a protector; his past should be avenged.
There was a forty-pound bulldog resident of Philadelphia. He whipped every dog to whom he was introduced. His name was Alexander McBride. He was referred to as “McBride’s Dandy” in his set, whenever his identification became a conversational necessity. Of the many dogs he had met and conquered, Alexander McBride had killed twenty-three.
Albert Edward Murphy resolved to import Alexander McBride. He knew the latter’s owner. A letter adjusted the details. The proprietor of Alexander McBride was willing his pet should come to the metropolis on a visit. Alexander McBride had fought Philadelphia to a standstill, and his owner’s idea was that, if Alexander McBride were to go on a visit and remain away for a few months, Philadelphia would forget him, and on his return he might ring Alexander in on the town as a stranger, and kill another dog with him. *****
Alexander McBride got off the cars in a chicken crate. The expressmen were afraid of him. Albert Edward Murphy was notified. He hired a coloured person, who looked on life as a failure, to convey Alexander McBride to his new home. They tied him to a bureau when they got him there.
Alexander McBride was a gruesome-looking dog, with a wide, vacant head, when his mouth was open, like unto an empty coal scuttle. Albert Edward Murphy looked at Alexander McBride, and after saying that he “would do,” went to dinner. During the prandial meal he explained to his family the properties and attributes of Alexander McBride; and then he and the children went over the long list of neighbour dogs who had oppressed John, the pug, and settled which dog Alexander McBride should chew up first. Alexander McBride should begin on the morrow to rend and destroy the adjacent dogs, and assume toward John, the pug, the rôle of guide, philosopher and friend. Albert Edward Murphy and his children were very happy.
After dinner they went back to take another look at Alexander McBride. As they stood about that hero in an awed but admiring circle, John, the pug, rushed wildly into the ring, and tackled Alexander McBride. The coal-scuttle head opened and closed on John, the Pug.
There was a moment of frozen horror, and then Albert Edward Murphy and his household fell upon Alexander McBride in a body.
It was too late. It took thirteen minutes and the family poker to open the jaws of Alexander McBride. Then John, the pug, fell to the floor, dead and limp as a wet bath towel.
Alexander McBride had slain his twenty-fourth dog, and John, the pug, is only a memory now.
RED MIKE
Say!” remarked Chucky as he squared himself before the greasy doggery table, “I’m goin’ to make it whiskey to-day, ’cause I ain’t feelin’ a t’ing but good, see!”
I asked the cause of Chucky’s exaltation. Chucky’s reason as given for his high spirits was unusual.
“Red Mike gets ten spaces in Sing Sing,” he said; “an’ he does a dead short stretch at that. He oughter get d’ chair – that bloke had.
“Red Mike croaks his kid,” vouchsafed Chucky in further elucidation. “Say! it makes me tired to t’ink! She was as good a kid, this little Emmer which Mike does up, as ever comes down d’ Bend. An’ only ‘leven!”
“Tell me the story,” I urged.
“This Red Mike’s a hod carrier,” continued Chucky, thus moved, “but ain’t out to hoit himself be hard woik at it; he don’t woik overtime. Hit! Not on your life insurance!
“What Red Mike sooner do is bum Mulberry Street for drinks, an’ hang ‘round s’loons an’ sling guff about d’ wrongs of d’ woikin’man. Then he’d chase home, an’ bein’ loaded, he’d wallop his family.
“On d’ level! I ain’t got no use ford’ sort of a phylanthrofist who goes chinnin’ all night about d’ wrongs of d’ labour element an ‘d’ oppressions of d* rich an’ then goes home an’ slugs his wife. Say! I t’ink a bloke who’d soak a skirt, no matter what she does – no matter if she is his wife! on d’ square! I t’ink he’s rotten.” And Chucky imbibed deeply, looking virtuous.
“Well, at last,” said Chucky, resuming his narrative, “Mike puts a crimp too many in his Norah – that’s his wife – an’ d’ city ‘torities plants her in Potters’ Field.”
“Did Mike kill her?” I queried, a bit horrified at this murderous development of Chucky’s tale.
“Sure!” assented Chucky, “Mike kills her.”
“Shoot her?” I suggested.
“Nit!” retorted Chucky disgustedly. “Shoot her! Mike ain’t got no gun. If he had, he’d hocked it long before he got to croak anybody wit’ it. Naw, Mike does Norah be his constant abuse, see! Beats d’ life out of her be degrees.
“When Norah’s gone,” resumed Chucky, “Emmer, who’s d’ oldest of d’ t’ree kids, does d’ mudder act for d’ others. She’s ‘leven, like I says. An’ little! – she ain’t bigger’n a drink of whiskey, Emmer ain’t.
“But youse should oughter see her hustle to line up an’ take care of them two young-ones. Only eight an’ five dey be. Emmer washes d’ duds for ‘em, and does all sorts of stunts to get grub, an’ tries like an old woman, night an’ day, to bring ‘em up.
“D’ neighbours helps, of course, like neighbours do when it’s a case of dead hard luck; an’ I meself has t’run a quarter or two in Emmer’s lap when I’m a bit lushy. Say! I’m d’ easiest mark when I’ve been hit-tin’ d’ bottle! – I’d give d’ nose off me face!
“If d’ neighbours don’t chip in, Emmer an’ them kids would lots of times have had a hard graft; for mostly there ain’t enough dough about d’ joint from one week’s end to another to flag a bread waggon.
“Finally Red Mike gets woise. After Norah goes flutterin’ that time, Mike’s been goin’ along as usual, talkin’ about d’ woikin’man, an’ doin’ up Emmer an ‘d’ kids for a finish before he rolls in to pound his ear.
“At foist it ain’t so bad. He simply fetches one of d’ young ones a back-handed swipe across d’ map wit’ his mit to see it swap ends wit’ itself; or mebbe he soaks Emmer in d’ lamp an’ blacks it, ‘cause she’s older. But never no woise. At least, not for long.
“But as I says, finally Red Mike gets bad for fair. He lams loose oftener, an’ he licks Emmer an ‘d’ kids more to d’ Queen’s taste – more like dey’s grown-up folks an’ can stan’ for it.
“Emmer, day after day chases ‘round quiet as a rabbit, washin’ d’ kids an’ feedin’ ‘em when there’s any-t’ing, an’ she don’t make no holler about Mike’s jumpin’ on ‘em for fear if she squeals d’ cops’ll pinch Mike an’ give him d’ Island.
“Yes, Emmer was a dead game all right. Not only she don’t raise d’ roar on Mike about his soakin’ ‘em, but more’n onct she cuts in an’ takes d’ smash Mike means for one of d’ others.
“But, of course, you can see poor Emmer’s finish. She’s little, an’ weak, an’ t’in, not gettin’ enough to chew – for she saws d’ food off on d’ others as long as dey makes d’ hungry front – an ‘d’ night Mike puts d’ boots to her an’ breaks t’ree of her slats, that lets her out! She croaks in four hours, be d’ watch.
“W’at
