he did so the hardworking colored person.
“Pad-money!” – with a slighting glance. “Pad-money; an’ it’s twict too much.”
Pad-money means pay for a bed.
“Well, I should say so!” coincided Tricker, with the weary yet lofty manner of one who is a judge.
In one corner were two women and a trio of men. The men were thieves of the cheap grade known as lush-workers. These beasts of prey lie about the East Side grog shops, and when some sailor ashore leaves a place, showing considerable slant, they tail him and take all he has. They will plunder their victim in sight of a whole street. No one will tell. The first lesson of Gangland is never to inform nor give evidence. One who does is called snitch; and the wages of the snitch is death. The lush-workers pay a percentage of their pillage, to what saloons they infest, for the privilege of lying in wait.
Tricker pointed to the younger of the two women – about eighteen, she was.
“Two years ago,” said Tricker, addressing the boiled barman, “I had her pinched an’ turned over to the Aid Society. She’s so young I thought mebby they could save her.”
“Save her!” repeated the boiled one in weary disgust. “Youse can’t save ‘em. I used to try that meself. That was long ago. Now” – tossing his hand with a resigned air – “now, whenever I see a skirt who’s goin’ to hell, I pay her fare.”
One of the three men was old and gray of hair. He used to be a gonoph, and had worked the rattlers and ferries in his youth. But he got settled a couple of times, and it broke his nerve. There is an age limit in pocket-picking. No pickpocket is good after he passes forty years; so far, Dr. Osier was right. Children from twelve to fourteen do the best work. Their hands are small and steady; their confidence has not been shaken by years in prison. There are twenty New York Fagins – the police use the Dickens name – training children to pick pockets. These Fagins have dummy subjects faked up, their garments covered with tiny bells. The pockets are filled – watch, purse, card-case, handkerchief, gloves. Not until a pupil can empty every pocket, without ringing a bell, is he fit to go out into the world and look for boobs.
“If Indian Louie shows up,” remarked Tricker to the boiled-lobster barman, as he made ready to go, “tell him to blow ‘round tomorry evenin’ to One Hundred and Twenty-eight.”
Working his careless way back to the Bowery, Tricker strolled north to where that historic thoroughfare merges into Third Avenue. In Great Jones Street, round the corner from Third Avenue, Paul Kelly kept the New Brighton. Tricker decided to look in casually upon this hall of mirth, and – as one interested – study trade conditions. True, there was a coolness between himself and Kelly, albeit, both being of the Five Points, they were of the same tribe. What then? As members of the gang nobility, had they not won the right to nurse a private feud? De Bracy and Bois Guilbert were both Crusaders, and yet there is no record of any lost love between them.
In the roll of gang honor Kelly’s name was written high. Having been longer and more explosively before the public, his fame was even greater than Tricker’s. There was, too, a profound background of politics to the New Brighton. It was strong with Tammany Hall, and, per incident, in right with the police. For these double reasons of Kelly’s fame, and that atmosphere of final politics which invested it, the New Brighton was deeply popular. Every foot of dancing floor was in constant demand, while would-be merry-makers, crowded off for want of room, sat in a triple fringe about the walls.
Along one side of the dancing room was ranged a row of tables. A young person, just struggling into gang notice, relinquished his chair at one of these to Tricker. This was in respectful recognition of the exalted position in Gangland held by Tricker. Tricker unbent toward the young person in a tolerant nod, and accepted his submissive politeness as though doing him a favor. Tricker was right. His notice, even such as it was, graced and illustrated the polite young person in the eyes of all who beheld it, and identified him as one of whom the future would hear.
Every East Side dance hall has a sheriff, who acts as floor manager and settles difficult questions of propriety. It often happens that, in an excess of ardor and a paucity of room, two couples in their dancing seek to occupy the same space on the floor. He who makes two blades of grass grow where but one grew before, may help his race and doubtless does. The rule, however, stops with grass and does not reach to dancing. He who tries to make two couples dance, where only one had danced before, but lays the bed-plates of a riot. Where all the gentlemen are spirited, and the ladies even more so, the result is certain in its character, and in no wise hard to guess. Wherefore the dance hall sheriff is not without a mission. Likewise his honorable post is full of peril, and he must be of the stern ore from which heroes are forged.
The sheriff of the New Brighton was Eat-’Em-Up-Jack McManus. He had been a prize-fighter of more or less inconsequence, but a liking for mixed ale and a difficulty in getting to weight had long before cured him of that. He had won his nom de guerre on the battle-field, where good knights were wont to win their spurs. Meeting one of whose conduct he disapproved, he had criticized the offender with his teeth, and thereafter was everywhere hailed as Eat-’Em-Up-Jack.
Eat-’Em-Up-Jack wore his honors modestly, as great souls ever do, and there occurred nothing at the New Brighton to justify that re-baptism. There he preserved the proprieties with a black-jack, and never once brought his teeth into play. Did some boor transgress, Eat-’Em-Up-Jack collared him, and cast him into the outer darkness of Great Jones Street. If the delinquent foolishly resisted, Eat-’Em-Up-Jack emphasized that dismissal with his boot. In extreme instances he smote upon him with a black-jack – ever worn ready on his wrist, although delicately hidden, when not upon active service, in his coat sleeve.
Tricker, drinking seltzer and lemon, sat watching the dancers as they swept by. He himself was of too grave a cast to dance; it would have mismatched with his position.
Eat-’Em-Up-Jack, who could claim social elevation by virtue of his being sheriff, came and stood by Tricker’s table. The pair greeted one another. Their manner, while marked of a careful courtesy, was distant and owned nothing of warmth. The feuds of Kelly were the feuds of Eat-’Em-Up-Jack, and the latter knew that Tricker and Kelly stood not as brothers.
As Eat-’Em-Up-Jack paused by Tricker’s table, passing an occasional remark with that visitor from Park Row, Bill Harrington with Goldie Cora whirled by on the currents of the Beautiful Blue Danube. Tricker’s expert tastes rejected with disfavor the dancing of Goldie Cora.
“I don’t like the way she t’rows her feet,” he said.
Now Goldie Cora was the belle of the New Brighton. Moreover, Eat-’Em-Up-Jack liked the way she threw her feet, and was honest in his admiration. As much might be said of Harrington, who had overheard Tricker’s remark. Eat-’Em-Up-Jack, defending his own judgment, declared that Goldie Cora was the sublimation of grace, and danced like a leaf in a puff of wind. He closed by discrediting not only the opinion but the parentage of Tricker, and advised him to be upon his way lest worse happen him.
“Beat it, before I bump me black-jack off your bean!” was the way it was sternly put by Eat-’Em-Up-Jack.
Tricker, cool and undismayed, waved his hand as though brushing aside a wearisome insect.
“Can that black-jack guff,” he retorted. “Un’er-stan’; your bein’ a fighter don’t get youse nothin’ wit’ me!”
Harrington came up. Having waltzed the entire length of the Beautiful Blue Danube, he had abandoned Goldie Cora, and was now prepared to personally resent the imputation inherent in Tricker’s remark anent that fair one’s feet.
“He don’t like the way
