FORan hour Mrs. Bray waited the reappearance of Pinky Swett, but the girl did not come back. At the end of this time a package which had been left at the door was brought to her room. It came from Mrs. Dinneford, and contained two hundred dollars. A note that accompanied the package read as follows:
“Forgive my little fault of temper. It is your interest to be my friend. The woman must not, on any account, be suffered to come near me.”
Of course there was no signature. Mrs. Bray's countenance was radiant as she fingered the money.
“Good luck for me, but bad for the baby,” she said, in a low, pleased murmur, talking to herself. “Poor baby! I must see better to its comfort. It deserves to be looked after. I wonder why Pinky doesn't come?”
Mrs. Bray listened, but no sound of feet from the stairs or entries, no opening or shutting of doors, broke the silence that reigned through the house.
“Pinky's getting too low down—drinks too much; can't count on her any more.” Mrs. Bray went on talking to herself. “No rest; no quiet; never satisfied; for ever knocking round, and for ever getting the worst of it. She was a real nice girl once, and I always liked her. But she doesn't take any care of herself.”
As Pinky went out, an hour before, she met a fresh-looking girl, not over seventeen, and evidently from the country. She was standing on the pavement, not far from the house in which Mrs. Bray lived, and had a traveling-bag in her hand. Her perplexed face and uncertain manner attracted Pinky's attention.
“Are you looking for anybody?” she asked.
“I'm trying to find a Mrs. Bray,” the girl answered. “I'm a stranger from the country.”
“Oh, you are?” said Pinky, drawing her veil more tightly so that her disfigured face could not be seen.
“Yes I'm from L——.”
“Indeed? I used to know some people there.”
“Then you've been in L——?” said the girl, with a pleased, trustful manner, as of one who had met a friend at the right time.
“Yes, I've visited there.”
“Indeed? Who did you know in L——?”
“Are you acquainted with the Cartwrights?”
“I know of them. They are among our first people,” returned the girl.
“I spent a week in their family a few years ago, and had a very pleasant time,” said Pinky.
“Oh, I'm glad to know that,” remarked the girl. “I'm a stranger here; and if I can't find Mrs. Bray, I don't see what I am to do. A lady from here who was staying at the hotel gave me at letter to Mrs. Bray. I was living at the hotel, but I didn't like it; it was too public. I told the lady that I wanted to learn a trade or get into a store, and she said the city was just the place for me, and that she would give me a letter to a particular friend, who would, on her recommendation, interest he self for me. It's somewhere along here that she lived, I'm sure;” and she took a letter from her pocket and examined the direction.
The girl was fresh and young and pretty, and had an artless, confiding manner. It was plain she knew little of the world, and nothing of its evils and dangers.
“Let me see;” and Pinky reached out her hand for the letter. She put it under her veil, and read,
“MRS. FANNY BRAY, “No. 631——street, “——
“By the hand of Miss Flora Bond.”
“Flora Bond,” said Pinky, in a kind, familiar tone.
“Yes, that is my name,” replied the girl; “isn't this——street?”
“Yes; and there, is the number you are looking for.”
“Oh, thank you! I'm so glad to find the place. I was beginning to feel scared.”
“I will ring the bell for you,” said Pinky, going to the door of No. 631. A servant answered the summons.
“Is Mrs. Bray at home?” inquired Pinky.
“I don't know,” replied the servant, looking annoyed. “Her rooms are in the third story;” and she held the door wide open for them to enter. As they passed into the hall Pinky said to her companion,
“Just wait here a moment, and I will run up stairs and see if she is in.”
The girl stood in the hall until Pinky came back.
“Not at home, I'm sorry to say.”
“Oh dear! that's bad; what shall I do?” and the girl looked distressed.
“She'll be back soon, no doubt,” said Pinky, in a light, assuring voice. “I'll go around with you a little and see things.”
The girl looked down at her traveling-bag.
“Oh, that's nothing; I'll help you to carry it;” and Pinky took it from her hand.
“Couldn't we leave it here?” asked Flora.
“It might not be safe; servants are not always to be trusted, and Mrs. Bray's rooms are locked; we can easily carry it between us. I'm strong—got good country blood in my veins. You see I'm from the country as well as you; right glad we met. Don't know what you would have done.”
And she drew the girl out, talking familiarly, as they went.
“Haven't had your dinner yet?”
“No; just arrived in the cars, and came right here.”
“You must have something to eat, then. I know a nice place; often get dinner there when I'm out.”
The girl did not feel wholly at ease. She had not yet been able to get sight of Pinky's closely-veiled features, and there was something in her voice that made her feel uncomfortable.
“I don't care for any dinner,” she said; “I'm not hungry.”
“Well, I am, then, so come. Do you like oysters?”
“Yes.”
“Cook them splendidly. Best place in the city. And you'd like to get into a store or learn a trade?”
“Yes.”
“What trade did you think of?”
“None in particular.”
“How would you like to get into a book-bindery? I know two or three girls in binderies, and they can make from five to ten dollars a week. It's the nicest, cleanest work I know of.”
“Oh, do you?” returned Flora, with newly-awakening interest.
“Yes; we'll talk it all over while we're eating dinner. This way.”
And Pinky turned the corner of a small street that led away from the more crowded thoroughfare along which they had been passing.
“It's a quiet and retired place, where only the nicest kind of people go,” she added. “Many working-girls and girls in stores get their dinners there. We'll meet some of them, no doubt; and if any that I know should happen in, we might hear of a good place. Just the thing, isn't it? I'm right glad I met you.”
They had gone halfway down the square, when Pinky stopped before the shop of a confectioner. In the window was a display of cakes, pies and candies, and a sign with the words, “LADIES' RESTAURANT.”
“This is the place,” she said, and opening the door, passed in, the young stranger following.
A sign of caution, unseen by Flora, was made to a girl who stood behind the counter. Then Pinky turned, saying,
“How will you have your oysters? stewed, fried, broiled or roasted?”
“I'm not particular—any way,” replied Flora.
“I like them fried. Will you have them the same way?”
Flora nodded assent.
“Let them be fried, then. Come, we'll go up stairs. Anybody there?”
“Two or three only.”
“Any girls from the bindery?”
“Yes; I think so.”
“Oh. I'm glad of that! Want to see some of them. Come, Miss Bond.”
And Pinky, after a whispered word to the attendant, led the way to a room up stairs in which were a number of small tables. At one of these were two girls eating, at another a girl sitting by herself, and at another a young man and a girl. As Pinky and her companion entered, the inmates of the room stared at them familiarly, and then winked and leered at each other. Flora did not observe this, but she felt a sudden oppression and fear. They sat down at a table not far from one of the windows. Flora looked for the veil to be removed, so that she might see the face of her new friend. But Pinky kept it closely down.
In about ten minutes the oysters were served. Accompanying them were two glasses of some kind of liquor. Floating on one of these was a small bit of cork. Pinky took this and handed the other to her companion, saying,
“Only a weak sangaree. It will refresh you after your fatigue; and I always like something with oysters, it helps to make them lay lighter on the stomach.”
Meantime, one of the girls had crossed over and spoken to Pinky. After word or two, the latter said,
“Don't you work in a bindery, Miss Peter?”
“Yes,” was answered, without hesitation.
“I thought so. Let me introduce you to my friend, Miss Flora Bond. She's from the country, and wants to get into some good establishment. She talked about a store, but I think a bindery is better.”
“A great deal better,” was replied by Miss Peter. “I've tried them both, and wouldn't go back to a store again on any account. If I can serve your friend, I shall be most happy.”
“Thank you!” returned Flora; “you are very kind.”
“Not at all; I'm always glad when I can be of service to any one. You think you'd like to go into a bindery?”
“Yes. I've come to the city to get employment, and haven't much choice.”
“There's no place like the city,” remarked the other. “I'd die in the country—nothing going on. But you won't stagnate here. When did you arrive?”
“To-day.”
“Have you friends here?”
“No. I brought a letter of introduction to a lady who resides in the city.”
“What's her name?”
“Mrs. Bray.”
Miss Peter turned her head so that Flora could not see her face. It was plain from its expression that she knew Mrs. Bray.
“Have you seen her yet?” she asked.
“No. She was out when I called. I'm going back in a little while.”
The girl sat down, and went on talking while the others were eating. Pinky had emptied her glass of sangaree before she was half through with her oysters, and kept urging Flora to drink.
“Don't be afraid of it, dear,” she said, in a kind, persuasive way; “there's hardly a thimbleful of wine in the whole glass. It will soothe your nerves, and make you feel ever so much better.”
There was something in the taste of the sangaree that Flora did not like—a flavor that was not of wine. But urged repeatedly by her companion, whose empty glass gave her encouragement and confidence, she sipped and drank until she had taken the whole of it. By this time she was beginning to have a sense of fullness and confusion in the head, and to feel oppressed and uncomfortable. Her appetite suddenly left her, and she laid down her knife and fork and leaned her head upon her hand.
“What's the matter?” asked Pinky.
“Nothing,” answered the girl; “only my head feels a little strangely. It will pass off in a moment.”
“Riding in the cars, maybe,” said Pinky. “I always feel bad after being in the cars; it kind of stirs me up.”
Flora sat very quietly at the table, still resting her head upon her hands. Pinky and the girl who had joined them exchanged looks of intelligence. The former had drawn her veil partly aside, yet concealing as much as possible the bruises on her face.
“My! but you're battered!” exclaimed Miss Peter, in a whisper that was unheard by Flora.
Pinky only answered by a grimace. Then she said to Flora, with well-affected concern,
“I'm afraid you are ill, dear? How do you feel?”
“I don't know,” answered the poor girl, in a voice that betrayed great anxiety, if not alarm. “It came over me all at once. I'm afraid that wine was too strong; I am not used to taking anything.”
“Oh dear, no! it wasn't that. I drank a glass, and don't feel it any more than if it had been water.”
“Let's go,” said Flora, starting up. “Mrs. Bray must be home by this time.”
“All right, if you feel well enough,” returned Pinky, rising at the same time.
“Oh dear! how my head swims!” exclaimed Flora, putting both hands to her temples. She stood for a few moments in an uncertain attitude, then reached out in a blind, eager way.
Pinky drew quickly to her side, and put one arm about her waist.
“Come,” she said, “the air is too close for you here;” and with the assistance of the girl who had joined them, she steadied Flora down stairs.
“Doctored a little too high,” whispered Miss Peter, with her mouth close to Pinky's ear.
“All right,” Pinky whispered back; “they know how to do it.”
At the foot of the stairs Pinky said,
“You take her out through the yard, while I pay for the oysters. I'll be with you in a moment.”
Poor Flora, was already too much confused by the drugged liquor she had taken to know what they were doing with her.
Hastily paying for the oysters and liquor, Pinky was on hand in a few moments. From the back door of the house they entered a small yard, and passed from this through a gate into a narrow private alley shut in on each side by a high fence. This alley ran for a considerable distance, and had many gates opening into it from yards, hovels and rear buildings, all of the most forlorn and wretched character. It terminated in a small street.
Along this alley Pinky and the girl she had met at the restaurant supported Flora, who was fast losing strength and consciousness. When halfway down, they held a brief consultation.
“It won't do,” said Pinky, “to take her through to——street. She's too far gone, and the police will be down on us and carry her off.”
“Norah's got some place in there,” said the other, pointing to an old wooden building close by.
“I'm out with Norah,” replied Pinky, “and don't mean to have anything more to do with her.”
“Where's your room?”
“That isn't the go. Don't want her there. Pat Maley's cellar is just over yonder. We can get in from the alley.”
“Pat's too greedy a devil. There wouldn't be anything left of her when he got through. No, no, Pinky; I'll have nothing to do with it if she's to go into Pat Maley's cellar.”
“Not much to choose between 'em,” answered Pinky. “But it won't do to parley here. We must get her in somewhere.”
And she pushed open a gate as she spoke. It swung back on one hinge and struck the fence with a bang, disclosing a yard that beggared description in its disorder and filth. In the back part of this yard was a one-and-a-half-story frame building, without windows, looking more like an old chicken-house or pig-stye than a place for human beings to live in. The loft over the first story was reached by ladder on the outside. Above and below the hovel was laid off in kind of stalls or bunks furnished with straw. There were about twenty of these. It was a ten-cent lodging-house, filled nightly. If this wretched hut or stye—call it what you will—had been torn down, it would not have brought ten dollars as kindling-wood. Yet its owner, a gentleman (?) living handsomely up town, received for it the annual rent of two hundred and fifty dollars. Subletted at an average of two dollars a night, it gave an income of nearly seven hundred dollars a year. It was known as the “Hawk's Nest,” and no bird of prey ever had a fouler nest than this.
As the gate banged on the fence a coarse, evil-looking man, wearing a dirty Scotch cap and a red shirt, pushed his head up from the cellar of the house that fronted on the street.
“What's wanted?” he asked, in a kind of growl, his upper lip twitching and drawing up at one side in a nervous way, letting his teeth appear.
“We want to get this girl in for a little while,” said Pinky. “We'll take her away when she comes round. Is anybody in there?” and she pointed to the hovel.
The man shook his head.
“How much?” asked Pinky.
“Ten cents apiece;” and he held out his hand.
Pinky gave him thirty cents. He took a key from his pocket, and opened the door that led into the lower room. The stench that came out as the door swung back was dreadful. But poor Flora Bond was by this time so relaxed in every muscle, and so dead to outward things, that it was impossible to get her any farther. So they bore her into this horrible den, and laid her down in one of the stalls on a bed of loose straw. Inside, there was nothing but these stalls and straw—not a table or chair, or any article of furniture. They filled up nearly the entire room, leaving only a narrow passage between them. The only means of ventilation was by the door.
As soon as Pinky and her companion in this terrible wickedness were alone with their victim, they searched her pocket for the key of her traveling-bag. On finding it, Pinky was going to open it, when the other said,
“Never mind about that; we can examine her baggage in safer place. Let's go for the movables.”
And saying this, she fell quickly to work on the person of Flora, slipping out the ear-rings first, then removing her breast-pin and finger-rings, while Pinky unbuttoned the new gaiter boots, and drew off both boots and stockings, leaving upon the damp straw the small, bare feet, pink and soft almost as a baby's.
It did not take these harpies five minutes to possess themselves of everything but the poor girl's dress and undergarments. Cloth oversack, pocket-book, collar, linen cuffs, hat, shoes and stockings—all these were taken.
“Hallo!” cried the keeper of this foul den as the two girls hurried out with the traveling-bag and a large bundle sooner than he had expected; and he came quickly forth from the cellar in which he lived like a cruel spider and tried to intercept them, but they glided through the gate and were out of his reach before he could get near. He could follow them only with obscene invectives and horrible oaths. Well he knew what had been done—that there had been a robbery in the “Hawk's Nest,” and he not in to share the booty.
Growling like a savage dog, this wretch, in whom every instinct of humanity had long since died—this human beast, who looked on innocence and helplessness as a wolf looks upon a lamb—strode across the yard and entered the den. Lying in one of the stalls upon the foul, damp straw he found Flora Bond. Cruel beast that he was, even he felt himself held back as by an invisible hand, as he looked at the pure face of the insensible girl. Rarely had his eyes rested on a countenance so full of innocence. But the wolf has no pity for the lamb, nor the hawk for the dove. The instinct of his nature quickly asserted itself.
Avarice first. From the face his eyes turned to see what had been left by the two girls. An angry imprecation fell from his lips when he saw how little remained for him. But when he lifted Flora's head and unbound her hair, a gleam of pleasure came info his foul face. It was a full suit of rich chestnut brown, nearly three feet long, and fell in thick masses over her breast and shoulders. He caught it up eagerly, drew it through his great ugly hands, and gloated over it with something of a miser's pleasure as he counts his gold. Then taking a pair of scissors from his pocket, he ran them over the girl's head with the quickness and skill of a barber, cutting close down, that he might not lose even the sixteenth part of an inch of her rich tresses. An Indian scalping his victim could not have shown more eagerness. An Indian's wild pleasure was in his face as he lifted the heavy mass of brown hair and held it above his head. It was not a trophy—not a sign of conquest and triumph over an enemy—but simply plunder, and had a market value of fifteen or twenty dollars.
The dress was next examined; it was new, but not of a costly material. Removing this, the man went out with his portion of the spoils, and locked the door, leaving the half-clothed, unconscious girl lying on the damp, filthy straw, that swarmed with vermin. It was cold as well as damp, and the chill of a bleak November day began creeping into her warm blood. But the stupefying draught had been well compounded, and held her senses locked.
Of what followed we cannot write, and we shiver as we draw a veil over scenes that should make the heart of all Christendom ache—scenes that are repeated in thousands of instances year by year in our large cities, and no hand is stretched forth to succor and no arm to save. Under the very eyes of the courts and the churches things worse than we have described—worse than the reader can imagine—are done every day. The foul dens into which crime goes freely, and into which innocence is betrayed, are known to the police, and the evil work that is done is ever before them. From one victim to another their keepers pass unquestioned, and plunder, debauch, ruin and murder with an impunity frightful to contemplate. As was said by a distinguished author, speaking of a kindred social enormity, “There is not a country throughout the earth on which a state of things like this would not bring a curse. There is no religion upon earth that it would not deny; there is no people on earth that it would not put to shame.”
And we are Christians!
No. Of what followed we cannot write. Those who were near the “Hawk's Nest” heard that evening, soon after nightfall, the single wild, prolonged cry of a woman. It was so full of terror and despair that even the hardened ears that heard it felt a sudden pain. But they were used to such things in that region, and no one took the trouble to learn what it meant. Even the policeman moving on his beat stood listening for only a moment, and then passed on.
Next day, in the local columns of a city paper, appeared the following:
“FOUL PLAY.—About eleven o'clock last night the body of a beautiful young girl, who could not have been over seventeen years of age, was discovered lying on the pavement in——street. No one knew how she came there. She was quite dead when found. There was nothing by which she could be identified. All her clothes but a single undergarment had been removed, and her hair cut off close to her head. There were marks of brutal violence on her person. The body was placed in charge of the coroner, who will investigate the matter.”
On the day after, this paragraph appeared:
“SUSPICION OF FOUL PLAY.—The coroner's inquest elicited nothing in regard to the young girl mentioned yesterday as having been found dead and stripped of her clothing in——street. No one was able to identify her. A foul deed at which the heart shudders has been done; but the wretches by whom it was committed have been able to cover their tracks.”
And that was the last of it. The whole nation gives a shudder of fear at the announcement of an Indian massacre and outrage. But in all our large cities are savages more cruel and brutal in their instincts than the Comanches, and they torture and outrage and murder a hundred poor victims for every one that is exposed to Indian brutality, and there comes no succor. Is it from ignorance of the fact? No, no, no! There is not a Judge on the bench, not a lawyer at the bar, not a legislator at the State capital, not a mayor or police-officer, not a minister who preaches the gospel of Christ, who came to seek and to save, not an intelligent citizen, but knows of all this.
What then? Who is responsible? The whole nation arouses itself at news of an Indian assault upon some defenseless frontier settlement, and the general government sends troops to succor and to punish. But who takes note of the worse than Indian massacres going on daily and nightly in the heart of our great cities? Who hunts down and punishes the human wolves in our midst whose mouths are red with the blood of innocence? Their deeds of cruelty outnumber every year a hundred—nay, a thousand—fold the deeds of our red savages. Their haunts are known, and their work is known. They lie in wait for the unwary, they gather in the price of human souls, none hindering, at our very church doors. Is no one responsible for all this? Is there no help? Is evil stronger than good, hell stronger than heaven? Have the churches nothing to do in this matter? Christ came to seek and to save that which was lost—came to the lowliest, the poorest and the vilest, to those over whom devils had gained power, and cast out the devils. Are those who call themselves by his name diligent in the work to which he put his blessed hands? Millions of dollars go yearly into magnificent churches, but how little to the work of saving and succoring the weak, the helpless, the betrayed, the outcast and the dying, who lie uncared for at the mercy of human fiends, and often so near to the temples of God that their agonized appeals for help are drowned by the organ and choir!
THEtwo girls, on leaving the “Hawk's Nest” with their plunder, did not pass from the narrow private alley into the small street at its termination, but hurried along the way they had come, and re-entered the restaurant by means of the gate opening into the yard. Through the back door they gained a small, dark room, from which a narrow stairway led to the second and third stories of the rear building. They seemed to be entirely familiar with the place.
On reaching the third story, Pinky gave two quick raps and then a single rap on a closed door. No movement being heard within, she rapped again, reversing the order—that is, giving one distinct rap, and then two in quick succession. At this the door came slowly open, and the two girls passed in with their bundle of clothing and the traveling-bag.
The occupant of this room was a small, thin, well-dressed man, with cold, restless gray eyes and the air of one who was alert and suspicious. His hair was streaked with gray, as were also his full beard and moustache. A diamond pin of considerable value was in his shirt bosom. The room contained but few articles. There was a worn and faded carpet on the floor, a writing-table and two or three chairs, and a small bookcase with a few books, but no evidence whatever of business—not a box or bundle or article of merchandise was to be seen.
As the two girls entered he, shut the door noiselessly, and turned the key inside. Then his manner changed; his eyes lighted, and there was an expression of interest in his face. He looked toward the bag and bundle.
Pinky sat down upon the floor and hurriedly unlocked the traveling-bag. Thrusting in her hand, she drew out first a muslin nightgown and threw it down, then a light shawl, a new barege dress, a pair of slippers, collars, cuffs, ribbons and a variety of underclothing, and last of all a small Bible and a prayer-book. These latter she tossed from her with a low derisive laugh, which was echoed by her companion, Miss Peter.
The bundle was next opened, and the cloth sacque, the hat, the boots and stockings and the collar and cuffs thrown upon the floor with the contents of the bag.
“How much?” asked Pinky, glancing up at the man.
They were the first words that had been spoken. At this the man knit his brows in an earnest way, and looked business. He lifted each article from the floor, examined it carefully and seemed to be making a close estimate of its value. The traveling-bag was new, and had cost probably five dollars. The cloth sacque could not have been made for less than twelve dollars. A fair valuation of the whole would have been near forty dollars.
“How much?” repeated Pinky, an impatient quiver in her voice.
“Six dollars,” replied the man.
“Six devils!” exclaimed Pinky, in a loud, angry voice.
“Six devils! you old swindler!” chimed in Miss Peter.
“You can take them away. Just as you like,” returned the man, with cool indifference. “Perhaps the police will give you more. It's the best I can do.”
“But see here, Jerkin,” said Pinky: “that sacque is worth twice the money.”
“Not to me. I haven't a store up town. I can't offer it for sale in the open market. Don't you understand?”
“Say ten dollars.”
“Six.”
“Here's a breast-pin and a pair of ear-rings,” said Miss Peter; “we'll throw them in;” and she handed Jerkin, as he was called, the bits of jewelry she had taken from the person of Flora Bond. He looked at them almost contemptuously as he replied,
“Wouldn't give you a dollar for the set.”
“Say eight dollars for the whole,” urged Pinky.
“Six fifty, and not a cent more,” answered Jerkin.
“Hand over, then, you old cormorant!” returned the girl, fretfully. “It's a shame to swindle us in this way.”
The man took out his pocket-book and paid the money, giving half to each of the girls.
“It's just a swindle!” repeated Pinky. “You're an old hard-fisted money-grubber, and no better than a robber. Three dollars and a quarter for all that work! It doesn't pay for the trouble. We ought to have had ten apiece.”
“You can make it ten or twenty, or maybe a hundred, if you will,” said Jerkin, with a knowing twinkle in his eyes. He gave his thumb a little movement over his shoulder as he spoke.
“That's so!” exclaimed Pinky, her manner undergoing a change, and her face growing bright—at least as much of it as could brighten. “Look here, Nell,” speaking to Miss Peter, and drawing a piece of paper from her pocket, “I've got ten rows here. Fanny Bray gave me five dollars to go a half on each row. Meant to have gone to Sam McFaddon's last night, but got into a muss with old Sal and Norah, and was locked up.”
“They make ten hits up there to one at Sam McFaddon's,” said Jerkin, again twitching his thumb over his shoulder. “It's the luckiest office I ever heard of. Two or three hits every day for a week past—got a lucky streak, somehow. If you go in anywhere, take my advice and go in there,” lifting his hand and twitching his thumb upward and over his shoulder again.
The two girls passed from the room, and the door was shut and locked inside. No sooner had they done so than Jerkin made a new examination of the articles, and after satisfying himself as to their value proceeded to put them out of sight. Lifting aside a screen that covered the fireplace, he removed from the chimney back, just above the line of sight, a few loose bricks, and through the hole thus made thrust the articles he had bought, letting them drop into a fireplace on the other side.
On leaving the room of this professional receiver of stolen goods, Pinky and her friend descended to the second story, and by a door which had been cut through into the adjoining property passed to the rear building of the house next door. They found themselves on a landing, or little square hall, with a stairway passing down to the lower story and another leading to the room above. A number of persons were going up and coming down—a forlorn set, for the most part, of all sexes, ages and colors. Those who were going up appeared eager and hopeful, while those who were coming down looked disappointed, sorrowful, angry or desperate. There was a “policy shop” in one of the rooms above, and these were some of its miserable customers. It was the hour when the morning drawings of the lotteries were received at the office, or “shop,” and the poor infatuated dupes who had bet on their favorite “rows” were crowding in to learn the result.
Poor old men and women in scant or wretched clothing, young girls with faces marred by evil, blotched and bloated creatures of both sexes, with little that was human in their countenances, except the bare features, boys and girls not yet in their teens, but old in vice and crime, and drunkards with shaking nerves,—all these were going up in hope and coming down in disappointment. Here and there was one of a different quality, a scantily-dressed woman with a thin, wasted face and hollow eyes, who had been fighting the wolf and keeping fast hold of her integrity, or a tender, innocent-looking girl, the messenger of a weak and shiftless mother, or a pale, bright-eyed boy whose much-worn but clean and well-kept garments gave sad evidence of a home out of which prop and stay had been removed. The strong and the weak, the pure and the defiled, were there. A poor washerwoman who in a moment of weakness has pawned the garments entrusted to her care, that she might venture upon a “row” of which she had dreamed, comes shrinking down with a pale, frightened face, and the bitterness of despair in her heart. She has lost. What then? She has no friend from whom she can borrow enough money to redeem the clothing, and if it is not taken home she may be arrested as a thief and sent to prison. She goes away, and temptation lies close at her feet. It is her extremity and the evil one's opportunity. So far she has kept herself pure, but the disgrace of a public prosecution and a sentence to prison are terrible things to contemplate. She is in peril of her soul. God help her!
Who is this dressed in rusty black garments and closely veiled, who comes up from the restaurant, one of the convenient and unsuspected entrances to this robber's den?—for a “policy-shop” is simply a robbery shop, and is so regarded by the law, which sets a penalty upon the “writer” and the “backer” as upon other criminals. But who is this veiled woman in faded mourning garments who comes gliding as noiselessly as a ghost out from one of the rooms of the restaurant, and along the narrow entry leading to the stairway, now so thronged with visitors? Every day she comes and goes, no one seeing her face, and every day, with rare exceptions, her step is slower and her form visibly more shrunken when she goes out than when she comes in. She is a broken-down gentlewoman, the widow of an officer, who left her at his death a moderate fortune, and quite sufficient for the comfortable maintenance of herself and two nearly grown-up daughters. But she had lived at the South, and there acquired a taste for lottery gambling. During her husband's lifetime she wasted considerable money in lottery tickets, once or twice drawing small prizes, but like all lottery dupes spending a hundred dollars for one gained. The thing had become a sort of mania with her. She thought so much of prizes and drawn numbers through the day that she dreamed of them all night. She had a memorandum-book in which were all the combinations she had ever heard of as taking prizes. It contained page after page of lucky numbers and fancy “rows,” and was oftener in her hand than any other book.
There being no public sale of lottery tickets in Northern cities, this weak and infatuated woman found out where some of the “policy-shops” were kept, and instead of buying tickets, as before, risked her money on numbers that might or might not come out of the wheel in lotteries said to be drawn in certain Southern States, but chiefly in Kentucky. The numbers rarely if ever came out. The chances were too remote. After her husband's death she began fretting over the smallness of her income. It was not sufficient to give her daughters the advantages she desired them to have, and she knew of but one way to increase it. That way was through the policy-shops. So she gave her whole mind to this business, with as much earnestness and self-absorption as a merchant gives himself to trade. She had a dream-book, gotten up especially for policy buyers, and consulted it as regularly as a merchant does his price-current or a broker the sales of stock. Every day she bet on some “row” or series of “rows,” rarely venturing less than five dollars, and sometimes, when she felt more than usually confident, laying down a twenty-dollar bill, for the “hit” when made gave from fifty to two hundred dollars for each dollar put down, varying according to the nature of the combinations. So the more faith a policy buyer had in his “row,” the larger the venture he would feel inclined to make.
Usually it went all one way with the infatuated lady. Day after day she ventured, and day after day she lost, until from hundreds the sums she was spending had aggregated themselves into thousands. She changed from one policy-shop to another, hoping for better luck. It was her business to find them out, and this she was able to do by questioning some of those whom she met at the shops. One of these was in a building on a principal street, the second story of which was occupied by a milliner. It was visited mostly by ladies, who could pass in from the street, no one suspecting their errand. Another was in the attic of a house in which were many offices and places of business, with people going in and coming out all the while, none but the initiated being in the secret; while another was to be found in the rear of a photograph gallery. Every day and often twice a day, as punctually as any man of business, did this lady make her calls at one and another of these policy-offices to get the drawings or make new ventures. At remote intervals she would make a “hit;” once she drew twenty dollars, and once fifty. But for these small gains she had paid thousands of dollars.
After a “hit” the betting on numbers would be bolder. Once she selected what was known as a “lucky row,” and determined to double on it until it came out a prize. She began by putting down fifty cents. On the next day she put down a dollar upon the same combination, losing, of course, Two dollars were ventured on the next day; and so she went on doubling, until, in her desperate infatuation, she doubled for the ninth time, putting down two hundred and fifty-six dollars.
If successful now, she would draw over twenty-five thousand dollars. There was no sleep for the poor lady during the night that followed. She walked the floor of her chamber in a state of intense nervous excitement, sometimes in a condition of high hope and confidence and sometimes haunted by demons of despair. She sold five shares of stock on which she had been receiving an annual dividend of ten per cent., in order to get funds for this desperate gambling venture, in which over five hundred dollars had now been absorbed.
Pale and nervous, she made her appearance at the breakfast-table on the next morning, unable to take a mouthful of food. It was in vain that her anxious daughters urged her to eat.
A little after twelve o'clock she was at the policy-office. The drawn numbers for the morning were already in. Her combination was 4, 10, 40. With an eagerness that could not be repressed, she caught up the slip of paper containing the thirteen numbers out of seventy-five, which purported to have been drawn that morning somewhere in “Kentucky,” and reported by telegraph—caught it up with hands that shook so violently that she could not read the figures. She had to lay the piece of paper down upon the little counter before which she stood, in order that it might be still, so that she could read her fate.
The first drawn number was 4. What a wild leap her heart gave! The next was 24; the next 8; the next 70; the next 41, and the next 39. Her heart grew almost still; the pressure as of a great hand was on her bosom. 10 came next. Two numbers of her row were out. A quiver of excitement ran through her frame. She caught up the paper, but it shook as before, so that she could not see the figures. Dashing it back upon the counter, and holding it down almost violently, she bent over, with eyes starting from their sockets, and read the line of figures to the end, then sank over upon the counter with a groan, and lay there half fainting and too weak to lift herself up. If the 40 had been there, she would have made a hit of twenty-five thousand dollars. But the 40 was not there, and this made all the difference.
“Once more,” said the policy-dealer, in a tone of encouragement, as he bent over the miserable woman. “Yesterday, 4 came out; to-day, 4, 10; tomorrow will be the lucky chance; 4, 10, 40 will surely be drawn. I never knew this order to fail. If it had been 10 first, and then 4, 10, or 10, 4, I would not advise you to go on. But 4, 10, 40 will be drawn to-morrow as sure as fate.”
“What numbers did you say? 4, 10, 40?” asked an old man, ragged and bloated, who came shuffling in as the last remarks was made.
“Yes,” answered the dealer. “This lady has been doubling, and as the chances go, her row is certain to make a hit to-morrow.”
“Ha! What's the row? 4, 10, 40?”
“Yes.”
The old man fumbled in his pocket, and brought out ten cents.
“I'll go that on the row. Give me a piece.”
The dealer took a narrow slip of paper and wrote on it the date, the sum risked and the combination of figures, and handed it to the old man, saying,
“Come here to-morrow; and if the bottom of the world doesn't drop out, you'll find ten dollars waiting for you.”
Two or three others were in by this time, eager to look over the list of drawn numbers and to make new bets.
“Glory!” cried one of them, a vile-looking young woman, and she commenced dancing about the room.
All was excitement now. “A hit! a hit!” was cried. “How much? how much?” and they gathered to the little counter and desk of the policy-dealer.
“1, 2, 3,” cried the girl, dancing about and waving her little slip of paper over her head. “I knew it would come—dreamed of them numbers three nights hand running! Hand over the money, old chap! Fifteen dollars for fifteen cents! That's the go!”
The policy-dealer took the girl's “piece,” and after comparing it with the record of drawn numbers, said, in a pleased voice,
“All right! A hit, sure enough. You're in luck to-day.”
The girl took the money, that was promptly paid down, and as she counted it over the dealer remarked,
“There's a doubling game going on, and it's to be up to-morrow, sure.”
“What's the row?” inquired the girl.
“4, 10, 40,” said the dealer.
“Then count me in;” and she laid down five dollars on the counter.
“Take my advice and go ten,” urged the policy-dealer.
“No, thank you! shouldn't know what to do with more than five hundred dollars. I'll only go five dollars this time.”
The “writer,” as a policy-seller is called, took the money and gave the usual written slip of paper containing the selected numbers; loudly proclaiming her good luck, the girl then went away. She was an accomplice to whom a “piece” had been secretly given after the drawn numbers were in.
Of course this hit was the sensation of the day among the policy-buyers at that office, and brought in large gains.
The wretched woman who had just seen five hundred dollars vanish into nothing instead of becoming, as under the wand of an enchanter, a great heap of gold, listened in a kind of maze to what passed around her—listened and let the tempter get to her ear again. She went away, stooping in her gait as one bearing a heavy burden. Before an hour had passed hope had lifted her again into confidence. She had to make but one venture more to double on the risk of the day previous, and secure a fortune that would make both herself and daughters independent for life.
Another sale of good stocks, another gambling venture and another loss, swelling the aggregate in this wild and hopeless “doubling” experiment to over a thousand dollars.
But she was not cured. As regularly as a drunkard goes to the bar went she to the policy-shops, every day her fortune growing less. Poverty began to pinch. The house in which she lived with her daughters was sold, and the unhappy family shrunk into a single room in a third-rate boarding-house. But their income soon became insufficient to meet the weekly demand for board. Long before this the daughters had sought for something to do by which to earn a little money. Pride struggled hard with them, but necessity was stronger than pride.
We finish the story in a few words. In a moment of weakness, with want and hard work staring her in the face, one of the daughters married a man who broke her heart and buried her in less than two years. The other, a weak and sickly girl, got a situation as day governess in the family of an old friend of her father's, where she was kindly treated, but she lived only a short time after her sister's death.
And still there was no abatement of the mother's infatuation. She was more than half insane on the subject of policy gambling, and confident of yet retrieving her fortunes.
At the time Pinky Swett and her friend in evil saw her come gliding up from the restaurant in faded mourning garments and closely veiled, she was living alone in a small, meagrely furnished room, and cooking her own food.
Everything left to her at her husband's death was gone. She earned a dollar or two each week by making shirts and drawers for the slop-shops, spending every cent of this in policies. A few old friends who pitied her, but did not know of the vice in which she indulged, paid her rent and made occasional contributions for her support. All of these contributions, beyond the amount required for a very limited supply of food, went to the policy-shops. It was a mystery to her friends how she had managed to waste the handsome property left by her husband, but no one suspected the truth.