It was clear and cold and dry—excellent weather, indeed, for a snowless Christmas. Everywhere one witnessed evidences of the season. One met more gay clothes than usual, with less of anxiety and an increase of smiling peace in the faces. Each window had its wreath of glistening green, whereof the red ribbon bow, that set off the garland, seemed than common a deeper and more ardent red. Or was the elevation in the faces, and the greenness of the wreaths, and the vivid sort of the ribbon, due to impressions, impalpable yet positive, of Christmas everywhere?
All about was Christmas. Even our Baxter Street doggery had attempted something in the nature of a bowl of dark, suspicious drink, to which the barkeeper—he was a careless man of his nomenclature, this barkeeper—gave the name of “apple toddy.” Apple toddy it might have been.
When Chucky came in, an uncertain shuffle which was company to his rather solid tread showed he was not alone. I looked up. Our acquaintance, Mollie Matches, expert pickpocket,—now helpless and broken, all his one time jauntiness of successful crime gone,—was with him.
“It was lonesome over be me joint,” vouchsafed Chucky, “wit' me Bundle chased over to do her reg'lar anyooal confession to d' priest, see! an' so I fought youse wouldn't mind an' I bring Mollie along. Me old pal is still a bit shaky as to his hooks,” remarked Chucky, as he surveyed his tremulous companion, “an' a sip of d' booze wouldn't do him no harm. It ain't age; Mollie's only come sixty spaces; it's that Hum-min' Boid about which I tells youse, that's knocked his noive.”
Drinks were ordered; whiskey strong and straight for Matches. No; I've no apology for buying these folk drink. “Drink,” observed Johnson to the worthy Boswell, “drink, for one thing, makes a man pleased with himself, which is no small matter.” Heaven knows! my shady companions, for the reason announced by the sagacious doctor, needed something of the sort. Besides, I never molest my fellows in their drinking. I've slight personal use for breweries, distilleries, or wine presses; and gin mills in any form or phase woo me not; yet I would have nothing of interference with the cups of other men. In such behalf, I feel not unlike that fat, well-living bishop of Westminster who refused to sign a memorial to Parliament craving strict laws in behalf of total abstinence. “No,” said that sound priest, stoutly, “I will sign no such petition to Parliament. I want no such law. I would rather see Englishmen free than sober.”
It took five deep draughts of liquor, ardently raw, to put Matches in half control of his hands. What with the chill of the day, and what with the torn condition of his nerves, they shook like the oft-named aspen.
“Them don't remind a guy,” said Matches, as he held up his quivering fingers, “of a day, twenty-five years ago, when I was d' pick of d' swell mob, an 'd' steadiest grafter that ever ringed a watch or weeded a leather! It would be safe for d' Chief to take me mug out of d' gallery now, an' rub d' name of Mollie Matches off d' books. Me day is done, an' I'll graft no more.”
There was plaintiveness in the man's tones as if he were mourning some virtue, departed with his age and weakness. Clearly Matches, off his guard and normal, found no peculiar fault with his past.
“How came you to be a thief?” I asked Matches bluntly. I had counted the sixth drink down his throat, which meant that he wouldn't be sensitive.
“It's too far off to say,” retorted Matches. “I can't t'row back to d' time when I wasn't a crook. Do youse want to know d' foist trick I loined? Well, it wasn't t'ree blocks from here, over be d' Bowery. I couldn't be more'n five. There was a fakir, sellin' soap. There was spec'ments of d' long green all over his stand, wit' cakes of soap on 'em, to draw d' suckers. Standin' be me side was a kid; Danny d' Face dey called him. He was bigger than me, an' so I falls to his tips, see!”
“'When you see him toin round,' said Danny d' Face, 'swipe a bill, an' chase yourself up d' alley wit' it.'
“Danny goes behint, an' does a sneak on d' fakir's leg wit' a pin. Of course, he toins an' cuts loose a bluff at Danny, who's ducked out of reach. As he toins, up goes me small mit, an' d' nex' secont I'm sprintin' up d' alley wit 'd' swag.
“Nit; d' mug wit' d' soap don't chase. He never even makes a holler; I don't t'ink he caught on. But Danny cuts in after me, an 'd' minute he sees we ain't bein' followed, or piped, he gives me d' foot, t'rows me in a heap, an' grabs off d' bill. I don't get a smell of it. An 'd' toad skin's a fiver at that!
“D' foist real graft I recalls,” continued Matches, as he took a meditative sip of the grog, “I'm goin' along wit' an old fat skirt, called Mother Worden, to Barnum's Museum down be Ann Street an' Broadway. Mebbe I'm seven or eight then. Mother Worden used to make up for d' respectable, see! an' our togs was out of sight. There was no flies on us when me an' Mother Worden went fort' to graft. What was d' racket? Pickin' women's pockets. Mother Worden would go to d' museum, or wherever there was a crush, an' lead me about be me mit. She'd steer me up to some loidy, an' let on she's lookin' at whatever d' other party has her lamps on. Meanwhile, I'm shoved in between d' brace of 'em, an' that's me cue to dip in wit' me free hook an' toin out d' loidy's pocket, see! An' say! it was a peach of a play; an' a winner. We used to take in funerals, an' theaytres, an' wherever there was a gang. Me an' Mother Worden was d' whole t'ing; there was nobody's bit to split out; just us. We was d' complete woiks.
“Now an' then there was a squeal. Once in a while I'd bungle me stunt, an' d' loidy I was friskin' would tumble an' raise d' yell. But Mother Worden always 'pologised, an' acted like she's shocked, an' cuffed me an' t'umped me, see! an' so she'd woik us free. I stood for d' t'umpin', an' never knocked. Mother Worden always told me that if we was lagged, d' p'lice guys would croak me. An' as d' wallopin's she gives me was d' real t'ing,—bein' she was hot under d' collar for me failin' down wit' me graft,—d' folks used to believe her, an' look on me fin in their pocket, that way, as d' caper of a kid. Oh, d' old woman Worden was dead flossy in her day, an' stood d' acid all right, all right, every time.
“But like it always toins out, she finds her finish. One day she makes a side-play on her own account, somethin' in d' shopliftin' line, I t'ink; an' she's pinched, an' takes six mont's on d' Island. I never sees her ag'in; at which I don't break no record for weeps. She's a boid, was Mother Worden; an' dead tough at that. She don't give me none d' best of it when I'm wit' her, an' I'm glad, in a kid fashion, when she gets put away.
“That's d' start I gets. Some other time I'll unfold to youse how I takes me name of Mollie Matches. Youse can hock your socks! I've seen d' hot end of many an alley! I never chases be Trinity buryin' ground, but I t'inks of a day when I pitched coppers on one of d' tombstones, heads or tails, for a saw-buck, wit' a party grown, before I was old enough an' fly enough to count d' dough we was tossin' for. But we'll pass all that up to-night. It's gettin' late an' I'll just put me frame outside another hooker an' then I'll hunt me bunk. I can't set up, an' booze an' gab like I onct could; I ain't neither d' owl nor d' tank I was.”
François St. Cyr is a Frenchman. He is absent two years from La Belle France. He and his little wife, Bebe, live not far from Washington Square. They love each other like birds. Yet François St. Cyr is gay, and little Bebe is jealous. Once a year the Ball of France is held at the Garden. Bebe turns up a nose and will not so belittle herself. So François St. Cyr attends the Ball of France alone. However, he does not repine. François St. Cyr is permitted to be morede gage; the ladies moreabandon. At least that is the way François St. Cyr explains it.
It is the night of the Ball of France. François St. Cyr is there. The Garden lights shine on fair women and brave men. It is a masque. The costumes are fancy, some of them feverishly so. A railroad person present says there isn't enough costume on some of the participants to flag a hand-car. No one has any purpose, however, to flag a hand-car; the deficiency passes unnoticed. Had the railroader spoken of flagging a beer waggon—mon Dieu!that would have been another thing!
A prize, a casket of jewels, is to be given to the best dressed lady. A bacchante in white satin trimmed with swans' down and diamonds the size and lustre of salt-cellars is appointed the beneficiary by popular acclaim. François St. Cyr, as one of the directors of the ball, presents the jewels in a fiery speech. The music crashes, the mad whirl proceeds. A supple young woman, whose trousseau would have looked lonely in a collar-box, kicks off the hat of François St. Cyr.Sapriste!how she charms him! He drinks wine from her little shoe!
The morning papers told of the beauty in swans' down; the casket of jewels, and the presentation rhetoric of François St. Cyr, flowing like a river of oral fire. Bebe read it with the first light of dawn.Peste!Later, when François St. Cyr came home, Bebe hurled the clock at him from an upper window. Bebe followed it with other implements of light housekeeping. François St. Cyr fled wildly. Then he wept and drank beer and talked of his honour.
The supple person who kicked the hat of François St. Cyr was a chorus girl. The troop in whose outrages she assisted was billed to infuriate Newark that evening. François St. Cyr would seek surcease in Newark. He would bind a new love on the heart bruised and broken by the jealous Bebe.Mon Dieu!yes!
The curtain went up. François St. Cyr inhabited a box. He was very still; no mouse was more so. No one noticed François St. Cyr. At last the chorus folk appeared.
“Brava! mam'selle, brava!” shouted François St. Cyr, springing to his feet, and performing with his hands as with cymbals.
What merited this outburst? The chorus folk had done nothing; hadn't slain a note, nor murdered a melody. The audience stared at the shouting François St. Cyr. What ailed the man? At last the audience admonished François St. Cyr.
“Sit down! Shut up!”
Those were the directions the public gave François St. Cyr.
“I weel not sit down! I weel not close up!” shouted François St. Cyr, bending over the box-rail and gesticulating like a monkey whose reason was suffering a strain. Then again to the chorus girl:
“Brava! mam'selle, brava!”
The other chorus girls looked disdainfully at the chorus girl whom François St. Cyr honoured, so as to identify her to the contempt of the public.
Francois St. Cyr suddenly discharged a bouquet at the stage. It was the size of a butter tub. It mowed a swath through the chorus like a chain shot.
“Put him out!” commanded the public.
“Poot heem out!” repeated François St. Cyr with a shriek of sneering contempt. “Canaille!I def-fy you! I am a Frenchman; I do not fee-ar to die!”
Wafted to his duty on the breath of general opinion, agend'armeof Newark acquired François St. Cyr, and bore him vociferating from the scene of his triumph.
As he was carried through the foyer, he raised his voice heroically:
“Vive le Boulanger!”
The next public appearance of François St. Cyr was in the Newark Police Court. He was pale and limp, and had thoughts of suicide. He was still clothed in his dress suit, which clung to him as if it, too, felt “des-pond.”
François St. Cyr was fined $20.
Bebe, the jealous, the faithful little Bebe, was there to pay the money.Mon Dieu!how he loved her! He would be her bird and sing to her all her life! Never would he leave his Bebe more! As for the false one of the chorus: François St. Cyr “des-spised” her.
Also Bebe had brought the week-day suit of François St. Cyr. Could an angel have had more forethought? François St. Cyr changed his clothes in a jury room, and Bebe and he came home cooing like turtle doves.
By virtue of the every-day suit, the St. Cyrs were home by 4 o'clock in the afternoon. Otherwise, under the rules, being habited in a dress suit, François St. Cyr could not have returned until 6,
And they were happy!
Albert Edward Murphy is a high officer in one of the departments of the city. He holds his position with credit to the administration, and to his own celebration and renown. He has a wife and a family of children; and sets up his Lares and Penates in a home of his own in Greenwich Village.
Among other possessions of a household sort, Albert Edward Murphy, until lately, numbered one pug dog. It was a dog of vast spirit and but little wit. Yet the children loved it, and its puggish imbecility only seemed to draw it closer to their baby hearts.
The pug's main delusion went to the effect that he could fight. Good judges say that there wasn't a dog on earth the pug could whip. But he didn't know this and held other views. As a result, he assailed every dog he met, and got thrashed. The pug had taken a whirl at all the canines in the neighbourhood, and been wickedly trounced in every instance. This only made him dearer, and the children loved him for the enemies he made.
The pug's name was John.
One day, John, the pug, fell heir to a frightful beating at the paws and jaws of the dog next door. All that saved the life of John, the pug, on this awful occasion, was the lucky fact that he could get between the pickets of the line fence, and the neighbour's dog could not. The neighbour's dog was many times the size and weight of John, the pug; but, as has been suggested, what John didn't know about other dogs would fill a book; and he had gone upon the neighbour's premises and pulled off a fight.
Now these divers sporting events in which John, the pug, took disastrous part worried Albert Edward Murphy. They worried him because the children took them to heart, and wept over the wounds of John, the pug, as they bound them with tar and other medicaments. At last Albert Edward Murphy resolved upon a campaign in favour of John, the pug. His future should have 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.
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 does Red Mike do it for? Well, he never needs, much of a hunch to pitch into Emmer an' d' rest. But I hears from me Rag who lives on d' same floor that it's all 'cause Mike gets d' tip that Emmer's got two bits, an' he wants it for booze. Mike comes in wit' a t'irst an' he ain't got d' price, an' he puts it to Emmer she's got stuff. Mike wants her to spring her plant an' chase d' duck.
“But Emmer welched an' won't 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.”
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.
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.
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!”
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.
As Hamilton Finnerty stood holding the lamp-post, and deeming it his “only own,” two of the Queen's constabulary approached.
0085
“'Ere's a bloomin' gow, Jem!” said the one born in London. “Now '00 d' ye tyke the gent to be?”
They were good police people, ignorant but innocent; and disinclined to give Hamilton Finnerty the collar.
“Frisk 'un, Bill,” advised the one from Yorkshire; “it's loike th' naime bees in 'uns pawkets.”
The two went through the make-up of Hamilton Finnerty. Jagged as he was, he heeded them not. They struck the steamer tickets and noted the steamer's name, but not the day of sailing.
As if anxious to aid in the overthrow of Hamilton Finnerty, the steamer was still at her dock, with preparations all but complete for the return slide to New York.
“Now 'ere's a luvely mess!” said London Bill, looking at the tickets. “The bloody bowt gows in twenty minutes, an' 'ere's this gent a-gettin' 'eeself left! An' th' tickets for 'ees missus, too! It's punds t' peanuts, th' loidy's aboard th' bowt tearin' 'er blessed heyes out for 'im. Hy, say there, kebby! bear a 'and! This gent's got to catch a bowt!”
Hamilton Finnerty, dumb with Gin and Dog's Head, was tumbled into the cab, and the vehicle, taking its hunch from the excited officers, made the run of its life to the docks. They were in time.
“It tak's th' droonken 'uns t'av th' loock!” remarked Yorkshire Jem cheerfully to London Bill, as they stood wiping their honest faces on the dock, while the majestic steamer, with Hamilton Finnerty aboard, worked slowly out.
When Hamilton Finnerty came to his senses he was one hundred miles on his way to New York. For an hour he was off his trolley. It was six days before he landed, and during that period he did naught but chew the rag.
Hamilton Finnerty chased straight for Harlem and sought refuge in the Ville Finnerty. He must think; he must reorganise his play! He would compile a fake calculated to make a hit as an excuse with Isabelle Imogene McSween, and cable it. All might yet be well.
But alas! As Hamilton Finnerty opened the door of the Ville Finnerty the butler sawed off a cablegram upon him. It was from Isabelle Imogene McSween to Hamilton Finnerty's cable address of “Hamfinny.”
As Hamilton Finnerty read the fatal words, he fell all over himself with a dull, sickening thud. And well he might! The message threw the boots into the last hope of Hamilton Finnerty. It read as follows:
Hamfinny:—Miscreant! Villain! A friend put me onto your skip from Liverpool. It was a hobo trick. But I broke even with you. I was dead aware that you might do a sneak at the last minute, and was organised with a French Count up me sleeve; see! Me wedding came off just the same. Me hubby's a bute! I call him Papa, and he's easy money. Hoping to see you on me return, nit, and renew our acquaintance, nit, I am yours, nit.
Isabelle Imogene McSween-Marat de Rochetwister.
Outside the Ville Finnerty swept the moaning winds, dismal with November's prophecy of snow. At intervals the election idiot blew his proud horn in the neighbouring thoroughfare. It was nearly morning when the doctor said, that, while Hamilton Finnerty's life would be spared, he would be mentally dopey the balance of his blighted days.
Short Creek Dave was one of Wolfville's leading citizens. In fact his friends would not have scrupled at the claim that Short Creek Dave was a leading citizen of Arizona. Therefore when the news came over from Tucson that Short Creek Dave, who had been paying that metropolis a breezy visit, had, in an advertant moment, strolled within the radius of a gospel meeting then and there prevailing, and suffered conversion, Wolfville became spoil and prey to some excitement.
“I tells him,” said Tutt, who brought the tidings, “not to go tamperin' 'round this yere meetin'. But he would have it. He simply keeps pervadin' about the 'go-in' place, an' it looks like I can't herd him away. Says I: 'Dave, you don't onderstand this yere game they're turnin' inside. Which you keep out a whole lot, you'll be safer!' But warnin's ain't no good; Short Creek don't regard 'em a little bit.”
“This yere Short Creek is always speshul obstinate that a-way,” said Dan Boggs, “an' he gets moods frequent when he jest won't stay where he is nor go anywhere else. I don't marvel none you don't do nothin' with him.”
“Let it go as it lays!” observed Cherokee Hall, “I reckons Short Creek knows his business, an* can protect himse'f in any game they opens on him. I ain't my-se'f none astonished by these yere news. I knows him to do some mightylocoedthings, sech as breakin' a pair to draw to a three-flush; an' it seems like he's merely a pursooin' of his usual system in this relig'ous lunge. However, he'll be in Wolfville to-morry, an' then we'll know a mighty sight more about it; pendin' of which let's irrigate. Barkeep, please inquire out the beverages for the band!”
Those of Wolfville there present knew no cause to pursue the discussion so pleasantly ended, and drew near the bar. The debate took place in the Red Light, so, as one observed on the issuance of Cherokee's invitation: “They weren't far from centres.”
Cherokee himself was a suave suitor of fortune who presided behind his own faro game. Reputed to possess a “straight” deal box, he held high place in the Wolfville breast.
Next day; and Wolfville began to suffer an increased exaltation. Feeling grew nervous as the time for the coming of the Tucson stage approached. An outsider might not have detected this fever. It found its evidence in the unusual activity of monte, high ball, stud and kindred relaxations. Faro, too, displayed some madness of spirit.
At last out of the grey and heat-shimmer of the plains a cloud of dust announced the coming of the stage. Chips were cashed and games cleaned up, and presently the population of Wolfville stood in the street to catch as early a glimpse as might be of the converted one.
“I don't reckon now he's goin' to look sech a whole lot different neither!” observed Faro Nell. She stood near Cherokee Hall, awaiting the coming stage.
“I wonder would it 'go' to ask Dave for to drink?” said Tutt, in a tone of general inquiry.
“Shore!” argued Dan Boggs; “an' why not?”
“Oh, nothin' why not!” replied Tutt, as he watched the stage come up; “only Dave's nacherally a peevish person that a-way, an' I don't reckon now his enterin' the fold has redooced the restlessness of that six-shooter of his'n, none whatever.”
“All the same,” said Cherokee Hall, “p'litenes 'mong gents should be observed. I asks this yere Short Creek to drink so soon as ever he arrives; an' I ain't lookin' to see him take it none invidious, neither.” With a rattle of chains and a creaking of straps the stage and its six high-headed horses pulled up at the postoffice door. The mail bags were kicked off, the express boxes tumbled into the street, and in the general rattle and crash the eagerly expected Short Creek Dave stepped upon the sidewalk.
There was possibly a more eager scanning of his person in the thought that the great inward change might have its outward evidences; a more vigorous shaking of his hand, perhaps; but beyond these, curious interest did not go. Not a word nor a look touching Short Creek's religious exploits betrayed the question tugging at the Wolfville heart. Wolfville was too polite. And, again, Wolfville was too cautious. Next to horse-stealing, curiosity is the greatest crime. It's worse than crime, it's a blunder. Wolfville merely expressed its polite satisfaction in Short Creek Dave's return, and took it out in handshaking. The only incident worth record was when Cherokee Hall observed in a spirit of bland but experimental friendship:
“I don't reckon, Dave, you-all is objectin' to whiskey none after your ride?”
“Which I ain't done so usual,” observed Dave cheerfully, “but this yere time, Cherokee, I'll have to pass. Confidin' the trooth to you-all, I'm some off on nose-paint now. I'm allowin' to tell you the win-an'-lose tharof later on. Now, if you-alls will excuse me, I'll go wanderin' over to the O. K. House an' feed myse'f a whole lot.”
“I shore reckons he's converted!” said Tutt, and he shook his head gloomily. “I wouldn't care none, only it's me as prevails on Dave to go over to Tucson that time; an' so I feels responsible.”
“Whatever of it?” responded Dan Boggs, with a burst of energy, “I don't see no reecriminations comin', nor why this yere's to be regarded. If Dave wants to be relig'ous an' sing them hymns a heap, you bet! that's his American right! I'll gamble a hundred dollars, Dave splits even with every deal, or beats it. I'm with Dave; his system does for me, every time!”
The next day the excitement began to subside. Late in the afternoon a notice posted on the postoffice door caused it to rise again. The notice announced that Short Creek Dave would preach that evening in the warehouse of the New York Store.
“I reckons we-alls better go!” said Cherokee Hall. “I'm goin' to turn up my box an' close the game at first drink time this evenin', an' Hamilton says he's out to shut up the dance hall, seein' as how several of the ladies is due to sing a lot in the choir. We-alls might as well turn loose an' give Short Creek the best whirl in the wheel—might as well make the play to win, an* start him straight along the new trail.”
“That's whatever!” agreed Dan Boggs. He had recovered from his first amazement, and now entered into the affair with spirit.
That evening the New York Store's warehouse was as brilliantly a-light as a mad abundance of candles could make it. All Wolfville was there. As a result of conferences held in private with Short Creek Dave, and by that convert's request, Old Man Enright took a seat by the drygoods box which was to serve as a pulpit. Doc Peets, also, was asked to assume a place at the Evangelist's left. The congregation disposed itself about on the improvised benches which the ardour of Boggs had provided.
At 8 o'clock Short Creek Dave walked up the space in the centre reserved as an aisle, carrying a giant Bible. This latter he placed on the drygoods box. Old Man Enright, at a nod from Short Creek Dave, called gently for attention, and addressed the meeting briefly.
“This yere is a prayer meetin' of the camp,” said Enright, “an' I'm asked by Dave to preside, which I accordin' do. No one need make any mistake about the character of this gatherin', or its brand. This yere is a relig'ous meetin'. I am not myse'f given that a-way, but I'm allers glad to meet up with folks who be, an' see that they have a chance in for their ante, an' their game is preserved. I'm one, too, who believes a little religion wouldn't hurt this yere camp much. Next to a lynchin', I don't know of a more excellent inflooence in a western camp than these meetin's. I ain't expectin' to cut in on this play none myse'f, an' only set yere, as does Peets, in the name of order, an' for the purposes of a squar' deal. Which I now introdooces to you a gent who is liable to be as good a preacher as ever thumps a Bible—your old pard, Short Creek Dave.”
“Mr. Pres'dent!” said Short Creek Dave, turning to Enright.
“Short Creek Dave!” replied Enright sententiously, bowing gravely in recognition.
“An' ladies an' gents of Wolfville!” continued Dave, “I opens this racket with a prayer.”
The prayer proceeded. It was fervent and earnest; replete with unique expression and personal allusion. In the last, the congregation took a warm interest.
Towards the close, Dave bent his energies in supplication for the regeneration of Texas Thompson, whom he represented in his orisons as by nature good, but living a misguided and vicious life. The audience was listening with approving attention, when there came an interruption. It was from Texas Thompson.
“Mr. Pres'dent,” said Texas Thompson, “I rises to ask a question an' put for'ard a protest.”
“The gent will state his p'int,” responded Enright, rapping on the drygoods box.
“Which the same is this,” resumed Texas Thompson, drawing a long breath. “I objects to Dave a-tacklin' the Redeemer for me. I protests ag'in him makin' statements that I'm ornery enough to pillage a stage. This yere talk is liable to queer me on High. I objects to it!”
“Prayer is a device without rools or limit,” responded Enright. “Dave makes his runnin' with the bridle off; an* the chair, tharfore, decides ag'in the p'int of order.”
“An' the same bein' the case,” rejoined Texas Thompson with heat, “a-waivin' of the usual appeal to the house, all I've got to say is, I'm a peaceful gent; I has allers been the friend of Short Creek Dave. Which I even assists an' abets Boggs in packin' in these yere benches, an' aids to promote this meetin'. But I gives notice now, if Short Creek Dave persists in malignin' of me to the Great White Throne, as yeretofore, I'll shore call on him to make them statements good with his gun as soon as ever the contreebution box is passed.”
“The chair informs the gent,” said Enright with cold dignity, “that Dave, bein' now a Evangelist, can't make no gun plays, nor go canterin' out to shoot as of a former day. However, the chair recognises the rights of the gent, an', standin' as the chair does in the position of lookout to this game, the chair nom'nates Dan'l Boggs, who's officiatin' as deacon hereof, to back these yere orisons with his six-shooter as soon as ever church is out, in person.”
“It goes!” responded Boggs. “I proudly assoomes Dave's place.”