have it. She’s dead stubborn an’ says d’ kids must eat d’ nex’ day; and so Mike can’t have d’ money. Mike says he’ll kick d’ heart out of her if he don’t get it. Emmer stan’s pat, an’ so Mike starts in.
“It’s ‘most an hour before I gets there. D’ poor baby – for that’s all Emmer is, even if she was dealin’ d’ game for d’ joint – looks awful, all battered to bits. One of d’ city’s jackleg sawbones is there, mendin’ Emmer wit’ bandages. But he says himself he’s on a dead card, an’ that Emmer’s going to die. Mike is settin’ on a stool keepin’ mum an’ lookin’ w’ite an’ dopey, an’ a cop is wit’ him. Oh, yes! he gets d’ collar long before I shows up.
“Say! d’ scene ain’t solemn, oh, no! nit! Emmer lays back on d’ bed – she twigs she’s goin’ to die; d’ doctor puts her on. Emmer lays back an’ as good as she can, for her valves don’t woik easy an’ she breathes hard, she tells ‘em what to do. She says there’s d’ washboiler she borry’s from d’ Meyers’s family, an’ to send it back.
“‘An’ I owes Mrs. Lynch,’ says Emmer – she’s talkin’ dead faint – ‘a dime for sewin’ me skirt, an’ I ain’t got d’ dough. But when dey takes dad to d’ coop, tell her to run her lamps over d’ plunder, an’ she has her pick, see! An’ when I’m gone,’ goes on Emmer, ‘ast d’ Gerries to take d’ kids. Dey tries to get their hooks on ‘em before, but I wanted to keep ‘em. Now I can’t, an’ d’ Gerries is d’ best I can do. D’ Gerries ain’t so warm, but dey can lose nothin’ in a walk. An’ wit’ dad pinched an’ me dead, poor Danny an’ Jennie is up ag’inst it for fair.’
“Nit; Emmer never sheds a weep. But say! you should a seen me Rag! She was d’ terror for tears! She does d’ sob act for two, an’ don’t you forget it.
“Emmer just lays there when she’s quit chinnin’ an’ gives Mike d’ icy eye. If ever a bloke goes unforgiven, it’s Red Mike.
“‘Don’t youse want d’ priest, or mebby a preacher?’ asts me Rag of Emmer between sobs. Emmer’s voice is most played when she comes back at her.
“‘W’at’s d’ use?’ says Emmer.
“Then she toins to d’ two kids who’s be d’ bed cryin’, an’ tries to kiss ‘em, but it’s a move too many for her. She twists back wit ‘d’ pain, an’ bridges herself like you see a wrestler, an’ when she sinks straight wit ‘d’ bed ag’in, d’ red blood is comin’ out of her face. Emmer’s light is out.
“I tumbles to it d’ foist. As I leads me Rag back to our room – for I can see she’s out to t’row a fit – d’ cop takes Red Mike down be d’ stairs.”
HAMILTON FINNERTY’S HEART
CHAPTER I
Far up in Harlem, on a dead swell street, the chance pedestrian as he chases himself by the Ville Finnerty, may see a pale, wrung face pressing itself against the pane. It is the map of Hamilton Finnerty.
“W’at’s d’ matter wit’ d’ bloke?” whispered Kid Dugan, the gasman’s son, to his young companion, as they stood furtively piping off the Ville Finnerty. “Is it ‘D’ Pris’ner of Zenda’ down to date?”
“Stash!” said his chum in a low tone. “Don’t say a woid. That guy was goin’ to be hitched to a soubrette. At d’ las’ minute d’ skirt goes back on him – won’t stan’ for it; see! Now d’ sucker’s nutty. Dey’s thrunning dice for him at Bloomin’dale right now!”
It was a sad, sad story of how two loving hearts were made to break away; of how in their ignorance the police declared themselves in on a play of which they wotted nit, and queered it.
CHAPTER II
When the betrothal of Isabelle Imogene McSween to Hamilton Finnerty was tipped off to their set, the élite of Harlem fairly quivered with the glow and glory of it. The Four Hundred were agog.
“It’s d’ swiftest deal of d’ season!” said De Pygstyster.
“Hammy won’t do a t’ing to McSween’s millions, I don’t t’ink!” said Von Pretselbok.
“Hammy’ll boin a wet dog. An’ don’t youse forget it, I’ll be in on d’ incineration!” said Goosevelt.
CHAPTER III
Hamilton Finnerty embarked for England. The beautiful Isabelle Imogene McSween had been plunging on raiment in Paree. The wedding was to be pulled off in two weeks at St. Paul’s, London. It was to be a corker; for the McSweens were hot potatoes and rolled high. Nor were the Finnerties listed under the head of Has-beens. It is but justice to both families to say, they were in it with both feet.
When Hamilton Finnerty went ashore at Liverpool he communed with himself.
“It’s five days ere dey spring d’ weddin’ march in me young affairs,” soliloquised Hamilton Finnerty, “an’ I might as well toin in an’ do d’ village of Liverpool while I waits. A good toot will be d’ t’ing to allay me natural uneasiness.”
Thus it was that Hamilton Finnerty went forth to tank, and spread red paint, and plough a furrow through the hamlet of Liverpool. But Hamilton was a dead wise fowl. He had been on bats before, and was aware that they didn’t do a thing to money.
“For fear I’ll blow me dough,” said Hamilton, still communing with himself, “I’ll buy meself an’ chip d’ retoin tickets, see! It’s a lead-pipe cinch then, we goes back.”
And the forethoughtful Hamilton sprung his roll and went against the agent, for return tickets. They were to be good on the very steamer he chased over in. They were for him and the winsome Isabelle Imogene McSween, soon to be Mrs. Finnerty. The paste-boards called for the steamer’s trip three weeks away.
“There!” quoth Hamilton Finnerty, as he concealed the tickets in his trousseau, “I’ve sewed buttons on the future. We don’t walk back, see! I can now relax an’ toin meself to Gin, Dog’s Head and a general whizz. I won’t have no picnic, – oh, no! not on your eyes!”
CHAPTER IV
It was early darkness on the second day. One after another the windows were showing a glim. Liverpool was lighting up for the evening. A limp figure stood holding to a lamp-post. The figure was loaded to the guards. It was Hamilton Finnerty, and his light was out. He had just been fired from that hostelry known as The Swan with the Four Legs.
“I ‘opes th’ duffer won’t croak on me doorstep,” said the blooming barmaid, as she cast her lamps on Hamilton Finnerty from the safe vantage of a window of The Swan with the Four Legs.
There was no danger of Hamilton Finnerty dying, not in a thousand years. But he was woozy and tumbled not to events about him. He knew neither his name, nor his nativity, Nor could he speak, for his tongue was on a spree with the Gin and the Dog’s Head.
CHAPTER V
As Hamilton Finnerty stood holding the lamp-post, and deeming it his “only own,” two of the Queen’s constabulary approached.
“‘Ere’s a bloomin’ gow, Jem!” said the one born in London.
