias's sleeves, and one in the inside pocket of Tobias's coat. Then
Lieutenant Harrigan states to the court that he is all finished, and
that Tobias is rodded up in every respect as when they put the arm on
him in Good Time Charley's joint, and Judge Rascover speaks to Tobias
as follows:

"Step closer to the bench," Judge Rascover says. "I wish to see for
myself just what kind of a villain you are."

Well, Tobias takes a step forward, and over he goes on his snoot, so I
see right away what it is makes him keel over in Good Time Charley's
joint, not figuring in Charley's liquor. The little guy is just
naturally top-heavy from the rods.

Now there is much confusion as he falls and a young doll who seems
to be fatter than somewhat comes shoving through the crowd in the
courtroom yelling and crying, and though the gendarmes try to stop her
she gets to Tobias and kneels at his side, and speaks as follows:

"Toby, darling," she says, "it is nobody but Deborah, who loves you
dearly, and who always knows you will turn out to be the greatest
gunman of them all. Look at me, Toby," she says, "and tell me you love
me, too. We never realize what a hero you are until we get the New
York papers in Erasmus last night, and I hurry to you as quickly as
possible. Kiss me, Toby," the fat young doll says, and Tobias raises up
on one elbow and does same, and it makes a very pleasing scene, indeed,
although the gendarmes try to pull them apart, having no patience
whatever with such matters.

Now Judge Rascover is watching all this business through his specs, and
Judge Rascover is no sucker, but a pretty slick old codger for a judge,
and he can see that there is something wrong somewhere about Tobias
Tweeney being a character as desperate as the gendarmes make him out,
especially when he sees that Tobias cannot pack all these rods on a bet.

So when the gendarmes pick the fat young doll off of Tobias and take
a few pounds of rods off of Tobias, too, so he is finally able to get
back on his pins and stand there, Judge Rascover adjourns court, and
takes Tobias into his private room and has a talk with him, and the
chances are Tobias tells him the truth, for the next thing anybody
knows Tobias is walking away as free as the little birdies in the
trees, except that he has the fat young doll clinging to him like a
porous plaster, so maybe Tobias is not so free, at that.

Well, this is about all there is to the story, except that there is
afterwards plenty of heat between the parties who are present in Good
Time Charley's joint when Tobias is collared, because it seems that the
meeting they all attend before going to Charley's is supposed to be a
peace meeting of some kind and nobody is supposed to carry any rods to
this meeting just to prove their confidence in each other, so everybody
is very indignant when it comes out that nobody has any confidence in
anybody else at the meeting.

I never hear of Tobias Tweeney but once after all this, and it is
some months afterwards when Joey Uptown and Little Mitzi are over in
Pennsylvania inspecting a brewery proposition, and finding themselves
near the town that is called Erasmus, they decide it will be a nice
thing to drop in on Tobias Tweeney and see how he is getting along.

Well, it seems Tobias is all married up to Miss Deborah Weems, and is
getting along first class, as it seems the town elects him constable,
because it feels that a guy with such a desperate reputation as Tobias
Tweeney's is bound to make wrongdoers keep away from Erasmus if he is
an officer of the law, and Tobias's first official act is to chase Joe
Trivett out of town.

But along Broadway Tobias Tweeney will always be considered nothing
but an ingrate for heaving Joey Uptown and Little Mitzi into the town
sneezer and getting them fined fifty bobs apiece for carrying concealed
weapons.




8. THE SNATCHING OF BOOKIE BOB


Now it comes on the spring of 1931, after a long hard winter, and times
are very tough indeed, what with the stock market going all to pieces,
and banks busting right and left, and the law getting very nasty about
this and that, and one thing and another, and many citizens of this
town are compelled to do the best they can.

There is very little scratch anywhere and along Broadway many citizens
are wearing their last year's clothes and have practically nothing to
bet on the races or anything else, and it is a condition that will
touch anybody's heart.

So I am not surprised to hear rumours that the snatching of certain
parties is going on in spots, because while snatching is by no means
a high-class business, and is even considered somewhat illegal, it is
something to tide over the hard times.

Furthermore, I am not surprised to hear that this snatching is being
done by a character by the name of Harry the Horse, who comes from
Brooklyn, and who is a character who does not care much what sort of
business he is in, and who is mobbed up with other characters from
Brooklyn such as Spanish John and Little Isadore, who do not care what
sort of business they are in, either.

In fact, Harry the Horse and Spanish John and Little Isadore are very
hard characters in every respect, and there is considerable indignation
expressed around and about when they move over from Brooklyn into
Manhattan and start snatching, because the citizens of Manhattan feel
that if there is any snatching done in their territory, they are
entitled to do it themselves.

But Harry the Horse and Spanish John and Little Isadore pay no
attention whatever to local sentiment and go on the snatch on a pretty
fair scale, and by and by I am hearing rumours of some very nice
scores. These scores are not extra large scores, to be sure, but they
are enough to keep the wolf from the door, and in fact from three
different doors, and before long Harry the Horse and Spanish John
and Little Isadore are around the race-tracks betting on the horses,
because if there is one thing they are all very fond of, it is betting
on the horses.

Now many citizens have the wrong idea entirely of the snatching
business. Many citizens think that all there is to snatching is to
round up the party who is to be snatched and then just snatch him,
putting him away somewhere until his family or friends dig up enough
scratch to pay whatever price the snatchers are asking. Very few
citizens understand that the snatching business must be well organized
and very systematic.

In the first place, if you are going to do any snatching, you cannot
snatch just anybody. You must know who you are snatching, because
naturally it is no good snatching somebody who does not have any
scratch to settle with. And you cannot tell by the way a party looks
or how he lives in this town if he has any scratch, because many a
party who is around in automobiles, and wearing good clothes, and
chucking quite a swell is nothing but the phonus bolonus and does not
have any real scratch whatever.

So of course such a party is no good for snatching, and of course guys
who are on the snatch cannot go around inquiring into bank accounts,
or asking how much this and that party has in a safe-deposit vault,
because such questions are apt to make citizens wonder why, and it is
very dangerous to get citizens to wondering why about anything. So the
only way guys who are on the snatch can find out about parties worth
snatching is to make a connection with some guy who can put the finger
on the right party.

The finger guy must know the party he fingers has plenty of ready
scratch to begin with, and he must also know that this party is such a
party as is not apt to make too much disturbance about being snatched,
such as telling the gendarmes. The party may be a legitimate party,
such as a business guy, but he will have reasons why he does not wish
it to get out that he is snatched, and the finger must know these
reasons. Maybe the party is not leading the right sort of life, such as
running around with blondes when he has an ever-loving wife and seven
children in Mamaroneck, but does not care to have his habits known, as
is apt to happen if he is snatched, especially if he is snatched when
he is with a blonde.

And sometimes the party is such a party as does not care to have
matches run up and down the bottom of his feet, which often happens to
parties who are snatched and who do not seem to wish to settle their
bill promptly, because many parties are very ticklish on the bottom of
the feet, especially if the matches are lit. On the other hand, maybe
the party is not a legitimate guy, such as a party who is running a
crap game or a swell speakeasy, or who has some other dodge he does not
care to have come out, and who also does not care about having his feet
tickled.

Such a party is very good indeed for the snatching business, because he
is pretty apt to settle without any argument. And after a party settles
one snatching, it will be considered very unethical for anybody else to
snatch him again very soon, so he is not likely to make any fuss about
the matter. The finger guy gets a commission of twenty-five per cent of
the settlement, and one and all are satisfied and much fresh scratch
comes into circulation, which is very good for the merchants. And while
the party who is snatched may know who snatches him, one thing he never
knows is who puts the finger on him, this being considered a trade
secret.

I am talking to Waldo Winchester, the newspaper scribe, one night and
something about the snatching business comes up, and Waldo Winchester
is trying to tell me that it is one of the oldest dodges in the world,
only Waldo calls it kidnapping, which is a title that will be very
repulsive to guys who are on the snatch nowadays. Waldo Winchester
claims that hundreds of years ago guys are around snatching parties,
male and female, and holding them for ransom, and furthermore Waldo
Winchester says they even snatch very little children and Waldo states
that it is all a very, very wicked proposition.

Well, I can see where Waldo is right about it being wicked to snatch
dolls and little children, but of course no guys who are on the snatch
nowadays will ever think of such a thing, because who is going to
settle for a doll in these times when you can scarcely even give them
away? As for little children, they are apt to be a great nuisance,
because their mammas are sure to go running around hollering bloody
murder about them, and furthermore little children are very dangerous,
indeed, what with being apt to break out with measles and mumps and
one thing and another any minute and give it to everybody in the
neighbourhood.

Well, anyway, knowing that Harry the Horse and Spanish John and Little
Isadore are now on the snatch, I am by no means pleased to see them
come along one Tuesday evening when I am standing at the corner of
Fiftieth and Broadway, although of course I give them a very jolly
hello, and say I hope and trust they are feeling nicely.

They stand there talking to me a few minutes, and I am very glad indeed
that Johnny Brannigan, the strong-arm cop, does not happen along and
see us, because it will give Johnny a very bad impression of me to see
me in such company, even though I am not responsible for the company.
But naturally I cannot haul off and walk away from this company at
once, because Harry the Horse and Spanish John and Little Isadore may
get the idea that I am playing the chill for them, and will feel hurt.

"Well," I say to Harry the Horse, "how are things going, Harry?"

"They are going no good," Harry says. "We do not beat a race in four
days. In fact," he says, "we go overboard to-day. We are washed out. We
owe every bookmaker at the track that will trust us, and now we are out
trying to raise some scratch to pay off. A guy must pay his bookmaker
no matter what."

Well, of course this is very true, indeed, because if a guy does not
pay his bookmaker it will lower his business standing quite some, as
the bookmaker is sure to go around putting the blast on him, so I am
pleased to hear Harry the Horse mention such honourable principles.

"By the way," Harry says, "do you know a guy by the name of Bookie Bob?"

Now I do not know Bookie Bob personally, but of course I know who
Bookie Bob is, and so does everybody else in this town that ever goes
to a race-track, because Bookie Bob is the biggest bookmaker around and
about, and has plenty of scratch. Furthermore, it is the opinion of
one and all that Bookie Bob will die with this scratch, because he is
considered a very close guy with his scratch. In fact, Bookie Bob is
considered closer than a dead heat.

He is a short fat guy with a bald head, and his head is always shaking
a little from side to side, which some say is a touch of palsy, but
which most citizens believe comes of Bookie Bob shaking his head
"No" to guys asking for credit in betting on the races. He has an
ever-loving wife, who is a very quiet little old doll with grey hair
and a very sad look in her eyes, but nobody can blame her for this when
they figure that she lives with Bookie Bob for many years.

I often see Bookie Bob and his ever-loving wife eating in different
joints along in the Forties, because they seem to have no home except
an hotel, and many a time I hear Bookie Bob giving her a going-over
about something or other, and generally it is about the price of
something she orders to eat, so I judge Bookie Bob is as tough with his
ever-loving wife about scratch as he is with everybody else. In fact, I
hear him bawling her out one night because she has on a new hat which
she says costs her six bucks, and Bookie Bob wishes to know if she is
trying to ruin him with her extravagances.

But of course I am not criticizing Bookie Bob for squawking about the
hat, because for all I know six bucks may be too much for a doll to pay
for a hat, at that. And furthermore, maybe Bookie Bob has the right
idea about keeping down his ever-loving wife's appetite, because I know
many a guy in this town who is practically ruined by dolls eating too
much on him.

"Well," I say to Harry the Horse, "if Bookie Bob is one of the
bookmakers you owe, I am greatly surprised to see that you seem to
have both eyes in your head, because I never before hear of Bookie Bob
letting anybody owe him without giving him at least one of their eyes
for security. In fact," I say, "Bookie Bob is such a guy as will not
give you the right time if he has two watches."

"No," Harry the Horse says, "we do not owe Bookie Bob. But," he says,
"he will be owing us before long. We are going to put the snatch on
Bookie Bob."

Well, this is most disquieting news to me, not because I care if they
snatch Bookie Bob or not, but because somebody may see me talking to
them who will remember about it when Bookie Bob is snatched. But of
course it will not be good policy for me to show Harry the Horse and
Spanish John and Little Isadore that I am nervous, so I only speak as
follows:

"Harry," I say, "every man knows his own business best, and I judge you
know what you are doing. But," I say, "you are snatching a hard guy
when you snatch Bookie Bob. A very hard guy, indeed. In fact," I say,
"I hear the softest thing about him is his front teeth, so it may be
very difficult for you to get him to settle after you snatch him."

"No," Harry the Horse says, "we will have no trouble about it. Our
finger gives us Bookie Bob's hole card, and it is a most surprising
thing, indeed. But," Harry the Horse says, "you come upon many
surprising things in human nature when you are on the snatch. Bookie
Bob's hole card is his ever-loving wife's opinion of him.

"You see," Harry the Horse says, "Bookie Bob has been putting himself
away with his ever-loving wife for years, as a very important guy in
this town, with much power and influence, although of course Bookie
Bob knows very well he stands about as good as a broken leg. In fact,"
Harry the Horse says, "Bookie Bob figures that his ever-loving wife is
the only one in the world who looks on him as a big guy, and he will
sacrifice even his scratch, or anyway some of it, rather than let her
know that guys have such little respect for him as to put the snatch on
him. It is what you call psychology," Harry the Horse says.

Well, this does not make good sense to me, and I am thinking to myself
that the psychology that Harry the Horse really figures to work out
nice on Bookie Bob is tickling his feet with matches, but I am not
anxious to stand there arguing about it, and pretty soon I bid them all
good evening, very polite, and take the wind, and I do not see Harry
the Horse or Spanish John or Little Isadore again for a month.

In the meantime, I hear gossip here and there that Bookie Bob is
missing for several days, and when he finally shows up again he gives
it out that he is very sick during his absence, but I can put two and
two together as well as anybody in this town and I figure that Bookie
Bob is snatched by Harry the Horse and Spanish John and Little Isadore,
and the chances are it costs him plenty.

So I am looking for Harry the Horse and Spanish John and Little Isadore
to be around the race-track with plenty of scratch and betting them
higher than a cat's back, but they never show up, and what is more I
hear they leave Manhattan and are back in Brooklyn working every day
handling beer. Naturally this is very surprising to me, because the
way things are running beer is a tough dodge just now, and there is
very little profit in same, and I figure that with the scratch they
must make off Bookie Bob, Harry the Horse and Spanish John and Little
Isadore have a right to be taking things easy.

Now one night I am in Good Time Charley Bernstein's little speak in
Forty-eighth Street, talking of this and that with Charley, when in
comes Harry the Horse, looking very weary and by no means prosperous.
Naturally I gave him a large hello, and by and by we get to gabbing
together and I ask him whatever becomes of the Bookie Bob matter, and
Harry the Horse tells me as follows:

Yes [Harry the Horse says], we snatch Bookie Bob all right. In fact,
we snatch him the very next night after we are talking to you, or on a
Wednesday night. Our finger tells us Bookie Bob is going to a wake over
in his old neighbourhood on Tenth Avenue, near Thirty-eighth Street,
and this is where we pick him up.

He is leaving the place in his car along about midnight, and of course
Bookie Bob is alone as he seldom lets anybody ride with him because
of the wear and tear on his car cushions, and Little Isadore swings
our flivver in front of him and makes him stop. Naturally Bookie Bob
is greatly surprised when I poke my head into his car and tell him I
wish the pleasure of his company for a short time, and at first he is
inclined to argue the matter, saying I must make a mistake, but I put
the old convincer on him by letting him peek down the snozzle of my
John Roscoe.

We lock his car and throw the keys away, and then we take Bookie Bob in
our car and go to a certain spot on Eighth Avenue where we have a nice
little apartment all ready. When we get there I tell Bookie Bob that he
can call up anybody he wishes and state that the snatch is on him and
that it will require twenty-five G's, cash money, to take it off, but
of course I also tell Bookie Bob that he is not to mention where he is
or something may happen to him.

Well, I will say one thing for Bookie Bob, although everybody is always
weighing in the sacks on him and saying he is no good--he takes it like
a gentleman, and very calm and businesslike.

Furthermore, he does not seem alarmed, as many citizens are when they
find themselves in such a situation. He recognizes the justice of our
claim at once, saying as follows:

"I will telephone my partner, Sam Salt," he says. "He is the only one
I can think of who is apt to have such a sum as twenty-five G's cash
money. But," he says, "if you gentlemen will pardon the question,
because this is a new experience to me, how do I know everything will
be okay for me after you get the scratch?"

"Why," I say to Bookie Bob, somewhat indignant, "it is well known
to one and all in this town that my word is my bond. There are two
things I am bound to do," I say, "and one is to keep my word in such a
situation as this, and the other is to pay anything I owe a bookmaker,
no matter what, for these are obligations of honour with me."

"Well," Bookie Bob says, "of course I do not know you gentlemen, and,
in fact, I do not remember ever seeing any of you, although your face
is somewhat familiar, but if you pay your bookmaker you are an honest
guy, and one in a million. In fact," Bookie Bob says, "if I have
all the scratch that is owing to me around this town, I will not be
telephoning anybody for such a sum as twenty-five G's. I will have such
a sum in my pants pocket for change."

Now Bookie Bob calls a certain number and talks to somebody there but
he does not get Sam Salt, and he seems much disappointed when he hangs
up the receiver again.

"This is a very tough break for me," he says. "Sam Salt goes to
Atlantic City an hour ago on very important business and will not be
back until to-morrow evening, and they do not know where he is to stay
in Atlantic City. And," Bookie Bob says, "I cannot think of anybody
else to call up to get this scratch, especially anybody I will care to
have know I am in this situation."

"Why not call your ever-loving wife?" I say. "Maybe she can dig up this
kind of scratch."

"Say," Bookie Bob says, "you do not suppose I am chump enough to give
my ever-loving wife twenty-five G's, or even let her know where she
can get her dukes on twenty-five G's belonging to me, do you? I give
my ever-loving wife ten bucks per week for spending money," Bookie Bob
says, "and this is enough scratch for any doll, especially when you
figure I pay for her meals."

Well, there seems to be nothing we can do except wait until Sam Salt
gets back, but we let Bookie Bob call his ever-loving wife, as Bookie
Bob says he does not wish to have her worrying about his absence, and
tells her a big lie about having to go to Jersey City to sit up with a
sick Brother Elk.

Well, it is now nearly four o'clock in the morning, so we put Bookie
Bob in a room with Little Isadore to sleep, although, personally, I
consider making a guy sleep with Little Isadore very cruel treatment,
and Spanish John and I take turns keeping awake and watching out that
Bookie Bob does not take the air on us before paying us off. To tell
the truth, Little Isadore and Spanish John are somewhat disappointed
that Bookie Bob agrees to settle so promptly, because they are looking
forward to tickling his feet with great relish.

Now Bookie Bob turns out to be very good company when he wakes up
the next morning, because he knows a lot of race-track stories and
plenty of scandal, and he keeps us much interested at breakfast. He
talks along with us as if he knows us all his life, and he seems very
nonchalant indeed, but the chances are he will not be so nonchalant if
I tell him about Spanish John's thought.

Well, about noon Spanish John goes out of the apartment and comes back
with a racing sheet, because he knows Little Isadore and I will be
wishing to know what is running in different spots although we do not
have anything to bet on these races, or any way of betting on them,
because we are overboard with every bookmaker we know.

Now Bookie Bob is also much interested in the matter of what is
running, especially at Belmont, and he is bending over the table with
me and Spanish John and Little Isadore, looking at the sheet, when
Spanish John speaks as follows:

"My goodness," Spanish John says, "a spot such as this fifth race with
Questionnaire at four to five is like finding money in the street. I
only wish I have a few bobs to bet on him at such a price," Spanish
John says.

"Why," Bookie Bob says, very polite, "if you gentlemen wish to bet on
these races I will gladly book to you. It is a good way to pass away
the time while we are waiting for Sam Salt, unless you will rather play
pinochle?"

"But," I say, "we have no scratch to play the races, at least not much."

"Well," Bookie Bob says, "I will take your markers, because I hear what
you say about always paying your bookmaker, and you put yourself away
with me as an honest guy, and these other gentlemen also impress me as
honest guys."

Now what happens but we begin betting Bookie Bob on the different
races, not only at Belmont, but at all the other tracks in the country,
for Little Isadore and Spanish John and I are guys who like plenty
of action when we start betting on the horses. We write out markers
for whatever we wish to bet and hand them to Bookie Bob, and Bookie
Bob sticks these markers in an inside pocket, and along in the late
afternoon it looks as if he has a tumour on his chest.

We get the race results by 'phone off a poolroom downtown as fast as
they come off, and also the prices, and it is a lot of fun, and Little
Isadore and Spanish John and Bookie Bob and I are all little pals
together until all the races are over and Bookie Bob takes out the
markers and starts counting himself up.

It comes out then that I owe Bookie Bob ten G's, and Spanish John owes
him six G's, and Little Isadore owes him four G's, as Little Isadore
beats him a couple of races out west.

Well, about this time, Bookie Bob manages to get Sam Salt on the
'phone, and explains to Sam that he is to go to a certain safe-deposit
box and get out twenty-five G's, and then wait until midnight and hire
himself a taxicab and start riding around the block between Fifty-first
and Fifty-second, from Eighth to Ninth avenues, and to keep riding
until somebody flags the cab and takes the scratch off him.

Naturally Sam Salt understands right away that the snatch is on Bookie
Bob, and he agrees to do as he is told, but he says he cannot do it
until the following night because he knows there is not twenty-five G's
in the box and he will have to get the difference at the track the next
day. So there we are with another day in the apartment and Spanish John
and Little Isadore and I are just as well pleased because Bookie Bob
has us hooked and we naturally wish to wiggle off.

But the next day is worse than ever. In all the years I am playing
the horses I never have such a tough day, and Spanish John and Little
Isadore are just as bad. In fact, we are all going so bad that Bookie
Bob seems to feel sorry for us and often lays us a couple of points
above the track prices, but it does no good. At the end of the day,
I am in a total of twenty G's, while Spanish John owes fifteen, and
Little Isadore fifteen, a total of fifty G's among the three of us.
But we are never any hands to hold post-mortems on bad days, so Little
Isadore goes out to a delicatessen store and lugs in a lot of nice
things to eat, and we have a fine dinner, and then we sit around with
Bookie Bob telling stories, and even singing a few songs together until
time to meet Sam Salt.

When it comes on midnight Spanish John goes out and lays for Sam, and
gets a little valise off of Sam Salt. Then Spanish John comes back to
the apartment and we open the valise and the twenty-five G's are there
okay, and we cut this scratch three ways.

Then I tell Bookie Bob he is free to go on about his business, and good
luck to him, at that, but Bookie Bob looks at me as if he is very much
surprised, and hurt, and says to me like this:

"Well, gentlemen, thank you for your courtesy, but what about the
scratch you owe me? What about these markers? Surely, gentlemen, you
will pay your bookmaker?"

Well, of course we owe Bookie Bob these markers, all right, and of
course a man must pay his bookmaker, no matter what, so I hand over my
bit and Bookie Bob puts down something in a little note-book that he
takes out of his kick.

Then Spanish John and Little Isadore hand over their dough, too, and
Bookie Bob puts down something more in the little note-book.

"Now," Bookie Bob says, "I credit each of your accounts with these
payments, but you gentlemen still owe me a matter of twenty-five G's
over and above the twenty-five I credit you with, and I hope and trust
you will make arrangements to settle this at once because," he says, "I
do not care to extend such accommodations over any considerable period."

"But," I say, "we do not have any more scratch after paying you the
twenty-five G's on account."

"Listen," Bookie Bob says, dropping his voice down to a whisper, "what
about putting the snatch on my partner, Sam Salt, and I will wait over
a couple of days with you and keep booking to you, and maybe you can
pull yourselves out. But of course," Bookie Bob whispers, "I will be
entitled to twenty-five per cent of the snatch for putting the finger
on Sam for you."

But Spanish John and Little Isadore are sick and tired of Bookie Bob
and will not listen to staying in the apartment any longer, because
they say he is a jinx to them and they cannot beat him in any manner,
shape or form. Furthermore, I am personally anxious to get away
because something Bookie Bob says reminds me of something.

It reminds me that besides the scratch we owe him, we forget to take
out six G's two-fifty for the party who puts the finger on Bookie Bob
for us, and this is a very serious matter indeed, because anybody will
tell you that failing to pay a finger is considered a very dirty trick.
Furthermore, if it gets around that you fail to pay a finger, nobody
else will ever finger for you.

So [Harry the Horse says] we quit the snatching business because there
is no use continuing while this obligation is outstanding against us,
and we go back to Brooklyn to earn enough scratch to pay our just debts.

We are paying off Bookie Bob's IOU a little at a time, because we
do not wish to ever have anybody say we welsh on a bookmaker, and
furthermore we are paying off the six G's two-fifty commission we owe
our finger.

And while it is tough going, I am glad to say our honest effort is
doing somebody a little good, because I see Bookie Bob's ever-loving
wife the other night all dressed up in new clothes and looking very
happy, indeed.

And while a guy is telling me she is looking so happy because she
gets a large legacy from an uncle who dies in Switzerland, and is now
independent of Bookie Bob, I only hope and trust [Harry the Horse says]
that it never gets out that our finger in this case is nobody but
Bookie Bob's ever-loving wife.




9. THE LILY OF ST. PIERRE


There are four of us sitting in Good Time Charley Bernstein's little
joint in Forty-eighth Street one Tuesday morning about four o'clock,
doing a bit of quartet singing, very low, so as not to disturb the
copper on the beat outside, a very good guy by the name of Carrigan,
who likes to get his rest at such an hour.

Good Time Charley's little joint is called the Crystal Room, although
of course there is no crystal whatever in the room, but only twelve
tables, and twelve hostesses, because Good Time Charley believes in his
customers having plenty of social life.

So he has one hostess to a table, and if there are twelve different
customers, which is very seldom, each customer has a hostess to talk
with. And if there is only one customer, he has all twelve hostesses to
gab with and buy drinks for, and no customer can ever go away claiming
he is lonesome in Good Time Charley's.

Personally, I will not give you a nickel to talk with Good Time
Charley's hostesses, one at a time or all together, because none of
them are anything much to look at, and I figure they must all be pretty
dumb or they will not be working as hostesses in Good Time Charley's
little joint. I happen to speak of this to Good Time Charley, and he
admits that I may be right, but he says it is very difficult to get any
Peggy Joyces for twenty-five bobs per week.

Of course I never buy any drinks in Good Time Charley's for hostesses,
or anybody else, and especially for myself, because I am a personal
friend of Good Time Charley's, and he will not sell me any drinks even
if I wish to buy any, which is unlikely, as Good Time Charley figures
that anybody who buys drinks in his place is apt to drink these drinks,
and Charley does not care to see any of his personal friends drinking
drinks in his place. If one of his personal friends wishes to buy a
drink, Charley always sends him to Jack Fogarty's little speak down the
street, and in fact Charley will generally go with him.

So I only go to Good Time Charley's to talk with him, and to sing in
quartet with him. There are very seldom any customers in Good Time
Charley's until along about five o'clock in the morning after all the
other places are closed, and then it is sometimes a very hot spot
indeed, and it is no place to sing in quartet at such hours, because
everybody around always wishes to join in, and it ruins the harmony.
But just before five o'clock it is okay, as only the hostesses are
there, and of course none of them dast to join in our singing, or Good
Time Charley will run them plumb out of the joint.

If there is one thing I love to do more than anything else, it is to
sing in quartet. I sing baritone, and I wish to say I sing a very
fine baritone, at that. And what we are singing--this morning I am
talking about--is a lot of songs such as "Little White Lies," and
"The Old Oaken Bucket," and "My Dad's Dinner Pail," and "Chloe,"
and "Melancholy Baby," and I do not know what else, including "Home,
Sweet Home," although we do not go so good on this because nobody
remembers all the words, and half the time we are all just going
ho-hum-hum-ho-hum-hum, like guys nearly always do when they are singing
"Home, Sweet Home."

Also we sing "I Can't Give You Anything but Love, Baby," which is a
very fine song for quartet singing, especially when you have a guy
singing a nice bass, such as Good Time Charley, who can come in on
every line with a big bum-bum, like this:

  _I can't give you anything but luh-huh-vuh,
    Bay-hay-bee!
                BUM-BUM!_

I am the one who holds these last words, such as love, and baby, and
you can hear my fine baritone very far indeed, especially when I give a
little extra roll like bay-hay-ay-ay-BEE! Then when Good Time Charley
comes in with his old bum-bum, it is worth going a long way to hear.

Well, naturally, we finally get around to torch songs, as guys who are
singing in quartet are bound to do, especially at four o'clock in the
morning, a torch song being a song which guys sing when they have the
big burnt-up feeling inside themselves over a battle with their dolls.

When a guy has a battle with his doll, such as his sweetheart, or even
his ever-loving wife, he certainly feels burnt up inside himself, and
can scarcely think of anything much. In fact, I know guys who are
carrying the torch to walk ten miles and never know they go an inch. It
is surprising how much ground a guy can cover just walking around and
about, wondering if his doll is out with some other guy, and everybody
knows that at four o'clock in the morning the torch is hotter than at
any other time of the day.

Good Time Charley, who is carrying a torch longer than anybody else on
Broadway, which is nearly a year, or ever since his doll, Big Marge,
gives him the wind for a rich Cuban, starts up a torch song by Tommy
Lyman, which goes as follows, very, very slow, and sad:

  _Gee, but it's tough
  When the gang's gone home.
  Out on the corner
  You stand alone._

Of course there is no spot in this song for Good Time Charley's
bum-bum, but it gives me a great chance with my fine baritone,
especially when I come to the line that says Gee, I wish I had my old
gal back again.

I do not say I can make people bust out crying and give me money with
this song like I see Tommy Lyman do in night clubs, but then Tommy
is a professional singer, besides writing this song for himself, so
naturally he figures to do a little better with it than me. But I
wish to say it is nothing for me to make five or six of the hostesses
in Good Time Charley's cry all over the joint when I hit this line
about Gee, I wish I had my old gal back again, and making five or six
hostesses out of twelve cry is a fair average anywhere, and especially
Good Time Charley's hostesses.

Well, all of a sudden who comes popping into Good Time Charley's by way
of the front door, looking here and there, and around and about, but
Jack O'Hearts, and he no sooner pokes his snozzle into the joint than a
guy by the name of Louie the Lug, who is singing a very fair tenor with
us, jumps up and heads for the back door.

But just as he gets to the door, Jack O'Hearts outs with the old
equalizer and goes whangity-whang-whang at Louie the Lug. As a general
proposition, Jack O'Hearts is a fair kind of a shot, but all he does to
Louie the Lug is to knock his right ear off. Then Louie gets the back
door open and takes it on the lam through an areaway, but not before
Jack O'Hearts gets one more crack at him, and it is this last crack
which brings Louie down half an hour later on Broadway, where a copper
finds him and sends him to the Polyclinic.

Personally, I do not see Louie's ear knocked off, because by the second
shot I am out the front door, and on my way down Forty-eighth Street,
but they tell me about it afterwards.

I never know Jack O'Hearts is even mad at Louie, and I am wondering why
he takes these shots at him, but I do not ask any questions, because
when a guy goes around asking questions in this town people may get the
idea he is such a guy as wishes to find things out.

Then the next night I run into Jack O'Hearts in Bobby's chophouse,
putting on the hot meat, and he asks me to sit down and eat with him,
so I sit down and order a hamburger steak, with plenty of onions, and
while I am sitting there waiting for my hamburger, Jack O'Hearts says
to me like this:

"I suppose," he says, "I owe you guys an apology for busting up your
quartet when I toss those slugs at Louie the Lug?"

"Well," I say, "some considers it a dirty trick at that, Jack, but I
figure you have a good reason, although I am wondering what it is."

"Louie the Lug is no good," Jack says.

Well, of course I know this much already, and so does everybody else in
town for that matter, but I cannot figure what it has to do with Jack
shooting off ears in this town for such a reason, or by and by there
will be very few people left with ears.

"Let me tell you about Louie the Lug," Jack O'Hearts says. "You will
see at once that my only mistake is I do not get my shots an inch to
the left. I do not know what is the matter with me lately."

"Maybe you are letting go too quick," I say, very sympathetic, because
I know how it annoys him to blow easy shots.

"Maybe," he says. "Anyway, the light in Charley's dump is no good. It
is only an accident I get Louie with the last shot, and it is very
sloppy work all around. But now I will tell you about Louie the Lug."

       *       *       *       *       *

It is back in 1924 [Jack O'Hearts says] that I go to St. Pierre for
the first time to look after some business matters for John the Boss,
rest his soul, who is at this time one of the largest operators in
high-grade merchandise in the United States, especially when it comes
to Scotch. Maybe you remember John the Boss, and the heat which
develops around and about when he is scragged in Detroit? John the Boss
is a very fine character, and it is a terrible blow to many citizens
when he is scragged.

Now if you are never in St. Pierre, I wish to say you miss nothing
much, because what is it but a little squirt of a burg sort of huddled
up alongside some big rocks off Newfoundland, and very hard to get
to, any way you go. Mostly you go there from Halifax by boat, though
personally I go there in 1924 in John the Boss's schooner by the
name of the _Maude_, in which we load a thousand cases of very nice
merchandise for the Christmas trade.

The first time I see St. Pierre I will not give you eight cents for
the whole layout, although of course it is very useful to parties in
our line of business. It does not look like much, and it belongs to
France, and nearly all the citizens speak French, because most of them
are French, and it seems it is the custom of the French people to speak
French no matter where they are, even away off up yonder among the fish.

Well, anyway, it is on this trip to St. Pierre in 1924 that I meet an
old guy by the name of Doctor Armand Dorval, for what happens to me
but I catch pneumonia, and it looks as if maybe I am a gone gosling,
especially as there is no place in St. Pierre where a guy can have
pneumonia with any comfort. But this Doctor Armand Dorval is a friend
of John the Boss, and he takes me into his house and lets me be as sick
there as I please, while he does his best to doctor me up.

Now this Doctor Armand Dorval is an old Frenchman with whiskers, and
he has a little granddaughter by the name of Lily, who is maybe twelve
years old at the time I am talking about, with her hair hanging down
her back in two braids. It seems her papa, who is Doctor Armand's
son, goes out one day looking for cod on the Grand Banks when Lily is
nothing but a baby, and never comes back, and then her mamma dies, so
old Doc raises up Lily and is very fond of her indeed.

They live alone in the house where I am sick with this pneumonia, and
it is a nice, quiet little house and very old-fashioned, with a good
view of the fishing boats, if you care for fishing boats. In fact, it
is the quietest place I am ever in in my life, and the only place I
ever know any real peace. A big fat old doll who does not talk English
comes in every day to look after things for Doctor Armand and Lily,
because it seems Lily is not old enough to keep house as yet, although
she makes quite a nurse for me.

Lily talks English very good, and she is always bringing me things,
and sitting by my bed and chewing the rag with me about this and that,
and sometimes she reads to me out of a book which is called _Alice
in Wonderland_, and which is nothing but a pack of lies, but very
interesting in spots. Furthermore, Lily has a big, blond, dumb-looking
doll by the name of Yvonne, which she makes me hold while she is
reading to me, and I am very glad indeed that the _Maude_ goes on back
to the United States and there is no danger of any of the guys walking
in on me while I am holding this doll, or they will think I blow my
topper.

Finally, when I am able to sit up around the house of an evening I
play checkers with Lily, while old Doctor Armand Dorval sits back in
a rocking-chair, smoking a pipe and watching us, and sometimes I sing
for her. I wish to say I sing a first-class tenor, and when I am in the
war business in France with the Seventy-seventh Division I am always
in great demand for singing a quartet. So I sing such songs to Lily
as "There's a Long, Long Trail," and "Mademoiselle from Armentires,"
although of course when it comes to certain spots in this song I just
go dum-dum-dee-dum and do not say the words right out.

By and by Lily gets to singing with me, and we sound very good
together, especially when we sing the "Long, Long Trail," which Lily
likes very much, and even old Doctor Armand joins in now and then,
although his voice is very terrible. Anyway, Lily and me and Doctor
Armand become very good pals indeed, and what is more I meet up with
other citizens of St. Pierre and become friends with them, and they are
by no means bad people to know, and it is certainly a nice thing to be
able to walk up and down without being afraid every other guy you meet
is going to chuck a slug at you, or a copper put the old sleeve on you
and say that they wish to see you at headquarters.

Finally I get rid of this pneumonia and take the boat to Halifax, and I
am greatly surprised to find that Doctor Armand and Lily are very sorry
to see me go, because never before in my life do I leave a place where
anybody is sorry to see me go.

But Doctor Armand seems very sad and shakes me by the hand over and
over again, and what does Lily do but bust out crying, and the first
thing I know I am feeling sad myself and wishing that I am not going.
So I promise Doctor Armand I will come back some day to see him, and
then Lily hauls off and gives me a big kiss right in the smush and this
astonishes me so much that it is half an hour afterwards before I think
to wipe it off.

Well, for the next few months I find myself pretty busy back in New
York, what with one thing and another, and I do not have time to think
much of Doctor Armand Dorval and Lily, and St. Pierre, but it comes
along the summer of 1925, and I am all tired out from getting a slug in
my chest in the run-in with Jerk Donovan's mob in Jersey, for I am now
in beer and have no more truck with the boats.

But I get to thinking of St. Pierre and the quiet little house of
Doctor Armand Dorval again, and how peaceful it is up there, and
nothing will do but what I must pop off to Halifax, and pretty soon I
am in St. Pierre once more. I take a raft of things for Lily with me,
such as dolls, and handkerchiefs, and perfume, and a phonograph, and
also a set of razors for Doctor Armand, although afterwards I am sorry
I take these razors because I remember the old Doc does not shave and
may take them as a hint I do not care for his whiskers. But as it turns
out the Doc finds them very useful in operations, so the razors are a
nice gift after all.

Well, I spend two peaceful weeks there again, walking up and down in
the daytime and playing checkers and singing with Lily in the evening,
and it is tough tearing myself away, especially as Doctor Armand Dorval
looks very sad again and Lily bursts out crying, louder than before.
So nearly every year after this I can hardly wait until I can get to
St. Pierre for a vacation, and Doctor Armand Dorval's house is like my
home, only more peaceful.

Now in the summer of 1928 I am in Halifax on my way to St. Pierre,
when I run across Louie the Lug, and it seems Louie is a lammister
out of Detroit on account of some job or other, and is broke, and
does not know which way to turn. Personally, I always figure Louie a
petty-larceny kind of guy, with no more moxie than a canary bird, but
he always dresses well, and always has a fair line of guff, and some
guys stand for him. Anyway, here he is in trouble, so what happens but
I take him with me to St. Pierre, figuring he can lay dead there until
things blow over.

Well, Lily and old Doctor Armand Dorval are certainly glad to see me,
and I am just as glad to see them, especially Lily, for she is now
maybe sixteen years old and as pretty a doll as ever steps in shoe
leather, what with her long black hair, and her big black eyes, and a
million dollars' worth of personality. Furthermore, by this time she
swings a very mean skillet, indeed, and gets me up some very tasty
fodder out of fish and one thing and another.

But somehow things are not like they used to be at St. Pierre with
this guy Louie the Lug around, because he does not care for the place
whatever, and goes roaming about very restless, and making cracks about
the citizens, and especially the dolls, until one night I am compelled
to tell him to keep his trap closed, although at that the dolls in
St. Pierre, outside of Lily, are no such lookers as will get Ziegfeld
heated up.

But even in the time when St. Pierre is headquarters for many citizens
of the United States who are in the business of handling merchandise
out of there, it is always sort of underhand that such citizens will
never have any truck with the dolls at St. Pierre. This is partly
because the dolls at St. Pierre never give the citizens of the United
States a tumble, but more because we do not wish to get in any trouble
around there, and if there is anything apt to cause trouble it is dolls.

Now I suppose if I have any brains I will see that Louie is playing the
warm for Lily, but I never think of Lily as anything but a little doll
with her hair in braids, and certainly not a doll such as a guy will
start pitching to, especially a guy who calls himself one of the mob.

I notice Louie is always talking to Lily when he gets a chance, and
sometimes he goes walking up and down with her, but I see nothing in
this, because after all any guy is apt to get lonesome at St. Pierre
and go walking up and down with anybody, even a little young doll. In
fact, I never see Louie do anything that strikes me as out of line,
except he tries to cut in on the singing between Lily and me, until
I tell him one tenor at a time is enough in any singing combination.
Personally, I consider Louie the Lug's tenor very flat, indeed.

Well, it comes time for me to go away, and I take Louie with me,
because I do not wish him hanging around St. Pierre alone, especially
as old Doctor Armand Dorval does not seem to care for him whatever,
and while Lily seems as sad as ever to see me go I notice that for the
first time she does not kiss me good-bye. But I figure this is fair
enough, as she is now quite a young lady, and the chances are a little
particular about who she kisses.

I leave Louie in Halifax and give him enough dough to go on to Denver,
which is where he says he wishes to go, and I never see him again until
the other night in Good Time Charley's. But almost a year later, when
I happen to be in Montreal, I hear of him. I am standing in the lobby
of the Mount Royal Hotel thinking of not much, when a guy by the name
of Bob the Bookie, who is a hustler around the race tracks, gets to
talking to me and mentions Louie's name. It brings back to me a memory
of my last trip to St. Pierre, and I get to thinking that this is the
longest stretch I ever go in several years without a visit there and of
the different things that keep me from going.

I am not paying much attention to what Bob says, because he is putting
the blast on Louie for running away from an ever-loving wife and a
couple of kids in Cleveland several years before, which is something I
do not know about Louie, at that. Then I hear Bob saying like this:

"He is an awful rat any way you take him. Why, when he hops out of here
two weeks ago, he leaves a little doll he brings with him from St.
Pierre dying in a hospital without a nickel to her name. It is a sin
and a shame."

"Wait a minute, Bob," I say, waking up all of a sudden. "Do you say a
doll from St. Pierre? What-for looking kind of a doll, Bob?" I say.

"Why," Bob says, "she is black-haired, and very young, and he calls her
Lily, or some such. He is knocking around Canada with her for quite a
spell. She strikes me as a t. b., but Louie's dolls always look this
way after he has them a while. I judge," Bob says, "that Louie does not
feed them any too good."

Well, it is Lily Dorval, all right, but never do I see such a change in
anybody as there is in the poor little doll I find lying on a bed in a
charity ward in a Montreal hospital. She does not look to weigh more
than fifty pounds, and her black eyes are sunk away back in her head,
and she is in tough shape generally. But she knows me right off the bat
and tries to smile at me.

I am in the money very good at this time, and I have Lily moved into a
private room, and get her all the nurses the law allows, and the best
croakers in Montreal, and flowers, and one thing and another, but one
of the medicos tells me it is even money she will not last three weeks,
and 7 to 5 she does not go a month. Finally Lily tells me what happens,
which is the same thing that happens to a million dolls before and will
happen to a million dolls again. Louie never leaves Halifax, but cons
her into coming over there to him, and she goes because she loves him,
for this is the way dolls are, and personally I will never have them
any other way.

"But," Lily whispers to me, "the bad, bad thing I do is to tell poor
old Grandfather I am going to meet you, Jack O'Hearts, and marry you,
because I know he does not like Louie and will never allow me to go to
him. But he loves you, Jack O'Hearts, and he is so pleased in thinking
you are to be his son. It is wrong to tell Grandfather this story,
and wrong to use your name, and to keep writing him all this time
making him think I am your wife, and with you, but I love Louie, and
I wish Grandfather to be happy because he is very, very old. Do you
understand, Jack O'Hearts?"

Now of course all this is very surprising news to me, indeed, and in
fact I am quite flabbergasted, and as for understanding it, all I
understand is she got a rotten deal from Louie the Lug and that old
Doctor Armand Dorval is going to be all busted up if he hears what
really happens. And thinking about this nice old man, and thinking of
how the only place I ever know peace and quiet is now ruined, I am very
angry with Louie the Lug.

But this is something to be taken up later, so I dismiss him from my
mind, and go out and get me a marriage licence and a priest, and have
this priest marry me to Lily Dorval just two days before she looks up
at me for the last time, and smiles a little smile, and then closes her
eyes for good and all. I wish to say, however, that up to this time I
have no more idea of getting myself a wife than I have of jumping out
the window, which is practically no idea at all.

I take her body back to St. Pierre myself in person, and we bury her in
a little cemetery there, with a big fog around and about, and the siren
moaning away very sad, and old Doctor Armand Dorval whispers to me like
this:

"You will please to sing the song about the long trail, Jack O'Hearts."

So I stand there in the fog, the chances are looking like a big sap,
and I sing as follows:

  "_There's a long, long trail a-winding
    Into the land of my dreams,
  Where the nightingale is singing,
    And the white moon beams._"

But I can get no farther than this, for something comes up in my
throat, and I sit down by the grave of Mrs. Jack O'Hearts, who was Lily
Dorval, and for the first time I remember I bust out crying.

So [he says] this is why I say Louie the Lug is no good.

Well, I am sitting there thinking that Jack O'Hearts is right about
Louie, at that, when in comes Jack's chauffeur, a guy by the name of
Fingers, and he steps up to Jack and says, very low:

"Louie dies half an hour ago at the Polyclinic."

"What does he say before he goes?" Jack asks.

"Not a peep," Fingers says.

"Well," Jack O'Hearts says, "it is sloppy work, at that. I ought to get
him the first crack. But maybe he has a chance to think a little of
Lily Dorval."

Then he turns to me and says like this:

"You guys need not feel bad about losing your tenor, because," he says,
"I will be glad to fill in for him at all times."

Personally I do not think Jack's tenor is as good as Louie the Lug's,
especially when it comes to hitting the very high notes in such songs
as Sweet Adeline, because he does not hold them long enough to let Good
Time Charley in with his bum-bum.

But of course this does not go if Jack O'Hearts hears it, as I am never
sure he does not clip Louie the Lug just to get a place in our quartet,
at that.




10. HOLD 'EM, YALE!


What I am doing in New Haven on the day of a very large football game
between the Harvards and the Yales is something which calls for quite
a little explanation, because I am not such a guy as you will expect
to find in New Haven at any time, and especially on the day of a large
football game.

But there I am, and the reason I am there goes back to a Friday night
when I am sitting in Mindy's restaurant on Broadway thinking of very
little except how I can get hold of a few potatoes to take care of
the old overhead. And while I am sitting there, who comes in but Sam
the Gonoph, who is a ticket speculator by trade, and who seems to be
looking all around and about.

Well, Sam the Gonoph gets to talking to me, and it turns out that he is
looking for a guy by the name of Gigolo Georgie, who is called Gigolo
Georgie because he is always hanging around night clubs wearing a
little moustache and white spats, and dancing with old dolls. In fact,
Gigolo Georgie is nothing but a gentleman bum, and I am surprised that
Sam the Gonoph is looking for him.

But it seems that the reason Sam the Gonoph wishes to find Gigolo
Georgie is to give him a good punch in the snoot, because it seems that
Gigolo Georgie promotes Sam for several duckets to the large football
game between the Harvards and the Yales to sell on commission, and
never kicks back anything whatever to Sam. Naturally Sam considers
Gigolo Georgie nothing but a rascal for doing such a thing to him, and
Sam says he will find Gigolo Georgie and give him a going-over if it is
the last act of his life.

Well, then, Sam explains to me that he has quite a few nice duckets for
the large football game between the Harvards and the Yales and that he
is taking a crew of guys with him to New Haven the next day to hustle
these duckets, and what about me going along and helping to hustle
these duckets and making a few bobs for myself, which is an invitation
that sounds very pleasant to me, indeed.

Now of course it is very difficult for anybody to get nice duckets to a
large football game between the Harvards and the Yales unless they are
personally college guys, and Sam the Gonoph is by no means a college
guy. In fact, the nearest Sam ever comes to a college is once when he
is passing through the yard belonging to the Princetons, but Sam is on
the fly at the time as a gendarme is after him, so he does not really
see much of the college.

But every college guy is entitled to duckets to a large football game
with which his college is connected, and it is really surprising how
many college guys do not care to see large football games even after
they get their duckets, especially if a ticket spec such as Sam the
Gonoph comes along offering them a few bobs more than the duckets are
worth. I suppose this is because a college guy figures he can see a
large football game when he is old, while many things are taking place
around and about that it is necessary for him to see while he is young
enough to really enjoy them, such as the Follies.

Anyway, many college guys are always willing to listen to reason when
Sam the Gonoph comes around offering to buy their duckets, and then Sam
takes these duckets and sells them to customers for maybe ten times
the price the duckets call for, and in this way Sam does very good for
himself.

I know Sam the Gonoph for maybe twenty years, and always he is
speculating in duckets of one kind and another. Sometimes it is duckets
for the world's series, and sometimes for big fights, and sometimes
it is duckets for nothing but lawn-tennis games, although why anybody
wishes to see such a thing as lawn-tennis is always a very great
mystery to Sam the Gonoph and everybody else.

But in all those years I see Sam dodging around under the feet of the
crowds at these large events, or running through the special trains
offering to buy or sell duckets, I never hear of Sam personally
attending any of these events except maybe a baseball game, or a fight,
for Sam has practically no interest in anything but a little profit on
his duckets.

He is a short, chunky, black-looking guy with a big beezer, and he
is always sweating even on a cold day, and he comes from down around
Essex Street, on the lower East Side. Moreover, Sam the Gonoph's crew
generally comes from the lower East Side, too, for as Sam goes along he
makes plenty of potatoes for himself and branches out quite some, and
has a lot of assistants hustling duckets around these different events.

When Sam is younger the cops consider him hard to get along with, and
in fact his monicker, the Gonoph, comes from his young days down on
the lower East Side, and I hear it is Yiddish for thief, but of course
as Sam gets older and starts gathering plenty of potatoes, he will not
think of stealing anything. At least not much, and especially if it is
anything that is nailed down.

Well, anyway, I meet Sam the Gonoph and his crew at the information
desk in Grand Central the next morning, and this is how I come to be in
New Haven on the day of the large football game between the Harvards
and the Yales.

For such a game as this, Sam has all his best hustlers, including such
as Jew Louie, Nubbsy Taylor, Benny South Street and old Liverlips, and
to look at these parties you will never suspect that they are top-notch
ducket hustlers. The best you will figure them is a lot of guys who
are not to be met up with in a dark alley, but then ducket-hustling is
a rough-and-tumble dodge and it will scarcely be good policy to hire
female impersonators.

Now while we are hustling these duckets out around the main gates of
the Yale Bowl I notice a very beautiful little doll of maybe sixteen
or seventeen standing around watching the crowd, and I can see she is
waiting for somebody, as many dolls often do at football games. But I
can also see that this little doll is very much worried as the crowd
keeps going in, and it is getting on toward game time. In fact, by and
by I can see this little doll has tears in her eyes and if there is
anything I hate to see it is tears in a doll's eyes.

So finally I go over to her, and I say as follows: "What is eating you,
little Miss?"

"Oh," she says, "I am waiting for Elliot. He is to come up from New
York and meet me here to take me to the game, but he is not here yet,
and I am afraid something happens to him. Furthermore," she says, the
tears in her eyes getting very large, indeed, "I am afraid I will miss
the game because he has my ticket."

"Why," I say, "this is a very simple proposition. I will sell you
a choice ducket for only a sawbuck, which is ten dollars in your
language, and you are getting such a bargain only because the game is
about to begin, and the market is going down."

"But," she says, "I do not have ten dollars. In fact, I have only fifty
cents left in my purse, and this is worrying me very much, for what
will I do if Elliot does not meet me? You see," she says, "I come from
Miss Peevy's school at Worcester, and I only have enough money to pay
my railroad fare here, and of course I cannot ask Miss Peevy for any
money as I do not wish her to know I am going away."

Well, naturally all this is commencing to sound to me like a hard-luck
story such as any doll is apt to tell, so I go on about my business
because I figure she will next be trying to put the lug on me for a
ducket, or maybe for her railroad fare back to Worcester, although
generally dolls with hard-luck stories live in San Francisco.

She keeps on standing there, and I notice she is now crying more than
somewhat, and I get to thinking to myself that she is about as cute
a little doll as I ever see, although too young for anybody to be
bothering much about. Furthermore, I get to thinking that maybe she is
on the level, at that, with her story.

Well, by this time the crowd is nearly all in the Bowl, and only a few
parties such as coppers and hustlers of one kind and another are left
standing outside, and there is much cheering going on inside, when Sam
the Gonoph comes up looking very much disgusted, and speaks as follows:

"What do you think?" Sam says. "I am left with seven duckets on my
hands, and these guys around here will not pay as much as face value
for them, and they stand me better than three bucks over that. Well,"
Sam says, "I am certainly not going to let them go for less than they
call for if I have to eat them. What do you guys say we use these
duckets ourselves and go in and see the game? Personally," Sam says, "I
often wish to see one of these large football games just to find out
what makes suckers willing to pay so much for duckets."

Well, this seems to strike one and all, including myself, as a great
idea, because none of the rest of us ever see a large football game
either, so we start for the gate, and as we pass the little doll who is
still crying, I say to Sam the Gonoph like this:

"Listen, Sam," I say, "you have seven duckets, and we are only six, and
here is a little doll who is stood up by her guy, and has no ducket,
and no potatoes to buy one with, so what about taking her with us?"

Well, this is all right with Sam the Gonoph, and none of the others
object, so I step up to the little doll and invite her to go with us,
and right away she stops crying and begins smiling, and saying we are
very kind indeed. She gives Sam the Gonoph an extra big smile, and
right away Sam is saying she is very cute, indeed, and then she gives
old Liverlips an even bigger smile, and what is more she takes old
Liverlips by the arm and walks with him, and old Liverlips is not only
very much astonished, but very much pleased. In fact, old Liverlips
begins stepping out very spry, and Liverlips is not such a guy as cares
to have any part of dolls, young or old.

But while walking with old Liverlips, the little doll talks very
friendly to Jew Louie and to Nubbsy Taylor and Benny South Street, and
even to me, and by and by you will think to see us that we are all her
uncles, although of course if this little doll really knows who she
is with, the chances are she will start chucking faints one after the
other.

Anybody can see that she has very little experience in this wicked old
world, and in fact is somewhat rattle-headed, because she gabs away
very freely about her personal business. In fact, before we are in the
Bowl she lets it out that she runs away from Miss Peevy's school to
elope with this Elliot, and she says the idea is they are to be married
in Hartford after the game. In fact, she says Elliot wishes to go to
Hartford and be married before the game.

"But," she says, "my brother John is playing substitute with the Yales
to-day, and I cannot think of getting married to anybody before I see
him play, although I am much in love with Elliot. He is a wonderful
dancer," she says, "and very romantic. I meet him in Atlantic City last
summer. Now we are eloping," she says, "because my father does not care
for Elliot whatever. In fact, my father hates Elliot, although he only
sees him once, and it is because he hates Elliot so that my father
sends me to Miss Peevy's school in Worcester. She is an old pill. Do
you not think my father is unreasonable?" she says.

Well, of course none of us have any ideas on such propositions as this,
although old Liverlips tells the little doll he is with her right or
wrong, and pretty soon we are inside the Bowl and sitting in seats as
good as any in the joint. It seems we are on the Harvards' side of the
field, although of course I will never know this if the little doll
does not mention it.

She seems to know everything about this football business, and as soon
as we sit down she tries to point out her brother playing substitute
for the Yales, saying he is the fifth guy from the end among a bunch of
guys sitting on a bench on the other side of the field all wrapped in
blankets. But we cannot make much of him from where we sit, and anyway
it does not look to me as if he has much of a job.

It seems we are right in the middle of all the Harvards and they are
making an awful racket, what with yelling, and singing, and one thing
and another, because it seems the game is going on when we get in, and
that the Harvards are shoving the Yales around more than somewhat. So
our little doll lets everybody know she is in favour of the Yales by
yelling, "Hold 'em, Yale!"

Personally, I cannot tell which are the Harvards and which are the
Yales at first, and Sam the Gonoph and the others are as dumb as I am,
but she explains the Harvards are wearing the red shirts and the Yales
the blue shirts, and by and by we are yelling for the Yales to hold
'em, too, although of course it is only on account of our little doll
wishing the Yales to hold 'em, and not because any of us care one way
or the other.

Well, it seems that the idea of a lot of guys and a little doll
getting right among them and yelling for the Yales to hold 'em is very
repulsive to the Harvards around us, although any of them must admit
it is very good advice to the Yales, at that, and some of them start
making cracks of one kind and another, especially at our little doll.
The chances are they are very jealous because she is out-yelling them,
because I will say one thing for our little doll, she can yell about as
loud as anybody I ever hear, male or female.

A couple of Harvards sitting in front of old Liverlips are imitating
our little doll's voice, and making guys around them laugh very
heartily, but all of a sudden these parties leave their seats and go
away in great haste, their faces very pale, indeed, and I figure maybe
they are both taken sick at the same moment, but afterwards I learn
that Liverlips takes a big shiv out of his pocket and opens it and
tells them very confidentially that he is going to carve their ears off.

Naturally, I do not blame the Harvards for going away in great haste,
for Liverlips is such a looking guy as you will figure to take great
delight in carving off ears. Furthermore, Nubbsy Taylor and Benny
South Street and Jew Louie and even Sam the Gonoph commence exchanging
such glances with other Harvards around us who are making cracks at
our little doll that presently there is almost a dead silence in our
neighbourhood, except for our little doll yelling, "Hold 'em, Yale!"
You see by this time we are all very fond of our little doll because
she is so cute looking and has so much zing in her, and we do not wish
anybody making cracks at her or at us either, and especially at us.

In fact, we are so fond of her that when she happens to mention that
she is a little chilly, Jew Louie and Nubbsy Taylor slip around among
the Harvards and come back with four steamer rugs, six mufflers, two
pairs of gloves, and a thermos bottle full of hot coffee for her, and
Jew Louie says if she wishes a mink coat to just say the word. But she
already has a mink coat. Furthermore, Jew Louie brings her a big bunch
of red flowers that he finds on a doll with one of the Harvards, and he
is much disappointed when she says it is the wrong colour for her.

Well, finally the game is over, and I do not remember much about it,
although afterwards I hear that our little doll's brother John plays
substitute for the Yales very good. But it seems that the Harvards win,
and our little doll is very sad indeed about this, and is sitting there
looking out over the field, which is now covered with guys dancing
around as if they all suddenly go daffy, and it seems they are all
Harvards, because there is really no reason for the Yales to do any
dancing.

All of a sudden our little doll looks toward one end of the field, and
says as follows:

"Oh, they are going to take our goal posts!"

Sure enough, a lot of the Harvards are gathering around the posts at
this end of the field, and are pulling and hauling at the posts, which
seem to be very stout posts, indeed. Personally, I will not give you
eight cents for these posts, but afterwards one of the Yales tells me
that when a football team wins a game it is considered the proper caper
for this team's boosters to grab the other guy's goal posts. But he is
not able to tell me what good the posts are after they get them, and
this is one thing that will always be a mystery to me.

Anyway, while we are watching the goings-on around the goal posts, our
little doll says come on and jumps up and runs down an aisle and out on
to the field, and into the crowd around the goal posts, so naturally we
follow her. Somehow she manages to wiggle through the crowd of Harvards
around the posts, and the next thing anybody knows she shins up one of
the posts faster than you can say scat, and pretty soon is roosting out
on the cross-bar between the posts like a chipmunk.

Afterwards she explains that her idea is the Harvards will not be
ungentlemanly enough to pull down the goal posts with a lady roosting
on them, but it seems these Harvards are no gentlemen, and keep on
pulling, and the posts commence to teeter, and our little doll is
teetering with them, although of course she is in no danger if she
falls because she is sure to fall on the Harvards' noggins, and the way
I look at it, the noggin of anybody who will be found giving any time
to pulling down goal posts is apt to be soft enough to break a very
long fall.

Now Sam the Gonoph and old Liverlips and Nubbsy Taylor and Benny South
Street and Jew Louie and I reach the crowd around the goal posts at
about the same time, and our little doll sees us from her roost and
yells to us as follows:

"Do not let them take our posts!"

Well, about this time one of the Harvards who seems to be about nine
feet high reaches over six other guys and hits me on the chin and
knocks me so far that when I pick myself up I am pretty well out of the
way of everybody and have a chance to see what is going on.

Afterwards somebody tells me that the guy probably thinks I am one of
the Yales coming to the rescue of the goal posts, but I wish to say I
will always have a very low opinion of college guys, because I remember
two other guys punch me as I am going through the air, unable to defend
myself.

Now Sam the Gonoph and Nubbsy Taylor and Jew Louie and Benny South
Street and old Liverlips somehow manage to ease their way through the
crowd until they are under the goal posts, and our little doll is much
pleased to see them, because the Harvards are now making the posts
teeter more than somewhat with their pulling, and it looks as if the
posts will go any minute.

Of course Sam the Gonoph does not wish any trouble with these parties,
and he tries to speak nicely to the guys who are pulling at the posts,
saying as follows:

"Listen," Sam says, "the little doll up there does not wish you to take
these posts."

Well, maybe they do not hear Sam's words in the confusion, or if they
do hear them they do not wish to pay any attention to them, for one of
the Harvards mashes Sam's derby hat down over his eyes, and another
smacks old Liverlips on the left ear, while Jew Louie and Nubbsy Taylor
and Benny South Street are shoved around quite some.

"All right," Sam the Gonoph says, as soon as he can pull his hat off
his eyes, "all right, gentlemen, if you wish to play this way. Now,
boys, let them have it!"

So Sam the Gonoph and Nubbsy Taylor and Jew Louie and Benny South
Street and old Liverlips begin letting them have it, and what they
let them have it with is not only their dukes, but with the good old
difference in their dukes, because these guys are by no means suckers
when it comes to a battle, and they all carry something in their
pockets to put in their dukes in case of a fight, such as a dollar's
worth of nickels rolled up tight.

Furthermore, they are using the old leather, kicking guys in the
stomach when they are not able to hit them on the chin, and Liverlips
is also using his noodle to good advantage, grabbing guys by their coat
lapels and yanking them into him so he can butt them between the eyes
with his noggin, and I wish to say that old Liverlips' noggin is a very
dangerous weapon at all times.

Well, the ground around them is soon covered with Harvards, and it
seems that some Yales are also mixed up with them, being Yales who
think Sam the Gonoph and his guys are other Yales defending the goal
posts, and wishing to help out. But of course Sam the Gonoph and his
guys cannot tell the Yales from the Harvards, and do not have time to
ask which is which, so they are just letting everybody have it who
comes along. And while all this is going on our little doll is sitting
up on the cross-bar and yelling plenty of encouragement to Sam and his
guys.

Now it turns out that these Harvards are by no means soft touches in
a scrabble such as this, and as fast as they are flattened they get
up and keep belting away, and while the old experience is running for
Sam the Gonoph and Jew Louie and Nubbsy Taylor and Benny South Street
and old Liverlips early in the fight, the Harvards have youth in their
favour.

Pretty soon the Harvards are knocking down Sam the Gonoph, then they
start knocking down Nubbsy Taylor, and by and by they are knocking
down Benny South Street and Jew Louie and Liverlips, and it is so much
fun that the Harvards forget all about the goal posts. Of course as
fast as Sam the Gonoph and his guys are knocked down they also get up,
but the Harvards are too many for them, and they are getting an awful
shellacking when the nine-foot guy who flattens me, and who is knocking
down Sam the Gonoph so often he is becoming a great nuisance to Sam,
sings out:

"Listen," he says, "these are game guys, even if they do go to Yale.
Let us cease knocking them down," he says, "and give them a cheer."

So the Harvards knock down Sam the Gonoph and Nubbsy Taylor and Jew
Louie and Benny South Street and old Liverlips just once more and then
all the Harvards put their heads together and say rah-rah-rah, very
loud, and go away, leaving the goal posts still standing, with our
little doll still roosting on the cross-bar, although afterwards I hear
some Harvards who are not in the fight get the posts at the other end
of the field and sneak away with them. But I always claim these posts
do not count.

Well, sitting there on the ground because he is too tired to get up
from the last knockdown, and holding one hand to his right eye, which
is closed tight, Sam the Gonoph is by no means a well guy, and all
around and about him is much suffering among his crew. But our little
doll is hopping up and down chattering like a jaybird and running
between old Liverlips, who is stretched out against one goal post, and
Nubbsy Taylor, who is leaning up against the other, and she is trying
to mop the blood off their kissers with a handkerchief the size of a
postage stamp.

Benny South Street is laying across Jew Louie and both are still
snoring from the last knockdown, and the Bowl is now pretty much
deserted except for the newspaper scribes away up in the press box, who
do not seem to realize that the Battle of the Century just comes off in
front of them. It is coming on dark, when all of a sudden a guy pops up
out of the dusk wearing white spats and an overcoat with a fur collar,
and he rushes up to our little doll.

"Clarice," he says, "I am looking for you high and low. My train is
stalled for hours behind a wreck the other side of Bridgeport, and I
get here just after the game is over. But," he says, "I figure you will
be waiting somewhere for me. Let us hurry on to Hartford, darling," he
says.

Well, when he hears this voice, Sam the Gonoph opens his good eye wide
and takes a peek at the guy. Then all of a sudden Sam jumps up and
wobbles over to the guy and hits him a smack between the eyes. Sam is
wobbling because his legs are not so good from the shellacking he takes
off the Harvards, and furthermore he is away off in his punching as the
guy only goes to his knees and comes right up standing again as our
little doll lets out a screech and speaks as follows:

"Oo-oo!" she says. "Do not hit Elliot! He is not after our goal posts!"

"Elliot?" Sam the Gonoph says. "This is no Elliot. This is nobody but
Gigolo Georgie. I can tell him by his white spats," Sam says, "and I am
now going to get even for the pasting I take from the Harvards."

Then he nails the guy again and this time he seems to have a little
more on his punch, for the guy goes down and Sam the Gonoph gives him
the leather very good, although our little doll is still screeching,
and begging Sam not to hurt Elliot. But of course the rest of us know
it is not Elliot, no matter what he may tell her, but only Gigolo
Georgie.

Well, the rest of us figure we may as well take a little something
out of Georgie's hide, too, but as we start for him he gives a quick
wiggle and hops to his feet and tears across the field, and the last we
see of him is his white spats flying through one of the portals.

Now a couple of other guys come up out of the dusk, and one of them is
a tall, fine-looking guy with a white moustache and anybody can see
that he is somebody, and what happens but our little doll runs right
into his arms and kisses him on the white moustache and calls him daddy
and starts to cry more than somewhat, so I can see we lose our little
doll then and there. And now the guy with the white moustache walks up
to Sam the Gonoph and sticks out his duke and says as follows:

"Sir," he says, "permit me the honour of shaking the hand which does me
the very signal service of chastising the scoundrel who just escapes
from the field. And," he says, "permit me to introduce myself to you.
I am J. Hildreth Van Cleve, president of the Van Cleve Trust. I am
notified early to-day by Miss Peevy of my daughter's sudden departure
from school, and we learn she purchases a ticket for New Haven. I at
once suspect this fellow has something to do with it. Fortunately," he
says, "I have these private detectives here keeping tab on him for some
time, knowing my child's schoolgirl infatuation for him, so we easily
trail him here. We are on the train with him, and arrive in time for
your last little scene with him. Sir," he says, "again I thank you."

"I know who you are, Mr. Van Cleve," Sam the Gonoph says. "You are the
Van Cleve who is down to his last forty million. But," he says, "do
not thank me for putting the slug on Gigolo Georgie. He is a bum in
spades, and I am only sorry he fools your nice little kid even for a
minute, although," Sam says, "I figure she must be dumber than she
looks to be fooled by such a guy as Gigolo Georgie."

"I hate him," the little doll says. "I hate him because he is a coward.
He does not stand up and fight when he is hit like you and Liverlips
and the others. I never wish to see him again."

"Do not worry," Sam the Gonoph says. "I will be too close to Gigolo
Georgie as soon as I recover from my wounds for him to stay in this
part of the country."

Well, I do not see Sam the Gonoph or Nubbsy Taylor or Benny South
Street or Jew Louie or Liverlips for nearly a year after this, and
then it comes on fall again and one day I get to thinking that here it
is Friday and the next day the Harvards are playing the Yales a large
football game in Boston.

I figure it is a great chance for me to join up with Sam the Gonoph
again to hustle duckets for him for this game, and I know Sam will be
leaving along about midnight with his crew. So I go over to the Grand
Central station at such a time, and sure enough he comes along by and
by, busting through the crowd in the station with Nubbsy Taylor and
Benny South Street and Jew Louie and old Liverlips at his heels, and
they seem very much excited.

"Well, Sam," I say, as I hurry along with them, "here I am ready
to hustle duckets for you again, and I hope and trust we do a nice
business."

"Duckets!" Sam the Gonoph says. "We are not hustling duckets for
this game, although you can go with us, and welcome. We are going
to Boston," he says, "to root for the Yales to kick hell out of the
Harvards and we are going as the personal guests of Miss Clarice Van
Cleve and her old man."

"Hold 'em, Yale!" old Liverlips says, as he pushes me to one side and
the whole bunch goes trotting through the gate to catch their train,
and I then notice they are all wearing blue feathers in their hats with
a little white Y on these feathers such as college guys always wear at
football games, and that moreover Sam the Gonoph is carrying a Yale
pennant.




11. EARTHQUAKE


Personally, I do not care for coppers, but I believe in being courteous
to them at all times, so when Johnny Brannigan comes into Mindy's
restaurant one Friday evening and sits down in the same booth with me,
because there are no other vacant seats in the joint, I give him a huge
hello.

Furthermore, I offer him a cigarette and say how pleased I am to see
how well he is looking, although as a matter of fact Johnny Brannigan
looks very terrible, what with big black circles under his eyes and his
face thinner than somewhat.

In fact, Johnny Brannigan looks as if he is sick, and I am secretly
hoping that it is something fatal, because the way I figure it there
are a great many coppers in this world, and a few less may be a good
thing for one and all concerned.

But naturally I do not mention this hope to Johnny Brannigan, as Johnny
Brannigan belongs to what is called the gunman squad and is known to
carry a blackjack in his pants pocket and furthermore he is known to
boff guys on their noggins with this jack if they get too fresh with
him, and for all I know Johnny Brannigan may consider such a hope about
his health very fresh indeed.

Now the last time I see Johnny Brannigan before this is in Good Time
Charley Bernstein's little joint in Forty-eighth Street with three
other coppers, and what Johnny is there for is to put the arm on a guy
by the name of Earthquake, who is called Earthquake because he is so
fond of shaking things up.

In fact, at the time I am speaking of, Earthquake has this whole town
shaken up, what with shooting and stabbing and robbing different
citizens, and otherwise misconducting himself, and the law wishes to
place Earthquake in the electric chair, as he is considered a great
knock to the community.

Now the only reason Brannigan does not put the arm on Earthquake at
this time is because Earthquake picks up one of Good Time Charley
Bernstein's tables and kisses Johnny Brannigan with same, and
furthermore, Earthquake outs with the old equalizer and starts blasting
away at the coppers who are with Johnny Brannigan, and he keeps them so
busy dodging slugs that they do not have any leisure to put the arm on
him, and the next thing anybody knows, Earthquake takes it on the lam
out of there.

Well, personally, I also take it on the lam myself, as I do not wish
to be around when Johnny Brannigan comes to, as I figure Johnny may be
somewhat bewildered and will start boffing people over the noggin with
his jack thinking they are all Earthquake, no matter who they are, and
I do not see Johnny again until this evening in Mindy's.

But in the meantime I hear rumours that Johnny Brannigan is out of
town looking for Earthquake, because it seems that while misconducting
himself Earthquake severely injures a copper by the name of Mulcahy.
In fact, it seems that Earthquake injures him so severely that Mulcahy
hauls off and dies, and if there is one thing that is against the law
in this town it is injuring a copper in such a manner. In fact, it is
apt to cause great indignation among other coppers.

It is considered very illegal to severely injure any citizen in this
town in such a way as to make him haul off and die, but naturally it
is not apt to cause any such indignation as injuring a copper, as this
town has more citizens to spare than coppers.

Well, sitting there with Johnny Brannigan, I get to wondering if he
ever meets up with Earthquake while he is looking for him, and if so
how he comes out, for Earthquake is certainly not such a guy as I will
care to meet up with, even if I am a copper.

Earthquake is a guy of maybe six foot three, and weighing a matter of
two hundred and twenty pounds, and all these pounds are nothing but
muscle. Anybody will tell you that Earthquake is one of the strongest
guys in this town, because it seems he once works in a foundry and
picks up much of his muscle there. In fact, Earthquake likes to show
how strong he is at all times, and one of his ways of showing this is
to grab a full-sized guy in either duke and hold them straight up in
the air over his head.

Sometimes after he gets tired of holding these guys over his head, he
will throw them plumb away, especially if they are coppers, or maybe
knock their noggins together and leave them with their noggins very
sore indeed. When he is in real good humour, Earthquake does not think
anything of going into a night club and taking it apart and chucking
the pieces out into the street, along with the owner and the waiters
and maybe some of the customers, so you can see Earthquake is a very
high-spirited guy, and full of fun.

Personally, I do not see why Earthquake does not get a job in a circus
as a strong guy, because there is no percentage in wasting all this
strength for nothing, but when I mention this idea to Earthquake one
time, he says he cannot bear to think of keeping regular hours such as
a circus might wish.

Well, Johnny Brannigan does not have anything to say to me at first as
we sit there in Mindy's, but by and by he looks at me and speaks as
follows:

"You remember Earthquake?" he says. "You remember he is very strong?"

"Strong?" I say to Johnny Brannigan. "Why, there is nobody stronger
than Earthquake. Why," I say, "Earthquake is strong enough to hold up a
building."

"Yes," Johnny Brannigan says, "what you say is very true. He is strong
enough to hold up a building. Yes," he says, "Earthquake is very strong
indeed. Now I will tell you about Earthquake."

It is maybe three months after Earthquake knocks off Mulcahy [Johnny
Brannigan says] that we get a tip he is in a town by the name of New
Orleans, and because I am personally acquainted with him, I am sent
there to put the arm on him. But when I get to this New Orleans, I
find Earthquake blows out of there and does not leave any forwarding
address.

Well, I am unable to get any trace of him for some days, and it looks
as if I am on a bust, when I happen to run into a guy by the name of
Saul the Soldier, from Greenwich Village. Saul the Soldier winds up in
New Orleans following the horse races, and he is very glad indeed to
meet a friend from his old home town, and I am also glad to meet Saul,
because I am getting very lonesome in New Orleans. Well, Saul knows
New Orleans pretty well, and he takes me around and about, and finally
I ask him if he can tell me where Earthquake is, and Saul speaks as
follows:

"Why," Saul says, "Earthquake sails away on a ship for Central America
not long ago with a lot of guys that are going to join a revolution
there. I think," Saul says, "they are going to a place by the name of
Nicaragua."

Well, I wire my headquarters and they tell me to go after Earthquake no
matter where he is, because it seems the bladders back home are asking
what kind of a police force do we have, anyway, and why is somebody not
arrested for something.

I sail on a fruit steamer, and finally I get to this Nicaragua, and to
a town that is called Managua.

Well, for a week or so I knock around here and there looking for
Earthquake, but I cannot find hide or hair of him, and I am commencing
to think that Saul the Soldier gives me a bum steer.

It is pretty hot in this town of Managua, and of an afternoon when I
get tired of looking for Earthquake I go to a little park in the centre
of the town where there are many shade trees. It is a pretty park,
although down there they call it a plaza, and across from this plaza
there is a big old two-story stone building that seems to be a convent,
because I see many nuns and small female kids popping in and out of a
door on one side of the building, which seems to be the main entrance.

One afternoon I am sitting in the little plaza when a big guy in sloppy
white clothes comes up and sits down on another bench near me, and I am
greatly surprised to see that this guy is nobody but Earthquake.

He does not see me at first, and in fact he does not know I am present
until I step over to him and out with my jack and knock him bow-legged;
because, knowing Earthquake, I know there is no use starting out with
him by shaking hands. I do not boff him so very hard, at that, but just
hard enough to make him slightly insensible for a minute, while I put
the handcuffs on him.

Well, when he opens his eyes, Earthquake looks up at the trees, as if
he thinks maybe a coconut drops down and beans him, and it is several
minutes before he sees me, and then he leaps up and roars, and acts
as if he is greatly displeased. But then he discovers that he is
handcuffed, and he sits down again and speaks as follows:

"Hello, copper," Earthquake says. "When do you get in?"

I tell him how long I am there, and how much inconvenience he causes
me by not being more prominent, and Earthquake says the fact of the
matter is he is out in the jungles with a lot of guys trying to rig
up a revolution, but they are so slow getting started they finally
exasperate him, and he comes into town.

Well, finally we get to chatting along very pleasant about this and
that, and although he is away only a few months, Earthquake is much
interested in what is going on in New York and asks me many questions,
and I tell him that the liquor around town is getting better.

"Furthermore, Earthquake," I say, "they are holding a nice warm seat
for you up at Ossining."

"Well, copper," Earthquake says, "I am sorry I scrag Mulcahy, at that.
In fact," he says, "it really is an accident. I do not mean to scrag
him. I am aiming at another guy, copper," he says. "In fact," he says,
"I am aiming at you."

Now about this time the bench seems to move from under me, and I find
myself sitting on the ground, and the ground also seems to be trying to
get from under me, and I hear loud crashing noises here and there, and
a great roaring, and at first I think maybe Earthquake takes to shaking
things up, when I see him laid out on the ground about fifty feet from
me.

I get to my pins, but the ground is still wobbling somewhat and I can
scarcely walk over to Earthquake, who is now sitting up very indignant,
and when he sees me he says to me like this:

"Personally," he says, "I consider it a very dirty trick for you to
boff me again when I am not looking."

Well, I explain to Earthquake that I do not boff him again, and that as
near as I can figure out what happens is that we are overtaken by what
he is named for, which is an earthquake, and looking around and about,
anybody can see that this is very true, as great clouds of dust are
rising from piles of stone and timber where fair-sized buildings stand
a few minutes before, and guys and dolls are running every which way.

Now I happens to look across at the convent, and I can see that it
is something of a wreck and is very likely to be more so any minute,
as the walls are teetering this way and that, and mostly they are
teetering inward. Furthermore, I can hear much screeching from inside
the old building.

Then I notice the door in the side of the building that seems to be the
main entrance to the convent is gone, leaving the doorway open, and now
I must explain to you about this doorway, as it figures quite some in
what later comes off. It is a fairly wide doorway in the beginning with
a frame of heavy timber set in the side of the stone building, with a
timber arch at the top, and the wall around this doorway seems to be
caving in from the top and sides, so that the doorway is now shaped
like the letter V upside down, with the timber framework bending,
instead of breaking.

As near as I can make out, this doorway is the only entrance to the
convent that is not closed up by falling stone and timber, and it is a
sure thing that pretty soon this opening will be plugged up, too, so I
speak to Earthquake as follows:

"Earthquake," I say, "there are a lot of nuns and kids in this joint
over here, and I judge from the screeching going on inside that some
of them are very much alive. But," I say, "they will not be alive in a
few minutes, because the walls are going to tip over and make jelly of
them."

"Why, yes," Earthquake says, taking a peek at the convent, "what you
say seems reasonable. Well, copper," he says, "what is to be done in
this situation?"

"Well," I say, "I see a chance to snatch a few of them out of there
if you will help me. Earthquake," I say, "I understand you are a very
strong guy?"

"Strong?" Earthquake says. "Why," he says, "you know I am maybe the
strongest guy in the world."

"Earthquake," I say, "you see the doorway yonder? Well, Earthquake,
if you are strong enough to hold this doorway apart and keep it from
caving in, I will slip in through it and pass out any nuns and kids
that may be alive."

"Why," Earthquake says, "this is as bright an idea as I ever hear from
a copper. Why," he says, "I will hold this doorway apart until next
Pancake Tuesday."

Then Earthquake holds out his dukes and I unlock the cuffs. Then he
runs over to the doorway of the convent, and I run after him.

This doorway is now closing in very fast indeed, from the weight of
tons of stones pressing against the timber frame, and by the time we
get there the letter V upside down is so very narrow from top to bottom
that Earthquake has a tough time wedging himself into what little
opening is left.

But old Earthquake gets in, facing inward, and once in, he begins
pushing against the door-frame on either side of him, and I can see at
once how he gets his reputation as a strong guy. The doorway commences
to widen, and as it widens Earthquake keeps spraddling his legs apart,
so that pretty soon there is quite a space between his legs. His head
is bent forward so far his chin is resting on his wishbone, as there
is plenty of weight on Earthquake's neck and shoulders, and in fact he
reminds me of pictures I see of a guy by the name of Atlas holding up
the world.

It is through the opening between his spraddled-out legs that I pop,
looking for the nuns and the kids. Most of them are in a big room on
the ground floor of the building, and they are all huddled up close
together screeching in chorus.

I motion them to follow me, and I lead them back over the wreckage,
and along the hall to the spot where Earthquake is holding the doorway
apart, and I wish to state at this time he is doing a very nice job of
same.

But the weight on Earthquake's shoulders must be getting very hefty
indeed, because his shoulders are commencing to stoop under it, and his
chin is now almost down to his stomach, and his face is purple.

Now through Earthquake's spraddled-out legs, and into the street
outside the convent wall, I push five nuns and fifteen female kids. One
old nun refuses to be pushed through Earthquake's legs, and I finally
make out from the way she is waving her hands around and about that
there are other kids in the convent, and she wishes me to get them,
too.

Well, I can see that any more delay is going to be something of a
strain on Earthquake, and maybe a little irritating to him, so I speak
to him as follows:

"Earthquake," I say, "you are looking somewhat peaked to me, and plumb
tired out. Now then," I say, "if you will step aside, I will hold the
doorway apart awhile, and you can go with this old nun and find the
rest of the kids."

"Copper," Earthquake says, speaking from off his chest because he
cannot get his head up very high, "I can hold this doorway apart with
my little fingers if one of them is not sprained, so go ahead and round
up the rest."

So I let the old nun lead me back to another part of the building,
where I judge she knows there are more kids, and in fact the old nun
is right, but it only takes one look to show me there is no use taking
these kids out of the place.

Then we go back to Earthquake, and he hears us coming across the
rubbish and half-raises his head from off his chest and looks at me,
and I can see the sweat is dribbling down his kisser and his eyes are
bugging out, and anybody can see that he is quite upset. As I get close
to him he speaks to me as follows:

"Get her out quick," he says. "Get the old doll out."

So I push the old nun through Earthquake's spraddled-out legs into the
open, and I notice there is not as much space between these legs as
formerly, so I judge the old mumblety-pegs are giving out. Then I say
to Earthquake like this:

"Well, Earthquake," I say, "it is now time for you and me to be going.
I will go outside first," I say, "and then you can ease yourself out,
and we will look around for a means of getting back to New York, as
headquarters will be getting worried."

"Listen, copper," Earthquake says, "I am never going to get out of this
spot. If I move an inch forward or an inch backward, down comes this
whole shebang. But, copper," he says, "I see before I get in here that
it is a hundred to one against me getting out again, so do not think
I am trapped without knowing it. The way I look at it," Earthquake
says, "it is better than the chair, at that. I can last a few minutes
longer," he says, "and you better get outside."

Well, I pop out between Earthquake's spraddled-out legs, because I
figure I am better off outside than in, no matter what, and when I am
outside I stand there looking at Earthquake and wondering what I can do
about him. But I can see that he is right when he tells me that if he
moves one way or another the cave-in will come, so there seems to be
nothing much I can do.

Then I hear Earthquake calling me, and I step up close enough to hear
him speak as follows:

"Copper," he says, "tell Mulcahy's people I am sorry. And do not forget
that you owe old Earthquake whatever you figure your life is worth. I
do not know yet why I do not carry out my idea of letting go all holds
the minute you push the old nun out of here, and taking you with me
wherever I am going. Maybe," he says, "I am getting soft-hearted. Well,
good-bye, copper," he says.

"Good-bye, Earthquake," I say, and I walk away.

So, [Johnny Brannigan says], now you know about Earthquake.

"Well," I say, "this is indeed a harrowing story, Johnny. But," I say,
"if you leave Earthquake holding up anything maybe he is still holding
it up, because Earthquake is certainly a very strong guy."

"Yes," Johnny Brannigan says, "he is very strong indeed. But," he says,
"as I am walking away another shock hits, and when I get off the ground
again and look at the convent, I can see that not even Earthquake is
strong enough to stand off this one."




12. "GENTLEMEN, THE KING!"


On Tuesday evenings I always go to Bobby's Chop House to get myself a
beef stew, the beef stews in Bobby's being very nourishing, indeed, and
quite reasonable. In fact, the beef stews in Bobby's are considered a
most fashionable dish by one and all on Broadway on Tuesday evenings.

So on this Tuesday evening I am talking about, I am in Bobby's
wrapping myself around a beef stew and reading the race results in the
_Journal_, when who comes into the joint but two old friends of mine
from Philly, and a third guy I never see before in my life, but who
seems to be an old sort of guy, and very fierce looking.

One of these old friends of mine from Philly is a guy by the name of
Izzy Cheesecake, who is called Izzy Cheesecake because he is all the
time eating cheesecake around delicatessen joints, although of course
this is nothing against him, as cheesecake is very popular in some
circles, and goes very good with Java. Anyway, this Izzy Cheesecake has
another name, which is Morris something, and he is slightly Jewish, and
has a large beezer, and is considered a handy man in many respects.

The other old friend of mine from Philly is a guy by the name of Kitty
Quick, who is maybe thirty-two or three years old, and who is a lively
guy in every way. He is a great hand for wearing good clothes, and he
is mobbed up with some very good people in Philly in his day, and at
one time has plenty of dough, although I hear that lately things are
not going so good for Kitty Quick, or for anybody else in Philly, as
far as that is concerned.

Now of course I do not rap to these old friends of mine from Philly at
once, and in fact I put the _Journal_ up in front of my face, because
it is never good policy to rap to visitors in this town, especially
visitors from Philly, until you know why they are visiting. But it
seems that Kitty Quick spies me before I can get the _Journal_ up high
enough, and he comes over to my table at once, bringing Izzy Cheesecake
and the other guy with him, so naturally I give them a big hello, very
cordial, and ask them to sit down and have a few beef stews with me,
and as they pull up chairs, Kitty Quick says to me like this:

"Do you know Jo-jo from Chicago?" he says, pointing his thumb at the
third guy.

Well, of course I know Jo-jo by his reputation, which is very alarming,
but I never meet up with him before, and if it is left to me, I will
never meet up with him at all, because Jo-jo is considered a very
uncouth character, even in Chicago.

He is an Italian, and a short wide guy, very heavy set, and slow
moving, and with jowls you can cut steaks off of, and sleepy eyes,
and he somehow reminds me of an old lion I once see in a cage in
Ringling's circus. He has a black moustache, and he is an old-timer
out in Chicago, and is pointed out to visitors to the city as a very
remarkable guy because he lives as long as he does, which is maybe
forty years.

His right name is Antonio something, and why he is called Jo-jo I never
hear, but I suppose it is because Jo-jo is handier than Antonio. He
shakes hands with me, and says he is pleased to meet me, and then he
sits down and begins taking on beef stew very rapidly while Kitty Quick
says to me as follows:

"Listen," he says, "do you know anybody in Europe?"

Well, this is a most unexpected question, and naturally I am not going
to reply to unexpected questions by guys from Philly without thinking
them over very carefully, so to gain time while I think, I say to Kitty
Quick:

"Which Europe do you mean?"

"Why," Kitty says, greatly surprised, "is there more than one Europe? I
mean the big Europe on the Atlantic Ocean. This is the Europe where we
are going, and if you know anybody there we will be glad to go around
and say hello to them for you. We are going to Europe on the biggest
proposition anybody ever hears of," he says. "In fact," he says, "it is
a proposition which will make us all rich. We are sailing to-night."

Well, offhand I cannot think of anybody I know in Europe, and if I do
know anybody there I will certainly not wish such parties as Kitty
Quick, and Izzy Cheesecake, and Jo-jo going around saying hello to
them, but of course I do not mention such a thought out loud. I only
say I hope and trust that they have a very good _bon voyage_ and do not
suffer too much from seasickness. Naturally I do not ask what their
proposition is, because if I ask such a question they may think I wish
to find out, and will consider me a very nosey guy, but I figure the
chances are they are going to look after some commercial matter, such
as Scotch, or maybe cordials.

Anyway, Kitty Quick and Izzy Cheesecake and Jo-jo eat up quite a few
beef stews, and leave me to pay the check, and this is the last I
see or hear of any of them for several months. Then one day I am in
Philly to see a prizefight, and I run into Kitty Quick on Broad Street,
looking pretty much the same as usual, and I ask him how he comes out
in Europe.

"It is no good," Kitty says. "The trip is something of a bust, although
we see many interesting sights, and have quite a few experiences.
Maybe," Kitty says, "you will like to hear why we go to Europe? It is
a very unusual story, indeed, and is by no means a lie, and I will be
pleased to tell it to someone I think will believe it."

So we go into Walter's restaurant, and sit down in a corner, and order
up a little java, and Kitty Quick tells me the story as follows:

It all begins [Kitty says] with a certain big lawyer coming to me here
in Philly, and wishing to know if I care to take up a proposition
which will make me rich, and naturally I say I can think of nothing
that will please me more, because at this time things are very bad
indeed in Philly, what with investigations going on here and there, and
plenty of heat around and about, and I do not have more than a few bobs
in my pants pocket, and can think of no way to get any more.

So this lawyer takes me to the Ritz-Carlton hotel, and there he
introduces me to a guy by the name of Count Saro, and the lawyer says
he will okay anything Saro has to say to me 100 per cent, and then he
immediately takes the wind as if he does not care to hear what Saro has
to say. But I know this mouthpiece is not putting any proposition away
as okay unless he knows it is pretty much okay, because he is a smart
guy at his own dodge, and everything else, and has plenty of coco-nuts.

Now this Count Saro is a little guy with an eyebrow moustache, and he
wears striped pants, and white spats, and a cutaway coat, and a monocle
in one eye, and he seems to be a foreign nobleman, although he talks
English first rate. I do not care much for Count Saro's looks, but I
will say one thing for him he is very businesslike, and gets down to
cases at once.

He tells me that he is the representative of a political party in his
home country in Europe which has a King, and this country wishes to
get rid of the King, because Count Saro says Kings are out of style in
Europe, and that no country can get anywhere with a King these days.
His proposition is for me to take any assistants I figure I may need
and go over and get rid of this King, and Count Saro says he will pay
two hundred G's for the job in good old American scratch, and will
lay twenty-five G's on the line at once, leaving the balance with the
lawyer to be paid to me when everything is finished.

Well, this is a most astonishing proposition, indeed, because while I
often hear of propositions to get rid of other guys, I never before
hear of a proposition to get rid of a King. Furthermore, it does not
sound reasonable to me, as getting rid of a King is apt to attract
plenty of attention, and criticism, but Count Saro explains to me that
his country is a small, out-of-the-way country, and that his political
party will take control of the telegraph wires and everything else as
soon as I get rid of the King, so nobody will give the news much of a
tumble outside the country.

"Everything will be done very quietly, and in good order," Count Saro
says, "and there will be no danger to you whatever."

Well, naturally I wish to know from Count Saro why he does not get
somebody in his own country to do such a job, especially if he can pay
so well for it, and he says to me like this:

"Well," he says, "in the first place there is no one in our country
with enough experience in such matters to be trusted, and in the second
place we do not wish anyone in our country to seem to be tangled up
with getting rid of the King. It will cause internal complications,"
he says. "An outsider is more logical," he says, "because it is quite
well known that in the palace of the King there are many valuable
jewels, and it will seem a natural play for outsiders, especially
Americans, to break into the palace to get these jewels, and if they
happen to get rid of the King while getting the jewels, no one will
think it is anything more than an accident, such as often occurs in
your country."

Furthermore, Count Saro tells me that everything will be laid out for
me in advance by his people, so I will have no great bother getting
into the palace to get rid of the King, but he says of course I must
not really take the valuable jewels, because his political party wishes
to keep them for itself.

Well, I do not care much for the general idea at all, but Count Saro
whips out a bundle of scratch, and weeds off twenty-five large coarse
notes of a G apiece, and there it is in front of me, and looking at all
this dough, and thinking how tough times are, what with banks busting
here and there, I am very much tempted indeed, especially as I am
commencing to think this Count Saro is some kind of a nut, and is only
speaking through his hat about getting rid of a King.

"Listen," I say to Count Saro, as he sits there watching me, "how
do you know I will not take this dough off of you and then never do
anything whatever for it?"

"Why," he says, much surprised, "you are recommended to me as an honest
man, and I accept your references. Anyway," he says, "if you do not
carry out your agreement with me, you will only hurt yourself, because
you will lose a hundred and seventy-five G's more and the lawyer will
make you very hard to catch."

Well, the upshot of it is I shake hands with Count Saro, and then go
out to find Izzy Cheesecake, although I am still thinking Count Saro
is a little daffy, and while I am looking for Izzy, who do I see but
Jo-jo, and Jo-jo tells me that he is on a vacation from Chicago for
awhile, because it seems somebody out there claims he is a public
enemy, which Jo-jo says is nothing but a big lie, as he is really very
fond of the public at all times.

Naturally I am glad to come across a guy such as Jo-jo, because he
is most trustworthy, and naturally Jo-jo is very glad to hear of a
proposition that will turn him an honest dollar while he is on his
vacation. So Jo-jo and Izzy and I have a meeting, and we agree that I
am to have a hundred G's for finding the plant, while Izzy and Jo-jo
are to get fifty G's apiece, and this is how we come to go to Europe.

Well, we land at a certain spot in Europe, and who is there to meet us
but another guy with a monocle, who states that his name is Baron von
Terp, or some such, and who says he is representing Count Saro, and I
am commencing to wonder if Count Saro's country is filled with one-eyed
guys. Anyway, this Baron von Terp takes us travelling by trains and
automobiles for several days, until finally after an extra long hop in
an automobile we come to the outskirts of a nice-looking little burg,
which seems to be the place we are headed for.

Now Baron von Terp drops us in a little hotel on the outskirts of
the town, and says he must leave us because he cannot afford to be
seen with us, although he explains he does not mean this as a knock
to us. In fact, Baron von Terp says he finds us very nice travelling
companions, indeed, except for Jo-jo wishing to engage in target
practice along the route with his automatic Roscoe, and using such
animals as stray dogs and chickens for his targets. He says he does not
even mind Izzy Cheesecake's singing, although personally I will always
consider this one of the big drawbacks to the journey.

Before he goes, Baron von Terp draws me a rough diagram of the inside
of the palace where we are to get rid of the King, giving me a layout
of all the rooms and doors. He says usually there are guards in and
about this palace, but that his people arrange it so these guards will
not be present around nine o'clock this night, except one guy who may
be on guard at the door of the King's bedroom, and Baron von Terp says
if we guzzle this guy it will be all right with him, because he does
not like the guy, anyway.

But the general idea, he says, is for us to work fast and quietly, so
as to be in and out of there inside of an hour or so, leaving no trail
behind us, and I say this will suit me and Izzy Cheesecake and Jo-jo
very well, indeed, as we are getting tired of travelling, and wish to
go somewhere and take a long rest.

Well, after explaining all this, Baron von Terp takes the wind, leaving
us a big fast car with an ugly-looking guy driving it who does not talk
much English, but is supposed to know all the routes, and it is in this
car that we leave the little hotel just before nine o'clock as per
instructions, and head for the palace, which turns out to be nothing
but a large square old building in the middle of a sort of park, with
the town around and about, but some distance off.

Ugly-face drives right into this park and up to what seems to be the
front door of the building, and the three of us get out of the car, and
Ugly-face pulls the car off into the shadow of some trees to wait for
us.

Personally, I am looking for plenty of heat when we start to go into
the palace, and I have the old equalizer where I can get at it without
too much trouble, while Jo-jo and Izzy Cheesecake also have their rods
handy. But just as Baron von Terp tells us, there are no guards around,
and in fact there is not a soul in sight as we walk into the palace
door, and find ourselves in a big hall with paintings, and armour, and
old swords, and one thing and another hanging around and about, and I
can see that this is a perfect plant, indeed.

I out with my diagram and see where the King's bedroom is located on
the second floor, and when we get there, walking very easy, and ready
to start blasting away if necessary, who is at the door but a big tall
guy in a uniform, who is very much surprised at seeing us, and who
starts to holler something or other, but what it is nobody will ever
know, because just as he opens his mouth, Izzy Cheesecake taps him on
the noggin with the butt of a forty-five, and knocks him cock-eyed.

Then Jo-jo grabs some cord off a heavy silk curtain which is hanging
across the door, and ties the guy up good and tight, and wads a
handkerchief into his kisser in case the guy comes to, and wishes to
start hollering again, and when all this is done, I quietly turn the
knob of the door to the King's bedroom, and we step into a room that
looks more like a young convention hall than it does a bedroom, except
that it is hung around and about with silk drapes, and there is much
gilt furniture here and there.

Well, who is in this room but a nice-looking doll, and a little kid
of maybe eight or nine years old, and the kid is in a big bed with a
canopy over it like the entrance to a night club, only silk, and the
doll is sitting alongside the bed reading to the kid out of a book. It
is a very homelike scene, indeed, and causes us to stop and look around
in great surprise, for we are certainly not expecting such a scene at
all.

As we stand there in the middle of the room somewhat confused the doll
turns and looks at us, and the little kid sits up in bed. He is a fat
little guy with a chubby face, and a lot of curly hair, and eyes as big
as pancakes, and maybe bigger. The doll turns very pale when she sees
us, and shakes so the book she is reading falls to the floor, but the
kid does not seem scared, and he says to us in very good English like
this:

"Who are you?" he says.

Well, this is a fair question, at that, but naturally we do not wish to
state who we are at this time, so I say:

"Never mind who we are, where is the King?"

"The King?" the kid says, sitting up straight in the bed, "why, I am
the King."

Now of course this seems a very nonsensical crack to us, because we
have brains enough to know that Kings do not come as small as this
little squirt, and anyway we are in no mood to dicker with him, so I
say to the doll as follows:

"Listen," I say, "we do not care for any kidding at this time, because
we are in a great hurry. Where is the King?"

"Why," she says, her voice trembling quite some, "this is indeed the
King, and I am his governess. Who are you, and what do you want? How do
you get in here?" she says. "Where are the guards?"

"Lady," I say, and I am greatly surprised at myself for being so
patient with her, "this kid may be a King, but we want the big King. We
want the head King himself," I say.

"There is no other," she says, and the little kid chips in like this:

"My father dies two years ago, and I am the King in his place," he
says. "Are you English like Miss Peabody here?" he says. "Who is the
funny looking old man back there?"

Well, of course Jo-jo is funny looking, at that, but no one ever
before is impolite enough to speak of it to his face, and Jo-jo begins
growling quite some, while Izzy Cheesecake speaks as follows:

"Why," Izzy says, "this is a very great outrage. We are sent to get rid
of a King, and here the King is nothing but a little punk. Personally,"
Izzy says, "I am not in favour of getting rid of punks, male or
female."

"Well," Jo-jo says, "I am against it myself as a rule, but this is a
pretty fresh punk."

"Now," I say, "there seems to be some mistake around here, at that. Let
us sit down and talk things over quietly, and see if we cannot get this
matter straightened out. It looks to me," I say, "as if this Count Saro
is nothing but a swindler."

"Count Saro," the doll says, getting up and coming over to me, and
looking very much alarmed. "Count Saro, do you say? Oh, sir, Count
Saro is a very bad man. He is the tool of the Grand Duke Gino of this
country, who is this little boy's uncle. The Grand Duke will be King
himself if it is not for this boy, and we suspect many plots against
the little chap's safety. Oh, gentlemen," she says, "you surely do not
mean any harm to this poor orphan child?"

Well, this is about the first time in their lives that Jo-jo and Izzy
Cheesecake are ever mentioned by anybody as gentlemen, and I can see
that it softens them up quite some, especially as the little kid is
grinning at them very cheerful, although of course he will not be so
cheerful if he knows who he is grinning at.

"Why," Jo-jo says, "the Grand Duke is nothing but a rascal for wishing
harm to such a little guy as this, although of course," Jo-jo says, "if
he is a grown-up King it will be a different matter."

"Who are you?" the little kid says again.

"We are Americans," I say, very proud to mention my home country. "We
are from Philly and Chicago, two very good towns, at that."

Well, the little kid's eyes get bigger than ever, and he climbs right
out of bed and walks over to us looking very cute in his blue silk
pyjamas, and his bare feet.

"Chicago?" he says. "Do you know Mr. Capone?"

"Al?" says Jo-jo. "Do I know Al? Why, Al and me are just like this," he
says, although personally I do not believe Al Capone will know Jo-jo if
he meets him in broad daylight. "Where do you know Al from?" he asks.

"Oh, I do not know him," the kid says. "But I read about him in the
magazines, and about the machine guns, and the pineapples. Do you know
about the pineapples?" he says.

"Do I know about the pineapples?" Jo-jo says, as if his feelings are
hurt by the question. "He asks me do I know about the pineapples. Why,"
he says, "look here."

And what does Jo-jo do but out with a little round gadget which I
recognize at once as a bomb such as these Guineas like to chuck at
people they do not like, especially Guineas from Chicago. Of course I
never know Jo-jo is packing this article around and about with him, and
Jo-jo can see I am much astonished, and by no means pleased, because he
says to me like this:

"I bring this along in case of a bear fight," he says. "They are very
handy in a bear fight."

Well, the next thing anybody knows we are all talking about this
and that very pleasant, especially the little kid and Jo-jo, who
is telling lies faster than a horse can trot, about Chicago and Mr.
Capone, and I hope and trust that Al never hears some of the lies Jo-jo
tells, or he may hold it against me for being with Jo-jo when these
lies come off.

I am talking to the doll, whose name seems to be Miss Peabody, and who
is not so hard to take, at that, and at the same time I am keeping an
eye on Izzy Cheesecake, who is wandering around the room looking things
over. The chances are Izzy is trying to find a few of the valuable
jewels such as I mention to him when telling him about the proposition
of getting rid of the King, and in fact I am taking a stray peek here
and there myself, but I do not see anything worth while.

This Miss Peabody is explaining to me about the politics of the
country, and it seems the reason the Grand Duke wishes to get rid of
the little kid King and be King himself is because he has a business
deal on with a big nation near by which wishes to control the kid
King's country. I judge from what Miss Peabody tells me that this
country is no bigger than Delaware county, Pa., and it seems to me a
lot of bother about no more country than this, but Miss Peabody says it
is a very nice little country, at that.

She says it will be very lovely indeed if it is not for the Grand Duke
Gino, because the little kid King stands okay with the people, but it
seems the old Grand Duke is pretty much boss of everything, and Miss
Peabody says she is personally long afraid that he will finally try to
do something very drastic indeed to get rid of the kid King on account
of the kid seeming so healthy. Well, naturally I do not state to her
that our middle name is drastic, because I do not wish Miss Peabody to
have a bad opinion of us.

Now nothing will do but Jo-jo must show the kid his automatic, which
is as long as your arm, and maybe longer, and the kid is greatly
delighted, and takes the rod and starts pointing it here and there and
saying boom-boom, as kids will do. But what happens but he pulls the
trigger, and it seems that Jo-jo does not have the safety on, so the
Roscoe really goes boom-boom twice before the kid can take his finger
off the trigger.

Well, the first shot smashes a big jar over in one corner of the room,
which Miss Peabody afterwards tells me is worth fifteen G's if it is
worth a dime, and the second slug knocks off Izzy Cheesecake's derby
hat, which serves Izzy right, at that, as he is keeping his hat on in
the presence of a lady. Naturally these shots are very disturbing to
me at the moment, but afterwards I learn they are a very good thing
indeed, because it seems a lot of guys who are hanging around outside,
including Baron von Terp, and several prominent politicians of the
country, watching and listening to see what comes off, hurry right home
to bed, figuring the King is got rid of as per contract, and wishing to
be found in bed if anybody comes around asking questions.

Well, Jo-jo is finally out of lies about Chicago and Mr. Capone, when
the little kid seems to get a new idea and goes rummaging around the
room looking for something, and just as I am hoping he is about to
donate the valuable jewels to us he comes up with a box, and what is
in this box but a baseball bat, and a catcher's mitt, and a baseball,
and it is very strange indeed to find such homelike articles so far
away from home, especially as Babe Ruth's name is on the bat.

"Do you know about these things?" the little kid asks Jo-jo. "They are
from America, and they are sent to me by one of our people when he is
visiting there, but nobody here seems to know what they are for."

"Do I know about them?" Jo-jo says, fondling them very tenderly,
indeed. "He asks me do I know about them. Why," he says, "in my time I
am the greatest hitter on the West Side Blues back in dear old Chi."

Well, now nothing will do the kid but we must show him how these
baseball articles work, so Izzy Cheesecake, who claims he is once a
star back-stopper with the Vine Streets back in Philly, puts on a pad
and mask, and Jo-jo takes the bat and lays a small sofa pillow down on
the floor for a home plate, and insists that I pitch to him. Now it
is years since I handle a baseball, although I wish to say that in my
day I am as good an amateur pitcher as there is around Gray's Ferry in
Philly, and the chances are I will be with the A's if I do not have
other things to do.

So I take off my coat, and get down to the far end of the room, while
Jo-jo squares away at the plate, with Izzy Cheesecake behind it. I
can see by the way he stands that Jo-jo is bound to be a sucker for a
curve, so I take a good windup, and cut loose with the old fadeaway,
but of course my arm is not what it used to be, and the ball does not
break as I expect, so what happens but Jo-jo belts the old apple right
through a high window in what will be right field if the room is laid
off like Shibe Park.

Well Jo-jo starts running as if he is going to first, but of course
there is no place in particular for him to run, and he almost knocks
his brains out against a wall, and the ball is lost, and the game winds
up right there, but the little kid is tickled silly over this business,
and even Miss Peabody laughs, and she does not look to me like a doll
who gets many laughs out of life, at that.

It is now nearly ten o'clock, and Miss Peabody says if she can find
anybody around she will get us something to eat, and this sounds very
reasonable, indeed, so I step outside the door and bring in the guy
we tie up there, who seems to be wide awake by now, and very much
surprised, and quite indignant, and Miss Peabody says something to
him in a language which I do not understand. When I come to think it
all over afterwards, I am greatly astonished at the way I trust Miss
Peabody, because there is no reason why she shall not tell the guy to
get the law, but I suppose I trust her because she seems to have an
honest face.

Anyway, the guy in the uniform goes away rubbing his noggin, and pretty
soon in comes another guy who seems to be a butler, or some such, and
who is also greatly surprised at seeing us, and Miss Peabody rattles
off something to him and he starts hustling in tables, and dishes, and
sandwiches, and coffee, and one thing and another in no time at all.

Well, there we are, the five of us sitting around the table eating and
drinking, because what does the butler do but bring in a couple of
bottles of good old pre-war champagne, which is very pleasant to the
taste, although Izzy Cheesecake embarrasses me no little by telling
Miss Peabody that if she can dig up any considerable quantity of this
stuff he will make her plenty of bobs by peddling it in our country,
and will also cut the King in.

When the butler fills the wine-glasses the first time, Miss Peabody
picks hers up, and looks at us, and naturally we have sense enough to
pick ours up, too, and then she stands up on her feet and raises her
glass high above her head, and says like this:

"Gentlemen, The King!"

Well, I stand up at this, and Jo-jo and Izzy Cheesecake stand up with
me, and we say, all together:

"The King!"

And then we swig our champagne, and sit down again and the little kid
laughs all over and claps his hands and seems to think it is plenty of
fun, which it is, at that, although Miss Peabody does not let him have
any wine, and is somewhat indignant when she catches Jo-jo trying to
slip him a snort under the table.

Well, finally the kid does not wish us to leave him at all, especially
Jo-jo, but Miss Peabody says he must get some sleep, so we tell him we
will be back some day, and we take our hats and say good-bye, and leave
him standing in the bedroom door with Miss Peabody at his side, and the
little kid's arm is around her waist, and I find myself wishing it is
my arm, at that.

Of course we never go back again, and in fact we get out of the country
this very night, and take the first boat out of the first seaport we
hit and return to the United States of America, and the gladdest guy
in all the world to see us go is Ugly-face, because he has to drive us
about a thousand miles with the muzzle of a rod digging into his ribs.

So [Kitty Quick says] now you know why we go to Europe.

Well, naturally, I am greatly interested in his story, and especially
in what Kitty says about the pre-war champagne, because I can see that
there may be great business opportunities in such a place if a guy can
get in with the right people, but one thing Kitty will never tell me is
where the country is located, except that it is located in Europe.

"You see," Kitty says, "we are all strong Republicans here in Philly,
and I will not get the Republican administration of this country
tangled up in any international squabble for the world. You see," he
says, "when we land back home I find a little item of cable news in
a paper which says the Grand Duke Gino dies as a result of injuries
received in an accident in his home some weeks before.

"And," Kitty says, "I am never sure but what these injuries may be
caused by Jo-jo insisting on Ugly-face driving us around to the Grand
Duke's house the night we leave and popping his pineapple into the
Grand Duke's bedroom window."




13. A NICE PRICE


One hot morning in June, I am standing in front of the Mohican Hotel in
the city of New London, Conn., and the reason I am in such a surprising
spot is something that makes a long story quite a bit longer.

It goes back to a couple of nights before, when I am walking along
Broadway and I run into Sam the Gonoph, the ticket speculator, who
seems to have a very sour expression on his puss, although, even when
Sam the Gonoph is looking good-natured his puss is nothing much to see.

Now Sam the Gonoph is an old friend of mine, and in fact I sometimes
join up with him and his crew to hustle duckets to one thing and
another when he is short-handed, so I give him a big hello, and he
stops and the following conversation ensues:

"How is it going with you, Sam?" I say to Sam the Gonoph, although of
course I do not really care two pins how it is going with him. "You
look as if you are all sored up at somebody."

"No," Sam says, "I am not sored up at anybody. I am never sored up at
anybody in my life, except maybe Society Max, and of course everybody
knows I have a perfect right to be sored up at Society Max, because
look at what he does to me."

Well, what Sam the Gonoph says is very true, because what Society Max
does to Sam is to steal Sam's fiance off of him a couple of years
before this, and marry her before Sam has time to think. This fiance
is a doll by the name of Sonia, who resides up in the Bronx, and Sam
the Gonoph is engaged to her since the year of the Dempsey-Firpo fight,
and is contemplating marrying her almost any time, when Society Max
bobs up.

Many citizens afterwards claim that Max does Sam the Gonoph a rare
favour, because Sonia is commencing to fat up in spots, but it breaks
Sam's heart just the same, especially when he learns that Sonia's papa
gives the happy young couple twenty big G's in old-fashioned folding
money that nobody ever knows the papa has, and Sam figures that Max
must get an inside tip on this dough and that he takes an unfair
advantage of the situation.

"But," Sam the Gonoph says, "I am not looking sored up at this time
because of Society Max, although of course it is well known to one and
all that I am under oath to knock his ears down the first time I catch
up with him. As a matter of fact, I do not as much as think of Society
Max for a year or more, although I hear he deserts poor Sonia out in
Cincinnati after spending her dough and leading her a dog's life,
including a few off-hand pastings--not that I am claiming Sonia may not
need a pasting now and then.

"What I am looking sored up about," Sam says, "is because I must get
up into Connecticut to-morrow to a spot that is called New London to
dispose of a line of merchandise."

"Why, Sam," I say, "what can be doing in such a place?"

"Oh," Sam says, "a large boat race is coming up between the Harvards
and the Yales. It comes up at New London every year, and is quite an
interesting event from what I read in the papers about it, but the
reason I am sored up about going to-morrow is because I wish to spend
the week-end on my farm in New Jersey to see how my onions are doing.
Since I buy this farm in New Jersey, I can scarcely wait to get over
there on week-ends to watch my onions grow.

"But," Sam the Gonoph says, "this is an extra large boat race this
year, and I am in possession of many choice duckets, and am sure to
make plenty of black ink for myself, and business before pleasure is
what I always say. By the way," Sam says, "do you ever see a boat race?"

Well, I say that the only boat races I ever see are those that come off
around the race tracks, such a race being a race that is all fixed up
in advance, and some of them are pretty raw, if you ask me, and I am by
no means in favour of things of this kind unless I am in, but Sam the
Gonoph says these races are by no manner of means the same thing as the
boat races he is talking about.

"I never personally witness one myself," Sam says, "but the way I
understand it is a number of the Harvards and the Yales, without
any clothes on, get in row boats and row, and row, and row until
their tongues hang out, and they are all half-dead. Why they tucker
themselves out in this fashion I do not know and," Sam says, "I am too
old to start trying to find out why these college guys do a lot of
things to themselves.

"But," Sam says, "boat racing is a wonderful sport, and I always have
a nice trade at New London, Conn., and if you wish to accompany me
and Benny South Street and Liverlips and maybe collect a few bobs for
yourself, you are as welcome as the flowers in May."

So there I am in front of the Mohican Hotel in New London, Conn.,
with Sam the Gonoph and Benny South Street and old Liverlips, who are
Sam the Gonoph's best hustlers, and all around and about is a very
interesting sight, to be sure, as large numbers of the Harvards and the
Yales are passing in and out of the hotel and walking up and down and
back and forth, and making very merry, one way and another.

Well, after we are hustling our duckets for a couple of hours and it
is coming on noon, Benny South Street goes into the hotel lobby to buy
some cigarettes, and by and by he comes out looking somewhat excited,
and states as follows:

"Say," Benny says, "there's a guy inside with his hands full of money
offering to lay three to one that the Yales win the boat race. He says
he has fifteen G's cash with him to wager at the price stated."

"Are there any takers?" Sam the Gonoph asks.

"No, not many," Benny says. "From all I hear, the Yales figure. In
fact, all the handicappers I speak with have them on top, so the
Harvards do not care for any part of the guy's play. But," Benny says,
"there he is, offering three to one."

"Three to one?" Sam the Gonoph says, as if he is mentioning these terms
to himself. "Three to one, eh? It is a nice price."

"It is a lovely price," old Liverlips puts in.

Well, Sam the Gonoph stands there as if he is thinking, and Benny South
Street seems to be thinking, too, and even old Liverlips seems to be
thinking, and by and by I even find myself thinking, and finally Sam
the Gonoph says like this:

"I do not know anything about boat races," Sam says, "and the Yales may
figure as you say, but nothing between human beings is one to three.
In fact," Sam the Gonoph says, "I long ago come to the conclusion that
all life is six to five against. And anyway," he says, "how can anybody
let such odds as these get away from them? I think I will take a small
nibble at this proposition. What about you, Benny?"

"I will also nibble," Benny South Street says. "I will never forgive
myself in this world if I let this inviting offer go and it turns out
the Harvards win."

Well, we all go into the hotel lobby, and there is a big, grey-haired
guy in a white cap and white pants standing in the centre of a bunch of
other guys, and he has money in both hands. I hear somebody say he is
one of the real old-time Yales, and he is speaking in a loud voice as
follows:

"Why," he says, "what is the matter, Harvards, are you cowards, or are
you just broke? If you are broke, I will take your markers and let you
pay me on the instalment plan. But," he says, "bet me. That is all,
just bet me."

Personally, I have a notion to let on I am one of the Harvards and
slip the guy a nice marker, but I am afraid he may request some
identification and I do not have anything on me to prove I am a college
guy, so I stand back and watch Sam the Gonoph shove his way through the
crowd with a couple of C notes in his hand, and Benny South Street is
right behind him.

"I will take a small portion of the Harvards at the market," Sam the
Gonoph says, as he offers the grey-haired guy his dough.

"Thank you, my friend," the guy says, "but I do not think we are
acquainted," he says. "Who do you wish to hold the stakes?"

"You hold them yourself, Mr. Campbell," Sam the Gonoph says. "I know
you, although you do not know me, and I will gladly trust you with my
dough. Furthermore, my friend here, who also wishes a portion of the
Harvards, will trust you."

So the grey-haired guy says that both Sam the Gonoph and Benny South
Street are on at 3 to 1, and thanks again to them, at that, and when
we get outside, Sam explains that he recognizes the guy as nobody but
Mr. Hammond Campbell, who is a very important party in every respect
and who has more dough than Uncle Sam has bad debts. In fact, Sam the
Gonoph seems to feel that he is greatly honoured in getting to bet with
Mr. Hammond Campbell, although from the way Mr. Campbell takes their
dough, I figure he thinks that the pleasure is all his.

Well, we go on hustling our duckets but neither Sam the Gonoph nor
Benny South Street seem to have much heart in their work, and every now
and then I see one or the other slip into the hotel lobby, and it comes
out that they are still nibbling at the 3 to 1, and finally I slip in
myself and take a little teensy nibble for twenty bobs myself, because
the way I look at it, anything that is good enough for Sam the Gonoph
is good enough for me.

Now Sam the Gonoph always carries quite a little ready money on his
body, and nobody will deny that Sam will send it along if he likes a
proposition, and by and by he is down for a G on the Harvards, and
Benny South Street has four C's going for him, and there is my double
saw, and even old Liverlips weakens and goes for a pound note, and
ordinarily Liverlips will not bet a pound that he is alive.

Furthermore, Mr. Hammond Campbell says we are about the only guys in
town that do bet him and that we ought to get degrees off the Harvards
for our loyalty to them, but of course what we are really loyal to
is the 3 to 1. Finally, Mr. Campbell says he has to go to lunch, but
that if we feel like betting him any more we can find him on board his
yacht, the _Hibiscus_, out in the river, and maybe he will boost the
price up to 3 to 1.

So I go into the hotel and get a little lunch myself, and when I am
coming out a nice-looking young doll who is walking along in front of
me accidentally drops her poke from under her arm, and keeps right on
walking. Naturally, I pick it up, but several parties who are standing
around in the lobby see me do it, so I call to the young doll and when
she turns around I hand her the poke, and she is very grateful to me,
to be sure. In fact, she thanks me several times, though once will do,
and then all of a sudden she says to me like this:

"Pardon me," the young doll says, "but are you not one of the gentlemen
I see wagering with my papa that the Harvards will win the boat race?"

"Yes," I say, "and what is more, we may keep on wagering him. In fact,"
I say, "a friend of mine by the name of Sam the Gonoph is just now
contemplating wiring home for another G to accept your papa's generous
offer of three-and-a-half to one."

"Oh," the young doll says, "do not do it. You are only throwing your
money away. The Harvards have no chance whatever of winning the boat
race. My papa is never wrong on boat races. I only wish he is to-day."

And with this she sits down in a chair in the lobby and begins crying
boo-hoo until her mascara is running down her cheeks, and naturally I
am greatly embarrassed by this situation, as I am afraid somebody may
come along and think maybe she is my step-child and that I am just
after chastising her.

"You see," the young doll says, "a boy I like a very, very great deal
belongs to the Harvards' crew and when I tell him a couple of weeks
ago that my papa says the Yales are bound to win, he grows very angry
and says what does my papa know about it, and who is my papa but an
old money-bags, anyway, and to the dickens with my papa. Then when I
tell him my papa always knows about these things, Quentin grows still
angrier, and we quarrel and he says all right, if the Harvards lose he
will never, never, never see me again as long as he lives. And Quentin
is a very obstinate and unreasonable boy, and life is very sad for me."

Well, who comes along about now but Sam the Gonoph and naturally he is
somewhat surprised by the scene that is presented to his eyes, so I
explain to him, and Sam is greatly touched and very sympathetic, for
one thing about Sam is he is very tender-hearted when it comes to dolls
who are in trouble.

"Well," Sam says, "I will certainly be greatly pleased to see the
Harvards win the boat race myself, and in fact," he says, "I am just
making a few cautious inquiries around here and there to see if there
is any chance of stiffening a couple of the Yales, so we can have a
little help in the race.

"But," Sam says, "one great trouble with these college propositions is
they are always levelling, though I cannot see why it is necessary.
Anyway," he says, "it looks as if we cannot hope to do any business
with the Yales, but you dry your eyes, little miss, and maybe old Sam
can think up something."

At this the young doll stops her bawling and I am very glad of it, as
there is nothing I loathe and despise so much as a doll bawling, and
she looks up at Sam with a wet smile and says to him like this:

"Oh, do you really think you can help the Harvards win the boat race?"

Well, naturally Sam the Gonoph is not in a position to make any
promises on this point, but he is such a guy as will tell a doll in
distress anything whatever if he thinks it will give her a little
pleasure for a minute, so he replies as follows:

"Why, who knows?" Sam says. "Who knows, to be sure? But anyway do not
bawl any more, and old Sam will give this matter further consideration."

And with this Sam pats the young doll on the back so hard he pats all
the breath out of her and she cannot bawl any more even if she wishes
to, and she gets up and goes away looking very happy, but before she
goes she says:

"Well, I hear somebody say that from the way you gentlemen are betting
on the Harvards you must know something and," she says, "I am very glad
I have the courage to talk to you. It will be a wonderful favour to
Quentin and me if you help the Harvards win, even though it costs my
papa money. Love is more than gold," she says.

Personally, I consider it very wrong for Sam the Gonoph to be holding
out hope to a young doll that he is unable to guarantee, but Sam says
he does not really promise anything and that he always figures if
he can bring a little joy into any life, no matter how, he is doing
a wonderful deed, and that anyway we will never see the young doll
again, and furthermore, what of it?

Well, I cannot think what of it just off-hand, and anyway I am glad to
be rid of the young doll, so we go back to disposing of the duckets we
have left.

Now the large boat race between the Harvards and the Yales takes place
in the early evening, and when it comes on time for the race one and
all seem to be headed in the direction of the river, including all
the young guys with the stir haircuts, and many beautiful young dolls
wearing blue and red flowers, and old guys in sports pants and flat
straw hats, and old dolls who walk as if their feet hurt them, and the
chances are they do, at that.

Well, nothing will do Sam the Gonoph but we must see the boat race,
too, so we go down to the railroad station to take the very train for
which we are hustling duckets all day, but by the time we get there the
race train is pulling out, so Benny South Street says the next best
thing for us to do is to go down to the dock and hire a boat to take us
out on the river.

But when we get to the dock, it seems that all the boats around are
hired and are already out on the river, but there is an old pappy guy
with a chin whisker sitting in a rickety-looking little motor-boat at
the dock, and this old guy says he will take us out where we can get a
good peek at the race for a buck apiece.

Personally, I do not care for the looks of the boat, and neither does
Benny South Street nor old Liverlips, but Sam the Gonoph is so anxious
to see the race that finally we all get into the boat and the old guy
heads her out into the river, which seems to be filled with all kinds
of boats decorated with flags and one thing and another, and with guys
and dolls walking back and forth on these boats.

Anybody must admit that it is quite a sight, and I am commencing to be
glad I am present, especially when Benny South Street tells me that
these guys and dolls on the boats are very fine people and worth plenty
of money. Furthermore, Benny South Street points out many big white
boats that he says are private yachts, and he tells me that what it
costs to keep up these private yachts is a sin and a shame when you
start to figure out the number of people in the world who are looking
for breakfast money. But then Benny South Street is always talking of
things of this kind, and sometimes I think maybe he is a dynamiter at
heart.

We go putt-putting along under a big bridge and into a sort of lane of
boats, and Benny South Street says we are now at the finish line of
the large boat race and that the Harvards and the Yales row down this
lane from away up the river, and that it is here that they have their
tongues hanging out and are nearly all half-dead.

Well, it seems that we are in the way, because guys start yelling at us
from different boats and shaking their fists at us, and it is a good
thing for some of them that they are not close enough for us to get a
pop at them, but the old pappy guy keeps the motor-boat putt-putting
and sliding in and out among the boats until we come to a spot that he
says is about a hundred yards above the finish and a great spot to see
the best part of the race.

We are slipping alongside of a big white boat that Benny South Street
says is a private yacht and that has a little set of stair steps
running down one side almost into the water, when all of a sudden Sam
the Gonoph notices his feet are wet, and he looks down and sees that
the motor-boat is half-full of water and furthermore that the boat is
commencing to sink.

Now this is quite a predicament, and naturally Sam the Gonoph lets out
a slight beef and wishes to know what kind of accommodations we are
paying for, anyway, and then the old pappy guy notices the water and
the sinking, and he seems somewhat put out about the matter, especially
as the water is getting up around his chin whiskers.

So he steers the boat up against the stair steps on the yacht and all
of us, including the old pappy guy, climb out on to the stairs just
as the motor-boat gives a last snort and sinks from sight. The last I
see of the motor-boat is the hind end sticking up in the air a second
before it disappears, and I remember the name that is painted on the
hind end. The name is _Baby Mine_.

Well, Sam the Gonoph leads the way up the stairs to the deck of the
yacht, and who meets us at the head of the stairs but Mr. Hammond
Campbell in person, and who is right behind him but the young doll I
am talking with in the hotel lobby, and at first Mr. Campbell thinks
that we come out to his yacht to pick up a little of his 3 to 1, and
he is greatly disappointed when he learns that such is by no means our
purpose and that we are merely the victims of disaster.

As for the young doll, whose name turns out to be Clarice, she gazes at
Sam the Gonoph and me with her eyes full of questions, but we do not
get a chance to talk to her as things begin occurring at once.

There are quite a number of guys and dolls on the yacht, and it is a
very gay scene to be sure, as they walk around laughing and chatting,
when all of a sudden I see Sam the Gonoph staring at a guy and doll
who are leaning over the rail talking very earnestly and paying no
attention to what is going on around and about them.

The guy is a tall, dark-complected young guy with a little moustache,
and he is wearing white flannel pants and a blue coat with brass
buttons, and white shoes, and he is a very foreign-looking guy, to be
sure. The doll is not such a young doll, being maybe around middle age,
giving her a few points the best of it, but she is a fine-looking doll,
at that, especially if you like dolls with grey hair, which personally
I am not so much in favour of.

I am close enough to Sam the Gonoph to hear him breathing heavily as
he stares at this guy and doll, and finally the dark-complected young
guy looks up and sees Sam and at the same instant Sam starts for him,
and as Sam starts the young guy turns and takes to running in the other
direction from Sam along the deck, but before he takes to running I
can see that it is nobody but Society Max.

Naturally, I am somewhat surprised at seeing Society Max at a boat race
between the Harvards and the Yales, because I never figure him such a
guy as will be interested in matters of this kind, although I remember
that Society Max is once a life guard at Coney Island, and in fact it
is at Coney Island that Sonia gets her first peek at his shape and
is lost for ever to Sam the Gonoph, so I get to thinking that maybe
Society Max is fond of all aquatic events.

Now of course the spectacle of Sam the Gonoph pursuing Society Max
along the deck is quite surprising to one and all, except Benny South
Street and old Liverlips and myself, who are aware of the reason, and
Mr. Hammond Campbell wishes to know what kind of game they are playing,
especially after they round the deck twice, with Society Max showing
much foot, but none of us feel called on to explain. Finally the
other guys and dolls on the yacht enter into the spirit of the chase,
even though they do not know what it is all about, and they shout
encouragement to both Sam the Gonoph and Society Max, although Max is
really the favourite.

There is no doubt but what Society Max is easily best in a sprint,
especially as Sam the Gonoph's pants legs are wet from the sinking
motor-boat and he is carrying extra weight, but Sam is a wonderful doer
over a route, and on the third trip around the deck, anybody can see
that he is cutting down Max's lead.

Well, every time they pass the grey-haired doll that Society Max is
talking to when we come on the yacht she asks what is the matter, Max,
and where are you going, Max, and other questions that seem trivial at
such a time, but Max never has an opportunity to answer, as he has to
save all his breath to keep ahead of Sam the Gonoph, and in fact Sam
the Gonoph stops talking, too, and just keeps plugging along with a
very determined expression on his puss.

Well, now all the whistles on the boats in the river around us start
blowing, and it seems this is because the large boat race between the
Harvards and the Yales is now approaching the finish, and one and all
on our yacht rush to the side of the yacht to see it, forgetting about
everything else, and the side they rush to is the same side the stair
steps are on.

But I am too much interested in Sam the Gonoph's pursuit of Society Max
to pay any attention to the boat race, and as they come around the deck
the fifth or sixth time, I can see that Sam will have Max in the next
few jumps, when all of a sudden Society Max runs right down the stairs
and dives off into the river, and he does it so fast that nobody seems
to notice him except Sam the Gonoph and me and the grey-haired doll,
and I am the only one that notices her fall in a big faint on the deck
as Max dives.

Naturally, this is not a time to be bothering with fainting dolls, so
Sam the Gonoph and me run to the side of the yacht and watch the water
to see where Society Max comes up, but he does not appear at once, and
I remember hearing he is a wonderful diver when he is a life guard, so
I figure he is going to keep under water until he is pretty sure he is
too far away for Sam the Gonoph to hit him with anything, such as maybe
a slug from a Betsy.

Of course Sam the Gonoph does not happen to have a Betsy on him, but
Society Max can scarcely be expected to know this, because the chances
are he remembers that Sam often has such an article in his pants pocket
when he is around New York, so I suppose Society Max plays it as safe
as possible.

Anyway, we do not see hide or hair of him, and in the meantime the
excitement over the large boat race between the Harvards and the Yales
is now so terrific that I forget Society Max and try to get a peek at
it.

But all I remember is seeing the young doll, Clarice, kissing Sam
the Gonoph smack-dab on his homely puss, and jumping up and down in
considerable glee, and stating that she knows all along that Sam will
figure out some way for the Harvards to win, although she does not know
yet how he does it, and hearing Mr. Hammond Campbell using language
even worse than Sam the Gonoph employs when he is pursuing Society Max,
and saying he never sees such a this-and-that boat race in all his born
days.

Then I get to thinking about the grey-haired doll, and I go over and
pick her up and she is still about two-thirds out and is saying to
herself, as follows:

"Max, oh, my dear, dear Max."

Well, by and by Mr. Hammond Campbell takes Sam the Gonoph into a room
on the yacht and pays him what is coming to all of us on the race, and
then he takes to asking about Society Max, and when Sam the Gonoph
explains how Max is a terrible fink and what he does to Sonia and all,
Mr. Hammond Campbell hands Sam five large G's extra, and states to him
as follows:

"This," he says, "is for preventing my sister, Emma, from making a
fool of herself. She picks this Max up somewhere in Europe and he puts
himself away with her as a Russian nobleman, and she is going to marry
him next week, although from what you tell me it will be bigamy on his
part. By the way," Mr. Hammond Campbell says, "not that it makes any
difference, but I wonder whatever becomes of the guy?"

I am wondering this somewhat myself, not that I really care what
becomes of Society Max, but I do not find out until later in the
evening when I am at the Western Union office in New London, Conn.,
sending a telegram for Sam the Gonoph to the guy who runs his farm in
New Jersey telling the guy to be sure and watch the onions, and I hear
a newspaper scribe talking about the large boat race.

"Yes," the newspaper scribe says, "the Yales are leading by a boat
length up to the last hundred yards and going easy, and they seem to be
an absolute cinch to win, when No. 6 man in their boat hits something
in the water and breaks his oar, throwing the rest of the crew out of
kilter long enough for the Harvards to slip past and win. It is the
most terrible upset of the dope in history," he says.

"Now," the scribe says, "of course a broken oar is not unheard of in a
boat race, but what No. 6 says he hits is a guy's head which pops out
of the water all of a sudden right alongside the Yales' boat, and which
disappears again as the oar hits it.

"Personally," the scribe says, "I will say No. 6 is seeing things but
for the fact that a Coast Guard boat which is laying away down the
river below the finish just reports that it picks up a guy out of the
river who seems to be alive and all right except he has a lump on his
noggin a foot high."

I do not see Sam the Gonoph again until it comes on fall, when I run
into him in Mindy's restaurant on Broadway, and Sam says to me like
this:

"Say," he says, "do you remember what a hit I make with the little doll
because she thinks I have something to do with the Harvards winning
the large boat race? Well," Sam the Gonoph says, "I just get a note
from her asking me if I can do anything about a football game that the
Harvards have coming up with the Dartmouths next month."




14. BROADWAY FINANCIER


Of all the scores made by dolls on Broadway the past twenty-five years,
there is no doubt but what the very largest score is made by a doll who
is called Silk, when she knocks off a banker by the name of Israel Ib,
for the size of Silk's score is three million one hundred bobs and a
few odd cents.

It is admitted by one and all who know about these matters that the
record up to this time is held by a doll by the name of Irma Teak,
who knocks off a Russian duke back in 1911 when Russian dukes are
considered very useful by dolls, although of course in these days
Russian dukes are about as useful as dandruff. Anyway, Irma Teak's
score off this Russian duke is up around a million, and she moves to
London with her duke and chucks quite a swell around there for a time.
But finally Irma Teak goes blind, which is a tough break for her as
she can no longer see how jealous she is making other dolls with her
diamonds and sables and one thing and another, so what good are they to
her, after all?

I know Irma Teak when she is a show doll at the old Winter Garden, and
I also know the doll by the name of Mazie Mitz, who is in a Florodora
revival, and who makes a score of maybe three hundred G's off a guy who
has a string of ten-cent stores, and three hundred G's is by no means
hay. But Mazie Mitz finally hauls off and runs away with a saxophone
player she is in love with and so winds up back of the fifteen ball.

Furthermore, I know Clara Simmons, the model from Rickson's, who gets
a five-story town house and a country place on Long Island off a guy
in Wall Street for birthday presents, and while I never meet this guy
personally, I always figure he must be very dumb because anybody who
knows Clara Simmons knows she will be just as well satisfied with a
bottle of perfume for a birthday present. For all I know, Clara Simmons
may still own the town house and the country place, but she must be
shoving on toward forty now, so naturally nobody on Broadway cares what
becomes of her.

I know a hundred other dolls who run up different scores, and some
of them are very fair scores, indeed, but none of these scores are
anything much alongside Silk's score off Israel Ib, and this score
is all the more surprising because Silk starts out being greatly
prejudiced against bankers. I am no booster for bankers myself, as I
consider them very stony-hearted guys, but I am not prejudiced against
them. In fact, I consider bankers very necessary, because if we do not
have bankers many citizens will not be able to think of anybody to give
a check on.

It is quite a while before she meets Israel Ib that Silk explains to me
why she is prejudiced against bankers. It is when she is nothing but a
chorus doll in Johnny Oakley's joint on Fifty-third Street, and comes
into Mindy's after she gets through work, which is generally along
about four o'clock in the morning.

At such an hour many citizens are sitting around Mindy's resting from
the crap games and one thing and another, and dolls from the different
joints around and about, including chorus dolls and hostesses, drop in
for something to eat before going home, and generally these dolls are
still in their make-up and very tired.

Naturally they come to know the citizens who are sitting around, and
say hello, and maybe accept the hospitality of these citizens, such as
java and Danish pastry, or maybe a few scrambled eggs, and it is all
very pleasant and harmless, because a citizen who is all tuckered out
from shooting craps is not going to get any high blood pressure over a
tired chorus doll or a hostess, and especially a hostess.

Well, one morning Silk is sitting at my table guzzling a cup of
java and a piece of apple pie, when in comes The Greek looking very
weary, The Greek being a high shot who is well known far and wide. He
drops into a chair alongside me and orders a Bismarck herring with
sliced onions to come along, which is a dish that is considered most
invigorating, and then The Greek mentions that he is playing the bank
for twenty-four hours hand running, so right away Silk speaks up as
follows:

"I hate banks," she says. "Furthermore," she says, "I hate bankers. If
it is not for a banker maybe I will not be slaving in Johnny Oakley's
dirty little drum for thirty bobs per week. Maybe my mamma will still
be alive, and I will be living at home with her instead of in a flea
bag in Forty-seventh Street.

"My mamma once saves up three hundred bobs from scrubbing floors in an
office building to send me to school," Silk says, "and a banker in one
of the buildings where she does this scrubbing tells her to put her
dough in his bank, and what happens but the bank busts and it is such a
terrible blow to my mamma that she ups and dies. I am very small at the
time," Silk says, "but I can remember standing in front of the busted
bank with my mamma, and my mamma crying her eyes out."

Well, personally, I consider Silk's crack about Johnny Oakley's joint
uncalled for, as it is by no means little, but I explain to her that
what The Greek is talking about is a faro bank, and not a bank you put
money in, as such a bank is called a jug, and not a bank at all, while
faro bank is a gambling game, and the reason I explain this to Silk is
because everybody always explains things to her.

The idea is everybody wishes Silk to be well smartened up, especially
everybody who hangs out around Mindy's, because she is an orphan and
never has a chance to go to school, and we do not wish her to grow up
dumb like the average doll, as one and all are very fond of Silk from
the first minute she bobs up around Mindy's.

Now at this time Silk is maybe seventeen years old and weighs maybe
ninety pounds, sopping wet, and she is straight up and down like a boy.
She has soft brown hair and brown eyes that seem too big for her face,
and she looks right at you when she talks to you and she talks to you
like one guy to another guy. In fact, I always claim there is more guy
in Silk than there is doll, as she finally gets so she thinks like a
guy, which is maybe because she associates more with guys than she does
with other dolls and gets a guy's slant on things in general.

She loves to sit around Mindy's in the early morning gabbing with
different citizens, although she does more listening than gabbing
herself, and she loves to listen to gab about horse-racing and baseball
and fights and crap-shooting and to guys cutting up old touches and
whatever else is worth gabbing about, and she seldom sticks in her oar,
except maybe to ask a question. Naturally a doll who is willing to
listen instead of wishing to gab herself is bound to be popular because
if there is anything most citizens hate and despise it is a gabby doll.

So then many citizens take a real interest in Silk's education,
including Regret, the horse-player, who explains to her how to build
up a sucker to betting on a hot horse, although personally I do not
consider such knowledge of any more value to a young doll just starting
out in the world than the lesson Big Nig, the crap shooter, gives her
one night on how to switch in a pair of tops on a craps game.

Then there is Doc Daro, who is considered one of the highest-class
operators that ever rides the tubs in his day, being a great hand
for travelling back and forth across the ocean and out-playing other
passengers at bridge and poker and one thing and another, but who
finally gets rheumatism in his hands so bad he can no longer shuffle
the cards. And of course if Doc Daro cannot shuffle the cards there is
no sense whatever in him trying to play games of skill any more.

Doc Daro is always telling Silk what rascals guys are and explaining
to her the different kinds of business they will try to give her, this
being the same kind of business the Doc gives dolls himself in his
time. The Doc has an idea that a young doll who is battling Broadway
needs plenty of education along such lines, but Silk tells me privately
that she is jerry to the stuff Doc is telling her when she is five
years old.

The guy I figure does Silk the most good is an old pappy guy by the
name of Professor D, who is always reading books when he is not busy
doping the horses. In fact, Professor D is considered somewhat daffy on
the subject of reading books, but it seems he gets the habit from being
a teacher in a college out in Ohio before he becomes a horse-player.
Anyway, Professor D takes to giving Silk books to read, and what is
more she reads them and talks them over afterward with the professor,
who is greatly pleased by this.

"She is a bright little doll," Professor D says to me one day.
"Furthermore," the professor says, "she has soul."

"Well," I say, "Big Nig claims she can palm a pair of dice as good as
anybody he ever sees."

But the professor only says heigh-ho, and goes along, and I can see he
does not consider me a character worth having much truck with, even
though I am as much interested in Silk's education as anybody else.

Well, what happens one night but the regular singer in Johnny Oakley's
joint, a doll by the name of Myrtle Marigold, hauls off and catches the
measles from her twelve-year-old son, and as Johnny has enough trouble
getting customers into his joint without giving them the measles after
getting them there, he gives Myrtle Marigold plenty of wind at once.

But there he is without anybody to sing "Stacker Lee" to his customers,
"Stacker Lee" being a ditty with which Myrtle Marigold panics the
customers, so Johnny looks his chorus over and finally asks Silk if she
can sing. And Silk says she can sing all right, but that she will not
sing "Stacker Lee," because she considers it a low-down lullaby, at
best. She says she will sing something classical and, being desperate
for singing, Johnny Oakley says go ahead. So what does Silk do but sing
a very old song called "Annie Laurie," which she learns from her mamma,
and she sings this song so loud that sobs are heard all over the joint.

Of course if anybody investigates they will learn that the sobbing is
being done by Professor D and Big Nig and The Greek, who happen to be
in the joint at the time, and what they are sobbing about is the idea
of Silk singing at all, but Johnny Oakley considers her a big hit and
keeps her singing "Annie Laurie" right along, and one night Harry Fitz,
the booking agent, drops in and hears her singing and tells Ziegfeld he
discovers a doll with a brand-new style.

Naturally Ziggie signs her up at once for the Follies, because he has
great faith in Harry Fitz's judgment but after Ziggie hears Silk sing
he asks her if she can do anything else, and is greatly relieved when
he learns she can dance.

So Silk becomes a Ziegfeld dancer, and she is quite a sensation with
the dramatic critics on the night she opens because she dances with
all her clothes on, which is considered a very great novelty indeed.
The citizens around Mindy's chip in and send Silk a taxicab full of
orchids, and a floral pillow, and Professor D contributes a book called
_The Outline of History_, and Silk is the happiest doll in town.

A year goes by, and what a year in the Follies does for Silk is most
astonishing. Personally, I never see a lot of change in her looks,
except her figure fills out so it has bumps here and there where a doll
is entitled to have bumps, and her face grows to fit her eyes more, but
everybody else claims she becomes beautiful, and her picture is always
in the papers and dozens of guys are always hanging around after her
and sending her flowers and one thing and another.

One guy in particular starts sending her jewellery, which Silk always
brings around to Mindy's for Jewellery Joe to look at, this Jewellery
Joe being a guy who peddles jewellery along Broadway for years, and who
can tell you in a second what a piece of jewellery is worth.

Jewellery Joe finds that the jewellery Silk brings around is nothing
much but slum, and naturally he advises her to have no further truck
with any party who cannot send in anything better than this, but one
morning she shows up in Mindy's with an emerald ring the size of a cake
of soap, and the minute Jewellery Joe sees the emerald he tells Silk
that whoever donates this is worthy of very careful consideration.

Now it seems that the party who sends the emerald is nobody but Israel
Ib, the banker who owns the jug down on the lower East Side that is
called the Bank of the Bridges, and the way Silk comes to connect with
him is most unusual. It is through a young guy by the name of Simeon
Slotsky, who is a teller in Israel Ib's jug, and who sees Silk dancing
one night in the Follies and goes right off his ka-zip about her.

It is this Simeon Slotsky who is sending the jewellery that Silk first
brings around, and the way he is buying this jewellery is by copping a
little dough out of the jug now and then which does not belong to him.
Naturally this is a most dishonest action, and by and by they catch up
with Simeon Slotsky in the jug, and Israel Ib is going to place him in
the pokey.

Well, Simeon Slotsky does not wish to be placed in the pokey and not
knowing what else to do, what does he do but go to Silk and tell her
his story, explaining that he commits this dishonest business only
because he is daffy about her, even though Silk never gives him a
tumble, and in fact never says as much as two words to him before.

He tells her that he comes of respectable old parents down on the
lower East Side, who will be very sad if he is placed in the pokey,
especially his mamma, but Israel Ib is bound and determined to put him
away, because Israel Ib is greatly opposed to anybody copping dough
out of his jug. Simeon Slotsky says his mamma cries all over Israel
Ib's vest trying to cry him out of the idea of placing her son in the
pokey, but that Israel Ib is a very hard-hearted guy and will not
give in no matter what, and furthermore he is very indignant because
Simeon's mamma's tears spot up his vest. So Simeon says it looks as if
he must go to the pokey unless Silk can think of something.

Now Silk is very young herself and very tender-hearted and she is
sorry for Simeon Slotsky, because she can see he is nothing but a
hundred-per-cent chump, so she sits down and writes a letter to Israel
Ib asking him to call on her backstage at the Follies on a matter of
great importance. Of course Silk does not know that it is not the
proper caper to be writing a banker such a letter, and ordinarily it
is a thousand to one, according to the way The Greek figures the odds,
that a banker will pay no attention to such a letter except maybe to
notify his lawyer.

But it seems that the letter tickles Israel Ib, as he always secretly
wishes to get a peek backstage at the Follies to see if the dolls back
there wear as few clothes as he hears, so he shows up the very same
night, and in five minutes Silk has him all rounded up as far as Simeon
Slotsky is concerned. Israel Ib says he will straighten out everything
and send Simeon to a job in a jug out West.

So the next day Simeon Slotsky comes around and thanks Silk for all
she does for him, and bawls quite some, and gets a photograph off her
with her name signed to it which he says he will give to his mamma so
she can stick it up on her wall on the East Side to always remember
the doll who saves her son, and then Simeon Slotsky goes on about his
business, and for all I know becomes a very honest and useful citizen.
And forty-eight hours later, Silk is wearing the emerald from Israel Ib.

Now this Israel Ib is by no means a Broadway character, and in fact
few ever hear of him before he bobs up sending Silk an emerald ring.
In fact, it seems that Israel Ib is a quiet, industrious guy, who has
nothing on his mind but running his jug and making plenty of scratch
until the night he goes to see Silk.

He is a little short fat guy of maybe forty-odd at this time with a
little round stomach sticking out in front of him and he always wears a
white vest on his stomach, with a pair of gold-rimmed cheaters hanging
on a black ribbon across the vest. He has a large snozzle and is as
homely as a mud fence, anyway you take him, but it is well known to one
and all that he is a coming guy in the banking dodge.

Silk is always making jokes about Israel Ib, because naturally she
cannot see much to such a looking guy, but every morning she comes
into Mindy's with all kinds of swag, such as bracelets and rings and
brooches, and Jewellery Joe finally speaks to her very severely and
tells her that a guy who can send her such merchandise is no joking
matter.

There is no doubt that Israel Ib is dizzy about her, and personally
I consider it very sad that a guy as smart as he must be lets himself
get tangled up in such a situation. But then I remember that guys ten
thousand times smarter than Israel Ib let themselves get tangled up the
same way, so it is all even.

The upshot of the whole business is that Silk begins to pay a little
serious attention to Israel Ib, and the next thing anybody knows she
quits the Follies and takes to living in a large apartment on Park
Avenue and riding around in a big car with a guy in uniform driving
her, and she has enough fur coats for a tribe of Eskimos, including a
chinchilla flogger that moves Israel back thirty G's.

Furthermore, it comes out that the apartment house she is living in is
in her own name, and some citizens are greatly surprised, as they do
not figure a doll just off Broadway smart enough to get anything in
her own name, except maybe a traffic summons. But Professor D says he
is not surprised because he once makes Silk read a book entitled _The
Importance of Property_.

We do not see much of Silk any more these days, but every now and then
we hear rumours of her getting more apartment houses and business
buildings in her own name, and the citizens around Mindy's are greatly
pleased because they figure it proves that the trouble they take
educating Silk is by no means wasted. Finally we hear Silk goes to
Europe, and for nearly two years she is living in Paris and other
spots, and some say the reason she sticks around Europe is because she
finds out all of a sudden that Israel Ib is a married guy, although
personally I figure Silk must know this all along, because it certainly
is no mystery. In fact, Israel Ib is very much married, indeed, and
his ever-loving wife is a big fat old doll whose family has plenty of
potatoes.

The chances are Silk is sick and tired of looking at Israel Ib, and
stays abroad so she will not have to look at his ugly kisser more than
two or three times a year, which is about as often as Israel Ib can
think up excuses to go over and see her. Then one winter we hear that
Silk is coming home to stay, and it is the winter of 1930 when things
are very tough, indeed.

It is close to Christmas when Silk lands one morning around eleven
o'clock from the steamship, and it seems she is expecting Israel Ib to
meet her at the dock, but Israel Ib is not present, and nobody else is
there to tell her why Israel Ib is absent.

It seems that some of Silk's luggage is being held up by the customs
guys, as she brings over enough merchandise of one kind and another
to stock a department store, and she wishes to see Israel Ib to get
this matter straightened out, so she hires a taxi and tells the jockey
to take her to Israel Ib's jug, figuring to stop in a minute and give
Israel Ib his instructions, and maybe a good rousting around for not
meeting her.

Now Silk never before goes to Israel Ib's jug, which is deep down on
the lower East Side where many citizens wear long whiskers and do
not speak much English, and where there always seems to be a smell
of herring around and about, and she is greatly surprised and much
disgusted by her surroundings as she approaches the corner where Israel
Ib's jug stands.

Furthermore, she is much surprised to find a big crowd in front of
the jug, and this crowd is made up of many whiskers and old dolls
wearing shawls over their heads, and kids of all sizes and shapes,
and everybody in the crowd seems much excited, and there is plenty of
moaning and groaning from one and all, and especially from an old doll
who is standing in the doorway of a little store a couple of doors from
the jug.

In fact, this old doll is making more racket than all the rest of the
crowd put together, and at times is raising her voice to a scream and
crying out in a strange language words that sound quite hostile.

Silk's taxi cannot get through the mob and a copper steps up and tells
the driver he better make a detour, so Silk asks the copper why these
people are raising such a rumpus in the street, instead of being home
keeping warm, for it is colder than a blonde's heart, and there is
plenty of ice around about.

"Why," the copper says, "do you not hear? This jug busts this morning
and the guy who runs it, Israel Ib, is over in the Tombs, and the
people are nervous because many of them have their potatoes in the jug.
In fact," the copper says, "some of them, including the old doll over
there in front of the store who is doing all the screeching, have their
lifetime savings in this jug, and it looks as if they are ruined. It is
very sad," he says, "because they are very, very poor people."

And then tears come to his eyes, and he boffs an old guy with whiskers
over the skull with his club because the old guy is moaning so loud the
copper can scarcely make himself heard.

Now naturally all this is most surprising news to Silk, and while
she is pretty much sored up because she cannot see Israel Ib to get
her merchandise out of the customs, she has the taxi jockey take her
away from these scenes right away, and up to her apartment in Park
Avenue, which she has ready for her coming home. Then she sends out
for the early editions of the evening papers and reads all about what
a rapscallion Israel Ib is for letting his jug bust right in the poor
people's faces.

It seems that Israel Ib is placed in the Tombs because somebody
suspects something illegal about the busting, but of course nobody
figures Israel Ib will be kept in the Tombs long on account of being
a banker, and in fact there is already some talk that the parties who
placed him there in the first place may find themselves in plenty of
heat later on, because it is considered most discourteous to a banker
to place him in the Tombs where the accommodations are by no means
first class.

One of the papers has a story about Israel Ib's ever-loving wife taking
it on the lam as soon as the news gets out about the jug busting and
Israel Ib being in the Tombs, and about her saying he can get out of
this predicament the best way he can, but that she will never help with
as much as a thin dime of her dough and hinting pretty strong that
Israel Ib's trouble is on account of him squandering the jug's scratch
on a doll.

The story says she is going back to her people, and from the way the
story reads it sounds as if the scribe who writes it figures this is
one good break, at least, for Israel Ib.

Now these hints let out by Israel Ib's ever-loving wife about him
squandering the jug's scratch on a doll are printed as facts in the
morning papers the next morning, and maybe if Silk bothers to read
these morning sheets she will think better of going down to Israel Ib's
jug again, because her name is mentioned right out, and there are big
pictures of her in the papers from her old days in the Follies.

But there Silk is in a taxi in front of the Bank of the Bridges at nine
o'clock the next morning, and it seems her brain is buzzing with quite
a large idea, although this idea does not come out until later.

There is already quite a crowd around the jug again, as it is always
very difficult to make people who live on the lower East Side and wear
whiskers and shawls understand about such matters as busted jugs. They
are apt to hang around a busted jug for days at a time with their
bank-books in their hands, and sometimes it takes as much as a week to
convince such people that their potatoes are gone for good, and make
them disperse to their homes and start saving more.

There is still much moaning and groaning, though not as much as the
day before, and every now and then the old doll pops out of the little
store and stands in the doorway and shakes her fist at the busted jug
and hollers in a strange language. A short, greasy-looking guy with
bristly whiskers and an old black derby hat jammed down over his ears
is standing with a morning paper spread out in his hands, and a bunch
of other guys are around him listening to him read what the paper has
to say about the situation.

Just one copper is walking up and down now, and it is the copper who
speaks to Silk the day before, and he seems to remember her as she gets
out of the taxi and he walks over to her, while a lot of people stop
moaning and groaning to take a gander at her, for it is by no means a
common sight to see such a looking doll in this neighbourhood.

The copper no more than says good morning to Silk when the guy who is
reading the paper stops reading and takes a peek at her, and then at
her picture which is on the page in front of him. Then he points at the
picture and points at Silk, and begins jabbering a blue streak to the
guys around him. About this time the old doll peeps out of the store to
shake her fist at Israel Ib's jug again and, hearing the jabbering, she
joins the bunch around the guy with the paper.

She listens to the jabbering a while, peeking over the guy's shoulder
at the picture, and then taking a good long look at Silk, and then all
of a sudden the old doll turns and pops back into the store.

Now all the shawls and whiskers start gathering around Silk and the
copper, and anybody can tell from the way they are looking that they
are all sored up, and what they are sored up at is Silk, because
naturally they figure out that she is the doll whose picture is in the
morning paper and is therefore the doll who is responsible for Israel
Ib's jug busting.

But of course the copper does not know that they are sored up at Silk,
and figures they are gathering around just out of curiosity, as people
will do when they see a copper talking to anybody. He is a young copper
and naturally he does not wish to have an audience when he is speaking
to such a looking doll as Silk, even if most of the audience cannot
understand English, so as the crowd nudges closer he gets his club
ready to boff a few skulls.

Just about then half a brickbat hits him under the right ear, and he
begins wobbling about very loose at the hinges, and at the same minute
all the shawls and whiskers take to pulling and hauling at Silk. There
are about a hundred of the shawls and whiskers to begin with and more
are coming up from every-which direction, and they are all yelling and
screaming and punching and scratching at Silk.

She is knocked down two or three times, and many shawls and whiskers
are walking up and down her person while she is on the ground, and she
is bleeding here and there, and the chances are they will kill her as
dead as a door-nail in their excitement if the old doll from the little
store near the jug does not bob up all of a sudden with a mop handle in
her duke and starts boffing the shawls and whiskers on their noggins.

In fact, the old doll plays a regular tune on these noggins with the
mop handle, sometimes knocking a shawl or whiskers quite bow-legged,
and soon clearing a path through the crowd to Silk and taking hold of
Silk and dragging her off into the store just as the reserves and an
ambulance arrive.

The young copper is still wobbling about from the brickbat and speaking
of how he hears the birdies singing in the trees, although of course
there are no birdies in this neighbourhood at such a time of year, and
no trees either, and there are maybe half a dozen shawls and whiskers
sitting on the pavement rubbing their noggins, and others are diving
into doorways here and there, and there is much confusion generally.

So the ambulance takes Silk and some of the shawls and whiskers to a
hospital and Professor D and Doc Daro visit her there a couple of hours
later, finding her in bed somewhat plastered up in spots but in no
danger, and naturally Professor D and Doc Daro wish to know what she is
doing around Israel Ib's jug, anyway.

"Why," Silk says, "I am not able to sleep a wink all last night
thinking of these poor people suffering on account of me taking Israel
Ib's dough, although," Silk says, "of course I do not know it is wrong
dough when I receive it. I do not know Israel Ib is clipping these poor
people. But seeing them around the jug yesterday morning, I remember
what happens to my poor mamma when the jug busts on her. I see her
standing in front of the busted jug with me beside her, crying her eyes
out, and my heart is very heavy," Silk says. "So I get to thinking,"
she says, "that it will be a very nice thing, indeed, if I am first to
tell the poor souls who have their dough in Israel Ib's jug that they
are going to get it back."

"Wait a minute," Doc Daro says. "What do you mean--they are going to
get their dough back?"

"Why," Silk says, "I consult with Judge Goldstein, who is my tongue,
and a very good guy, at that, and fairly honest, last night, and Judge
Goldstein tells me that I am worth in negotiable securities and real
estate and jewellery, and one thing and another, about three million
one hundred bobs, and a few odd cents.

"Judge Goldstein tells me," Silk says, "that such a sum will more than
pay off all the depositors in Israel Ib's jug. In fact, Judge Goldstein
tells me that what I have probably represents most of the deposits in
the jug, and," she says, "I sign everything I own in this world over to
Judge Goldstein to do this, although Judge Goldstein says there is no
doubt I can beat any attempt to take my dough away from me if I wish to
keep it.

"So," Silk says, "I am so happy to think these poor people will get
their dough back that I cannot wait for Judge Goldstein to let it out.
I wish to break the news to them myself, but," Silk says, "before I can
say a word they hop on me and start giving me a pasting, and if it is
not for the old doll with the mop handle maybe you will have to chip in
to bury me, because I certainly do not have enough dough left to bury
myself."

Well, this is about all there is to the story, except that the Bank
of the Bridges pays off one hundred per cent on the dollar, and what
is more Israel Ib is running it again, and doing very well, indeed,
and his ever-loving wife returns to him, and everything is hotsy-totsy
between them.

As for Silk, she is back on Broadway, and the last time I see her she
is in love with a very legitimate guy who is in the hotel business, and
while he does not strike me as having much brains, he has plenty of
youth running for him, and Silk says it is the best break she ever gets
in her life when Israel Ib's jug busts.

But anybody will tell you that the best break Silk ever gets is when
the old doll on the lower East Side recognizes her from the photograph
she has stuck up on the wall in the little store near Israel Ib's jug
as the doll who once saves her son, Simeon Slotsky, from being placed
in the pokey.




15. THE BRAIN GOES HOME


One night The Brain is walking me up and down Broadway in front of
Mindy's Restaurant, and speaking of this and that, when along comes a
red-headed raggedy doll selling apples at five cents per copy, and The
Brain, being very fond of apples, grabs one out of her basket and hands
her a five-dollar bill.

The red-headed raggedy doll, who is maybe thirty-odd and is nothing but
a crow as far as looks are concerned, squints at the finnif, and says
to The Brain like this:

"I do not have change for so much money," she says, "but I will go and
get it in a minute."

"You keep the change," The Brain says, biting a big hunk out of the
apple and taking my arm to start me walking again.

Well, the raggedy doll looks at The Brain again, and it seems to me
that all of a sudden there are large tears in her eyes as she says:

"Oh, thank you, sir! Thank you, thank you, and God bless you, sir!"

And then she goes on up the street in a hurry, with her hands over her
eyes and her shoulders shaking, and The Brain turns around very much
astonished, and watches her until she is out of sight.

"Why, my goodness!" The Brain says. "I give Doris Clare ten G's last
night, and she does not make half as much fuss over it as this doll
does over a pound note."

"Well," I say, "maybe the apple doll needs a pound note more than Doris
needs ten G's."

"Maybe so," The Brain says. "And of course, Doris gives me much more in
return than just an apple and a God bless me. Doris gives me her love.
I guess," The Brain says, "that love costs me about as much dough as
any guy that ever lives."

"I guess it does," I say, and the chances are we both guess right,
because off-hand I figure that if The Brain gets out on three
hundred G's per year for love, he is running his love business very
economically indeed, because it is well known to one and all that The
Brain has three different dolls, besides an ever-loving wife.

In fact, The Brain is sometimes spoken of by many citizens as the "Love
King," but only behind his back, because The Brain likes to think his
love affairs are a great secret to all but maybe a few, although the
only guy I ever see in this town who does not know all about them is a
guy who is deaf, dumb, and blind.

I once read a story about a guy by the name of King Solomon who lives a
long time ago and who has a thousand dolls all at once, which is going
in for dolls on a very large scale indeed, but I guarantee that all
of King Solomon's dolls put together are not as expensive as any one
of The Brain's dolls. The overhead on Doris Clare alone will drive an
ordinary guy daffy, and Doris is practically frugal compared to Cynthia
Harris and Bobby Baker.

Then there is Charlotte, who is The Brain's ever-loving wife and who
has a society bug and needs plenty of coco-nuts at all times to keep
her a going concern. I once hear The Brain tell Bobby Baker that his
ever-loving wife is a bit of an invalid, but as a matter of fact there
is never anything the matter with Charlotte that a few bobs will not
cure, although of course this goes for nearly every doll in this world
who is an invalid.

When a guy is knocking around Broadway as long as The Brain, he is
bound to accumulate dolls here and there, but most guys accumulate
one at a time, and when this one runs out on him, as Broadway dolls
will do, he accumulates another, and so on, and so on, until he is too
old to care about such matters as dolls, which is when he is maybe a
hundred and four years old, although I hear of several guys who beat
even this record.

But when The Brain accumulates a doll he seems to keep her accumulated,
and none of them ever run out on him, and while this will be a very
great nuisance to the average guy, it pleases The Brain no little
because it makes him think he has a very great power over dolls.

"They are not to blame if they fall in love with me," The Brain says
to me one night. "I will not cause one of them any sorrow for all the
world."

Well, of course, it is most astonishing to me to hear a guy as smart as
The Brain using such language, but I figure he may really believe it,
because The Brain thinks very good of himself at all times. However,
some guys claim that the real reason The Brain keeps all his dolls is
because he is too selfish to give them away, although personally I
will not take any of them if The Brain throws in a cash bonus, except
maybe Bobby Baker.

Anyway, The Brain keeps his dolls accumulated, and furthermore he
spends plenty of dough on them, what with buying them automobiles and
furs and diamonds and swell places to live in--especially swell places
to live in. One time I tell The Brain he will save himself plenty if he
hires a house and bunches his dolls together in one big happy family,
instead of having them scattered all over town, but The Brain says this
idea is no good.

"In the first place," he says, "they do not know about each other,
except Doris and Cynthia and Bobby know about Charlotte, although she
does not know about them. They each think they are the only one with
me. So if I corral them all together they will be jealous of each other
over my love. Anyway," The Brain says, "such an arrangement will be
very immoral and against the law. No," he says, "it is better to have
them in different spots, because think of the many homes it gives me to
go to in case I wish to go home. In fact," The Brain says, "I guess I
have more homes to go to than any other guy on Broadway."

Well, this may be true, but what The Brain wants with a lot of
different homes is a very great mystery on Broadway, because he seldom
goes home, anyway, his idea in not going home being that something may
happen in this town while he is at home that he is not in on. The Brain
seldom goes anywhere in particular. He never goes out in public with
any one of his dolls, except maybe once or twice a year with Charlotte,
his ever-loving wife, and finally he even stops going with her because
Doris Clare says it does not look good to Doris's personal friends.

The Brain marries Charlotte long before he becomes the biggest guy in
gambling operations in the East, and a millionaire two or three times
over, but he is never much of a hand to sit around home and chew the
fat with his ever-loving wife, as husbands often do. Furthermore, when
he is poor he has to live in a neighbourhood which is too far away for
it to be convenient for him to go home, so finally he gets out of the
habit of going there.

But Charlotte is not such a doll as cares to spend more than one or
two years looking at the pictures on the wall, because it seems the
pictures on her wall are nothing but pictures of cows in the meadows
and houses covered with snow, so she does not go home any more than
necessary, either, and has her own friends and is very happy indeed,
especially after The Brain gets so he can send in right along.

I will say one thing about The Brain and his dolls: he never picks a
crow. He has a very good eye for faces and shapes, and even Charlotte,
his ever-loving wife, is not a crow, although she is not as young as
she used to be. As for Doris Clare, she is one of the great beauties
on the Ziegfeld roof in her day, and while her day is by no means
yesterday, or even the day before, Doris holds on pretty well in the
matter of looks. Giving her a shade the best of it, I will say that
Doris is thirty-two or-three, but she has plenty of zing left in her,
at that, and her hair remains very blonde, no matter what.

In fact, The Brain does not care much if his dolls are blonde or
brunette, because Cynthia Harris's hair is as black as the inside of a
wolf, while Bobby Baker is betwixt and between, her hair being a light
brown. Cynthia Harris is more of a Johnny-come-lately than Doris, being
out of Mr. Earl Carroll's "Vanities," and I hear she first comes to New
York as Miss Somebody in one of these beauty contests which she will
win hands down if one of the judges does not get a big wink from a Miss
Somebody Else.

Of course, Cynthia is doing some winking herself at this time, but it
seems that she picks a guy to wink at thinking he is one of the judges,
when he is nothing but a newspaperman and has no say whatever about the
decision.

Well, Mr. Earl Carroll feels sorry for Cynthia, so he puts her in the
"Vanities" and lets her walk around raw, and The Brain sees her, and
the next thing anybody knows she is riding in a big foreign automobile
the size of a rum chaser, and is chucking a terrible swell.

Personally, I always consider Bobby Baker the smartest of all The
Brain's dolls, because she is just middling as to looks and she does
not have any of the advantages of life like Doris Clare and Cynthia
Harris, such as jobs on the stage where they can walk around showing
off their shapes to guys such as The Brain. Bobby Baker starts off as
nothing but a private secretary to a guy in Wall Street, and naturally
she is always wearing clothes, or anyway, as many clothes as an
ordinary doll wears nowadays, which is not so many, at that.

It seems that The Brain once has some business with the guy Bobby works
for and happens to get talking to Bobby, and she tells him how she
always wishes to meet him, what with hearing and reading about him, and
how he is just as handsome and romantic-looking as she always pictures
him to herself.

Now I wish to say I will never call any doll a liar, being at all times
a gentleman, and for all I know, Bobby Baker may really think The Brain
is handsome and romantic-looking, but personally I figure if she is not
lying to him, she is at least a little excited when she makes such a
statement to The Brain. The best you can give The Brain at this time is
that he is very well dressed.

He is maybe forty years old, give or take a couple of years, and he is
commencing to get a little bunchy about the middle, what with sitting
down at card-tables so much and never taking any exercise outside of
walking guys such as me up and down in front of Mindy's for a few hours
every night. He has a clean-looking face, always very white around the
gills, and he has nice teeth and a nice smile when he wishes to smile,
which is never at guys who owe him dough.

And I will say for The Brain he has what is called personality. He
tells a story well, although he is always the hero of any story he
tells, and he knows how to make himself agreeable to dolls in many
ways. He has a pretty fair sort of education, and while dolls such as
Cynthia and Doris, and maybe Charlotte, too, will rather have a charge
account at Cartier's than all the education in Yale and Harvard put
together, it seems that Bobby Baker likes highbrow gab, so naturally
she gets plenty of same from The Brain.

Well, pretty soon Bobby is riding around in a car bigger than
Cynthia's, though neither is as big as Doris's car, and all the
neighbours' children over in Flatbush, which is where Bobby hails from,
are very jealous of her and running around spreading gossip about her,
but keeping their eyes open for big cars themselves. Personally, I
always figure The Brain lowers himself socially by taking up with a
doll from Flatbush, especially as Bobby Baker soon goes in for literary
guys, such as newspaper scribes and similar characters around Greenwich
Village.

But there is no denying Bobby Baker is a very smart little doll, and
in the four or five years she is one of The Brain's dolls, she gets
more dough out of him than all the others put together, because she is
always telling him how much she loves him, and saying she cannot do
without him, while Doris Clare and Cynthia Harris sometimes forget to
mention this more than once or twice a month.

Now what happens early one morning but a guy by the name of Daffy Jack
hauls off and sticks a shiv in The Brain's left side. It seems that
this is done at the request of a certain party by the name of Homer
Swing, who owes The Brain plenty of dough in a gambling transaction,
and who becomes very indignant when The Brain presses him somewhat for
payment. It seems that Daffy Jack, who is considered a very good shiv
artist, aims at The Brain's heart, but misses it by a couple of inches,
leaving The Brain with a very bad cut in his side which calls for some
stitching.

Big Nig, the crap shooter, and I are standing at Fifty-second Street
and Seventh Avenue along about 2 a.m., speaking of not much, when The
Brain comes stumbling out of Fifty-second Street, and falls in Big
Nig's arms, practically ruining a brand-new topcoat which Big Nig pays
sixty bucks for a few days back with the blood that is coming out of
the cut. Naturally, Big Nig is indignant about this, but we can see
that it is no time to be speaking to The Brain about such matters. We
can see that The Brain is carved up quite some, and is in a bad way.

Of course, we are not greatly surprised at seeing The Brain in this
condition, because for years he is practically no price around this
town, what with this guy and that being anxious to do something or
other to him, but we are never expecting to see him carved up like a
turkey. We are expecting to see him with a few slugs in him, and both
Big Nig and me are very angry to think that there are guys around who
will use such instruments as a knife on anybody.

But while we are thinking it over, The Brain says to me like this:

"Call Hymie Weissberger, and Doc Frisch," he says, "and take me home."

Naturally, a guy such as The Brain wishes his lawyer before he wishes
his doctor, and Hymie Weissberger is The Brain's mouthpiece, and a
very sure-footed guy, at that.

"Well," I say, "we better take you to a hospital where you can get good
attention at once."

"No," The Brain says. "I wish to keep this secret. It will be a bad
thing for me right now to have this get out, and if you take me to a
hospital they must report it to the coppers. Take me home."

Naturally, I say which home, being somewhat confused about The Brain's
homes, and he seems to study a minute as if this is a question to be
well thought out.

"Park Avenue," The Brain says finally, so Big Nig stops a taxicab, and
we help The Brain into the cab and tell the jockey to take us to the
apartment house on Park Avenue near Sixty-fourth where The Brain's
ever-loving wife Charlotte lives.

When we get there, I figure it is best for me to go up first and break
the news gently to Charlotte, because I can see what a shock it is
bound to be to any ever-loving wife to have her husband brought home in
the early hours of the morning all shivved up.

Well, the door man and the elevator guy in the apartment house give me
an argument about going up to The Brain's apartment, saying a blow out
of some kind is going on there, but after I explain to them that The
Brain is sick, they let me go. A big fat butler comes to the door of
the apartment when I ring, and I can see there are many dolls and guys
in evening clothes in the apartment, and somebody is singing very loud.

The butler tries to tell me I cannot see Charlotte, but I finally
convince him it is best, so by and by she comes to the door, and a very
pleasant sight she is, at that, with jewellery all over her. I stall
around awhile, so as not to alarm her too much, and then I tell her The
Brain meets with an accident and that we have him outside in a cab, and
ask her where we shall put him.

"Why," she says, "put him in a hospital, of course. I am entertaining
some very important people to-night, and I cannot have them disturbed
by bringing in a hospital patient. Take him to a hospital, and tell him
I will come and see him to-morrow and bring him some broth."

I try to explain to her that The Brain does not need any broth, but a
nice place to lie down in, but finally she gets very testy with me and
shuts the door in my face, saying as follows:

"Take him to a hospital, I tell you. This is a ridiculous hour for him
to be coming home, anyway. It is twenty years since he comes home so
early."

Then as I am waiting for the elevator, she opens the door again just a
little bit and says:

"By the way, is he hurt bad?"

I say we do not know how bad he is hurt, and she shuts the door again,
and I go back to the cab again, thinking what a heartless doll she is,
although I can see where it will be very inconvenient for her to bust
up her party, at that.

The Brain is lying back in the corner of the cab, his eyes half-closed,
and by this time it seems that Big Nig stops the blood somewhat with
a handkerchief, but The Brain acts somewhat weak to me. He sort
of rouses himself when I climb in the cab, and when I tell him his
ever-loving wife is not home he smiles a bit and whispers:

"Take me to Doris."

Now Doris lives in a big apartment house away over on West
Seventy-second Street near the Drive, and I tell the taxi jockey to
go there while The Brain seems to slide off into a doze. Then Big Nig
leans over to me and says to me like this:

"No use taking him there," Big Nig says. "I see Doris going out
to-night all dressed up in her ermine coat with this actor guy, Jack
Walen, she is struck on. It is a very great scandal around and about
the way they carry on. Let us take him to Cynthia," Nig says. "She is a
very large-hearted doll who will be very glad to take him in."

Now Cynthia Harris has a big suite of rooms that cost fifteen G's a
year in a big hotel just off Fifth Avenue, Cynthia being a doll who
likes to be downtown so if she hears of anything coming off anywhere
she can get there very rapidly. When we arrive at the hotel I call her
on the house 'phone and tell her I must see her about something very
important, so Cynthia says for me to come up.

It is now maybe three-fifteen, and I am somewhat surprised to find
Cynthia home, at that, but there she is, and looking very beautiful
indeed in a nglige with her hair hanging down, and I can see that The
Brain is no chump when it comes to picking them. She gives me a hello
pleasant enough, but as soon as I explain what I am there for, her
kisser gets very stern and she says to me like this:

"Listen," she says, "I got trouble enough around this joint, what with
two guys getting in a fight over me at a little gathering I have here
last night and the house copper coming in to split them out, and I do
not care to have any more. Suppose it gets out that The Brain is here?
What will the newspapers print about me? Think of my reputation!"

Well, in about ten minutes I can see there is no use arguing with her,
because she can talk faster than I can, and mostly she talks about what
a knock it will be to her reputation if she takes The Brain in, so I
leave her standing at the door in her nglige, still looking very
beautiful, at that.

There is now nothing for us to do but take The Brain to Bobby Baker,
who lives in a duplex apartment in Sutton Place over by the East River,
where the swells set up a colony of nice apartments in the heart of an
old tenement-house neighbourhood, and as we are on our way there with
The Brain lying back in the cab just barely breathing, I say to Big Nig
like this:

"Nig," I say, "when we get to Bobby's, we will carry The Brain in
without asking her first and just dump him on her so she cannot refuse
to take him in, although," I say, "Bobby Baker is a nice little doll,
and I am pretty sure she will do anything she can for him, especially,"
I say, "since he pays fifty G's for this apartment we are going to."

So when the taxicab stops in front of Bobby's house, Nig and I take
The Brain out of the cab and lug him between us up to the door of
Bobby's apartment, where I ring the bell. Bobby opens the door herself,
and I happen to see a guy's legs zip into a room in the apartment
behind her, although of course there is nothing wrong in such a sight,
even though the guy's legs are in pink pyjamas.

Naturally, Bobby is greatly astonished to see us with The Brain
dangling between us, but she does not invite us in as I explain to her
that The Brain is stabbed and that his last words are for us to take
him to his Bobby. Furthermore, she does not let me finish my story
which will be very sad indeed, if she keeps on listening.

"If you do not take him away from here at once," Bobby says, before I
am down to the pathetic part, "I will call the cops and you guys will
be arrested on suspicion that you know something about how he gets
hurt."

Then she slams the door on us, and we lug The Brain back down the
stairs into the street, because all of a sudden it strikes us that
Bobby is right, and if The Brain is found in our possession all stabbed
up, and he happens to croak, we are in a very tough spot, because the
cops just naturally love to refuse to believe guys like Big Nig and me,
no matter what we say.

Furthermore, the same idea must hit the taxicab jockey after we lift
The Brain out of the cab, because he is nowhere to be seen, and there
we are away over by the East River in the early morning, with no other
taxis in sight, and a cop liable to happen along any minute.

Well, there is nothing for us to do but get away from there, so Big Nig
and I start moving, with me carrying The Brain's feet, and Big Nig his
head. We get several blocks away from Sutton Place, going very slow and
hiding in dark doorways when we hear anybody coming, and now we are
in a section of tenement houses, when all of a sudden up out of the
basement of one of these tenements pops a doll.

She sees us before we can get in a dark place, and she seems to have
plenty of nerve for a doll, because she comes right over to us and
looks at Big Nig and me, and then looks at The Brain, who loses his hat
somewhere along the line, so his pale face is plain to be seen by even
the dim street light.

"Why," the doll says, "it is the kind gentleman who gives me the five
dollars for the apple--the money that buys the medicine that saves my
Joey's life. What is the matter?"

"Well," I say to the doll, who is still raggedy and still red-headed,
"there is nothing much the matter except if we do not get him somewhere
soon, this guy will up and croak on us."

"Bring him into my house," she says, pointing to the joint she just
comes out of. "It is not much of a place, but you can let him rest
there until you get help. I am just going over here to a drug store
to get some more medicine for Joey, although he is out of danger now,
thanks to this gentleman."

So we lug The Brain down the basement steps with the doll leading the
way, and we follow her into a room that smells like a Chinese laundry
and seems to be full of kids sleeping on the floor. There is only one
bed in the room, and it is not much of a bed any way you take it, and
there seems to be a kid in this bed, too, but the red-headed doll rolls
this kid over to one side of the bed and motions us to lay The Brain
alongside of the kid. Then she gets a wet rag and starts bathing The
Brain's noggin.

He finally opens his eyes and looks at the red-headed raggedy doll, and
she grins at him very pleasant. When I think things over afterwards, I
figure The Brain is conscious of much of what is going on when we are
packing him around, although he does not say anything, maybe because he
is too weak. Anyway, he turns his head to Big Nig, and says to him like
this:

"Bring Weissberger and Frisch as quick as you can," he says. "Anyway,
get Weissberger. I do not know how bad I am hurt, and I must tell him
some things."

Well, The Brain is hurt pretty bad, as it turns out, and in fact he
never gets well, but he stays in the basement dump until he dies three
days later, with the red-headed raggedy doll nursing him alongside her
sick kid Joey, because the croaker, old Doc Frisch, says it is no good
moving The Brain, and may only make him pop off sooner. In fact, Doc
Frisch is much astonished that The Brain lives at all, considering the
way we lug him around.

I am present at The Brain's funeral at Wiggins's Funeral Parlours, like
everybody else on Broadway, and I wish to say I never see more flowers
in all my life. They are all over the casket and knee-deep on the
floor, and some of the pieces must cost plenty, the price of flowers
being what they are in this town nowadays. In fact, I judge it is the
size and cost of the different pieces that makes me notice a little
bundle of faded red carnations not much bigger than your fist that is
laying alongside a pillow of violets the size of a horse blanket.

There is a small card tied to the carnations, and it says on this
card, as follows: "To a kind gentleman," and it comes to my mind that
out of all the thousands of dollars' worth of flowers there, these
faded carnations represent the only true sincerity. I mention this to
Big Nig, and he says the chances are I am right, but that even true
sincerity is not going to do The Brain any good where he is going.

Anybody will tell you that for off-hand weeping at a funeral The
Brain's ever-loving wife Charlotte does herself very proud indeed, but
she is not one-two-seven with Doris Clare, Cynthia Harris, and Bobby
Baker. In fact, Bobby Baker weeps so loud that there is some talk of
heaving her out of the funeral altogether.

However, I afterwards hear that loud as they are at the funeral, it is
nothing to the weep they all put on when it comes out that The Brain
has Hymie Weissberger draw up a new will while he is dying and leaves
all his dough to the red-headed raggedy doll, whose name seems to be
O'Halloran, and who is the widow of a bricklayer and has five kids.

Well, at first all the citizens along Broadway say it is a wonderful
thing for The Brain to do, and serves his ever-loving wife and Doris
and Cynthia and Bobby just right; and from the way one and all speaks
you will think they are going to build a monument to The Brain for his
generosity to the red-headed raggedy doll.

But about two weeks after he is dead, I hear citizens saying the
chances are the red-headed raggedy doll is nothing but one of The
Brain's old-time dolls, and that maybe the kids are his and that he
leaves them the dough because his conscience hurts him at the finish,
for this is the way Broadway is. But personally I know it cannot be
true, for if there is one thing The Brain never has it is a conscience.




    Printed in Great Britain by Butler & Tanner Ltd., Frome and London






[End of More Than Somewhat, by Damon Runyon]
