The Project Gutenberg eBook ofYollopThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: YollopAuthor: George Barr McCutcheonRelease date: June 1, 2004 [eBook #5866]Most recently updated: May 10, 2019Language: EnglishCredits: Etext produced by Charles Aldarondo, Charles Franks and theOnline Distributed Proofreading TeamHTML file produced by David Widger*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK YOLLOP ***
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
Title: YollopAuthor: George Barr McCutcheonRelease date: June 1, 2004 [eBook #5866]Most recently updated: May 10, 2019Language: EnglishCredits: Etext produced by Charles Aldarondo, Charles Franks and theOnline Distributed Proofreading TeamHTML file produced by David Widger
Title: Yollop
Author: George Barr McCutcheon
Author: George Barr McCutcheon
Release date: June 1, 2004 [eBook #5866]Most recently updated: May 10, 2019
Language: English
Credits: Etext produced by Charles Aldarondo, Charles Franks and theOnline Distributed Proofreading TeamHTML file produced by David Widger
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK YOLLOP ***
CONTENTS
YOLLOP
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
In the first place, Mr. Yollop knew nothing about firearms. And so, after he had overpowered the burglar and relieved him of a fully loaded thirty-eight, he was singularly unimpressed by the following tribute from the bewildered and somewhat exasperated captive:
"Say, ain't you got any more sense than to tackle a man with a gun, you chuckle-headed idiot?" (Only he did not say "chuckle-headed," and he inserted several expletives between "say" and "ain't.")
The dazed intruder was hunched limply, in a sitting posture, over against the wall, one hand clamped tightly to his jaw, the other being elevated in obedience to a command that had to be thrice repeated before it found lodgment in his whirling brain. Mr. Yollop, who seemed to be satisfied with the holding up of but one hand, cupped his own hand at the back of one ear, and demanded querulously:
"What say!"
"Are you hard o' hearin'?"
"Hey?"
"Well for the—say, are you deef?"
"Don't say deef. Say deaf,—as if it were spelled d-e-double f. Yes,—I am a little hard of hearing."
"Now, how the hell did you hear—I say, HOW DID YOU HEAR ME IN THE ROOM, if it's a fair question?"
"If you've got anything in your mouth, spit it out. I can't make out half what you say. Sounds like 'ollo—ollo—ollo'!"
The thief opened his mouth and with his tongue instituted a visible search for the obstruction that appeared to annoy Mr. Yollop.
"They're all here except the one I had pulled last year," he announced vastly relieved. A sharp spasm of pain in his jaw caused him to abruptly take advantage of a recent discovery; and while he was careful to couch his opinions in an undertone, he told Mr. Yollop what he thought of him in terms that would have put the hardiest pirate to blush. Something in Mr. Yollop's eye, however, and the fidgety way in which he was fingering the trigger of the pistol, moved him to interrupt a particularly satisfying paean of blasphemy by breaking off short in the very middle of it to wonder why in God's name he hadn't had sense enough to remember that all deaf people are lip-readers.
"Spit it out!" repeated Mr. Yollop, with energy. "Don't talk with your mouth full. I can't understand a word you say."
This was reassuring but not convincing. There was still the ominous glitter in the speaker's eye to be reckoned with. The man on the floor took the precaution to explain: "I hope you didn't hear what I was callin' myself." He spoke loudly and very distinctly.
"That's better," said Mr. Yollop, his face brightening. "I was 'afraid my hearing had got worse without my knowing it. All you have to do is to enunciate distinctly and speak slowly like that,—as if you were isolating the words,—so to speak,—and I can make out everything you say. What were you calling yourself?"
"Oh, just a lot of names. I'd sooner not repeat 'em if there's any women in the house."
"Well, bless my soul, that's uncommonly thoughtful of you. My sister and her young daughter are here to spend the holidays with me. They sleep at the back of the apartment. Now, if you will just remain as you are,—I dare say you'd better put up the other hand, too, if you can spare it,—I will back up to the table here and get my listening apparatus. Now you won't have to shout so. I don't know much about revolvers, but I assume that all one has to do to make it go off is to press rather firmly on this little contrivance—"
"Yes! But DON'T!"
"Not so loud! Not so loud! I'm not as deaf as all that. And don't move! I give you fair warning. Watch me closely. If you see me shut my eyes, you will know I'm going to shoot. Remember that, will you? The instant you detect the slightest indication that my eyes are about to close,—dodge!"
"By thunder,—I—I wonder if you're as much of a blame fool as you seem to be,—or are you just playing horse with me," muttered the victim, as he raised his other hand. "I'd give ten years of my life to know,—"
"I won't be a second," announced Mr. Yollop, backing gingerly toward the table. With his free hand he felt for and found the rather elaborate contraption that furnished him with the means to counteract his auricular deficiencies. The hand holding the revolver wobbled a bit; nevertheless, the little black hole at which the dazed robber stared as if fascinated was amazingly steadfast in its regard for the second or perhaps the third button of his coat. "It's a rather complicated arrangement," he went on to explain, "but very simple once you get it adjusted to the ear. It took me some time to get used to wearing this steel band over the top of my head. I never have tried to put it on with one hand before. Amazing how awkward one can be with his left hand, isn't it? Now, you see how it goes. This little receiver business clamps right down to the ear,—so. Then this disc hangs over my chest—and you talk right at it. For awhile I made a practice of concealing it under my vest, being somewhat sensitive about having strangers see that I am deaf, but one day my niece, a very bright child often, asked me why I did it. I told her it was because I didn't want people to know I was deaf. Have you ever felt so foolish that you wanted to kick yourself all over town? Well, then you know how I felt when that blessed infant pointed to this thing on my ear and—What say?"
"I say, that's the way I've been feeling ever since I came to," repeated the disgusted burglar.
"Of course, I realize that it's a physical, you might well say, a scientific impossibility, for one to kick himself all over town, but just the same, I believe you are as nearly in the mood to accomplish it as any man alive to-day."
"You bet I could," snapped the thief, with great earnestness. "When I think how I let a skinny, half-witted boob like you walk right into a clinch with me, and me holdin' a gun, and weighin' forty pounds more than you do, I—Can you hear what I'm saying?"
"Perfectly. It's a wonderful invention," said Mr. Yollop, who had approached to within four or five feet of the speaker and was bending over to afford him every facility for planting his words squarely upon the disc. "Speak in the same tone of voice that you would employ if I were about thirty feet away and perfectly sound of hearing. Just imagine, if you can, that I am out in the hall, with the door open, and you are carrying on a conversation with me at that—"
"I've said all I want to say," growled the other sullenly.
"What is your name?"
"None of your damn business."
Mr. Yollop was silent for a moment. Then he inquired steadily:
"Have you any recollection of receiving a blow on the jaw, and subsequently lying on the flat of your back with my knees jouncing up and down on your stomach while your bump of amativeness was being roughly and somewhat regularly pounded against the wall in response to a certain nervous and uncontrollable movement of my hands which happened to be squeezing your windpipe so tightly that your tongue hung out and—"
"You bet I remember it!" ruefully.
"Well, then," said Mr. Yollop, "what is your name?"
"Jones."
"What?"
"I thought you said you could hear with that thing!"
"I heard you say Jones quite distinctly, but why can't you answer my question? It was civil enough, wasn't it?"
"Well," said the crook, still decidedly uncertain as to the expression in Mr. Yollop's eye, "if you insist on a civil answer, it's Smilk."
"Smith?"
"No, NOT Smith," hastily and earnestly; "Smilk,—S-m-i-l-k."
"Smilk?"
"Smilk."
"Extraordinary name. I've never heard it before, have you?"
The rascal blinked. "Sure. It was my father's name before me, and my—"
"Look me in the eye!"
"I am lookin' you in the eye. It's Smilk,—Cassius Smilk."
"Sounds convincing," admitted Mr. Yollop. "Nobody would take the name of Cassius in vain, I am sure. As a sensible, discriminating thief, you would not deliberately steal a name like Cassius, now would you?"
"Well, you see, they call me Cash for short," explained Smilk. "That's something I can steal with a clear conscience."
"I perceive you are recovering your wits, Mr. Smilk. You appear to be a most ingenuous rogue. Have you ever tried writing the book for a musical comedy?"
"A—what?"
"A musical comedy. A forty-legged thing you see on Broadway."
Mr. Smilk pondered. "No, sir," he replied, allowing himself a prideful leer; "if I do say it as shouldn't, I'm an honest thief."
"Bless my soul," cried Mr. Yollop delightedly; "you get brighter every minute. Perhaps you have at one time or another conducted a humorous column for a Metropolitan newspaper?"
"Well, I've done my share towards fillin' up the 'lost' column," said Mr. Smilk modestly. "Say, if we're going to keep up this talkfest much longer, I got to let my hands down. The blood's runnin' out of 'em. What are you goin' to do with me? Keep me sittin' here till morning?"
"I'm glad you reminded me of it. I want to call the police."
"Well, I'm not hindering you, am I?"
"In a way, yes. How can I call them and keep an eye on you at the same time?"
"I'll tell what I'll do," said Cassius Smilk obligingly. "I'll take a message 'round to the police station for you."
"Ah! That gives me an idea. You shall telephone to the police for me. If my memory serves me well, Spring 3100 is the number. Or is it Spring 3100 that calls out the fire department? It would be very awkward to call out the fire department, wouldn't it? They'd probably come rushing around here and drown both of us before they found out wer'd made a mistake and really wanted the police."
"All you have to do is to say to Central: 'I want a policeman.'"
"Right you are. That's what the telephone book says. Still I believe Spring 3100—"
"The simplest way to get the police," broke in the burglar, not without hope, "is to fire five shots out of a window as rapidly as possible. They always come for that."
"I see what you are after. You want them to come here and arrest me for violating the Sullivan Law. Don't you know it's against the law in New York to have a revolver on your premises or person? And what's more, you would testify against me, confound you. Also probably have me up for assault and battery. No, Mr. Smilk, your suggestion is not a good one. We will stick to the telephone. Now, if you will be kind enough to fold your arms tightly across your breast,—that's the idea,—and arise slowly to your feet, I will instruct you—Yes, I know it is harder to get up without the aid of the hands than it was to go down, but I think you can manage it. Try again, if you please." Then, as Mr. Smilk sank sullenly back against the wall, apparently resolved not to budge: "I'm going to count three, Cassius. If you are not on your feet at the end of the count, I shall be obliged to do the telephoning myself."
"That suits me," said Cassius grimly.
"Do you object to the smell of powder?"
"Huh?"
"I don't like it myself, but I should, of course, open the windows immediately and air the room out—"
"I'll get up," said Cassius, and did so, clumsily but promptly. "Say, I—I believe you WOULD shoot. You're just the kind of boob that would do a thing like that."
"I dare say I should miss you if I were to fire all five bullets,—but that's neither here nor there. You're on your feet, so—by the way, are you sure this thing is loaded?"
"It wouldn't make any difference if it wasn't. It would go off just the same. They always do when some darn fool idiot is pointin' them at people."
"Don't be crotchetty, Cassius," reproached Mr. Yollop. "Now, if you will just sidle around to the left you will come in due time to the telephone over there on that desk. I shall not be far behind you. Sit down. Now unfold your arms and lean both elbows on the desk. That's the idea. You might keep your right hand exposed,—sort of perpendicular from the elbow up. Take the receiver off the hook and—"
"Oh, I know how to use a telephone all right."
"Now, the main thing is to get Central," said Mr. Yollop imperturbably. "Sometimes it is very difficult to wake them after two o'clock A.M. Just jiggle it if she doesn't respond at once. Seems that jiggling wakes them when nothing else will."
Mr. Yollop, very tall and spare in his pajamas, stood behind the burly Mr. Smilk, the dangling disc almost touching the latter's hunched up shoulders.
"This is a devil of a note," quoth Mr. Smilk, taking down the receiver. "Makin' a guy telephone to the police to come and arrest him."
"I wish I had thought to close that window while you were hors de combat," complained Mr. Yollop shivering. "I'll probably catch my death of cold standing around here with almost nothing on. That wind comes straight from the North Pole. Doesn't she answer?"
"No."
"Jiggle it."
"I did jiggle it."
"What?"
"I said I jiggled it."
"Well, jiggle it again."
"Rottenest telephone service in the world," growled Mr. Smilk. "When you think what we have to pay for telephones these days, you'd think—hello! Hell—lo!"
"Got her?"
"I thought I had for a second, but I guess it was somebody yawning."
"Awning?"
"Say, if you'll hold that thing around so's I can talk at it, you'll hear what I'm saying. How do you expect me to—hello! Central? Central! Hello! Where the hell have you been all—hello! Well, can you beat it? I had her and she got away."
"No use trying to get her now," said Mr. Yollop, resignedly. "Hang up for a few minutes. It makes 'em stubborn when you swear at 'em. Like mules. I've just thought of something else you can do for me while we're waiting for her to make up her mind to forgive you. Come along over here and close this window you left open."
Mr. Smilk in closing the window, looked searchingly up and down the fire escape, peered intently into the street below, sighed profoundly and muttered something that Mr. Yollop did not hear.
"I've got a fur coat hanging in that closet over there, Cassius. We will get it out."
Carefully following Mr. Yollop's directions, the obliging rascal produced the coat and laid it upon the table in the center of the room.
"Turn your back," commanded the owner of the coat, "and hold up your hands." Then, after he had slipped into the coat: "Now if I only had my slippers—but never mind. We won't bother about 'em. They're in my bed room, and probably lost under the bed. They always are, even when I take 'em off out in the middle of the room. Ah! Nothing like a fur coat, Cassius. Do you know what cockles are?"
"No, I don't."
"Well, never mind. Now, let's try Central again. Please remember that no matter how distant she is, she still expects you to look upon her as a lady. No lady likes to be sworn at at two o'clock in the morning. Speak gently to her. Call her Madamoiselle. That always gets them. Makes 'em think if they keep their ears open they'll hear something spicy."
"They general fall for dearie," said Mr. Smilk, taking down the receiver.
"Be good enough to remember that you are calling from my apartment," said Mr. Yollop severely. "Jiggle it."
Mr. Smilk jiggled it. "I guess she's still mad."
"Jiggle it slowly, tenderly, caressingly. Sort of seductively. Don't be so savage about it."
"Hello! Central? What number do I have to call to get Spring 3100? ... I'm not trying to be fresh: ... Yes, that's what I want ... I know the book says to tell you 'I want to call a policeman' but— ... Yes, there's a burglar in my apartment and I want you to—What's that? ... I don't want to go to bed. ... Say, now YOU'RE gettin' fresh. You give me police—"
"Tell her I've got you surrounded," whispered Mr. Yollop.
"Hello! Hell—lo! Central!"
"Jiggle it."
"Ah, Mademoiselle! Pardon my—"
Voice at the other end of the wire: "Ring off! You've got wrong number. This is police headquarters." Audible sound of distant receiver being slapped upon its hook.
"Gee whiz! Now, we're up against it, Mister. We'll be all night gettin' Central again."
"Be patient, Cassius. Start all over again. Ask for the morgue this time. That will make her realize the grave danger you are in."
"Say, I wish you'd put that gun in your pocket. It makes the goose flesh creep out all over me. I'm not going to try to get away. Give you my word of honor I ain't. You seem to have some sort of idea that I don't want to be arrested."
"I confess I had some such idea, Cassius."
"Well, I don't mind it a bit. Fact is, I've been doin' my best to get nabbed for the last three months."
"You have?"
"Sure. The trouble is with the police. They somehow seem to overlook me, no matter how open I am about it. I suppose I've committed twenty burglaries in the past three months and I'll be cussed if I can make 'em understand. Take to-night, for instance. I clumb up that fire escape,—this is the third floor, ain't it?—I clumb up here with a big electric street light shinin' square on my back,—why, darn the luck, I had to turn my back on it 'cause the light hurt my eyes,—and there were two cops standin' right down below here talkin' about the crime wave bein' all bunk, both of 'em arguin' that the best proof that there ain't no crime wave is the fact that the jails are only half full, showin' that the city is gettin' more and more honest all the time. I could hear 'em plain as anything. They were talkin' loud, so as to make everybody in this buildin' rest easy, I guess. I stopped at the second floor and monkeyed with the window, hopin' to attract their attention. Didn't work. So I had to climb up another flight. This window of yours was up about six inches, so there wasn't anything for me to do but to raise it and come in. What I had in mind was to stick my head out after a minute or two and yell 'thieves', 'police', and so on. Then before I knowed what was happenin', you walks in, switches on the light, and comes straight over and biffs me in the jaw. Does that look as if I was tryin' to avoid arrest?"
"That's a very pretty story, Cassius, and no doubt will make a tremendous hit with the jury, but what were you doing with a loaded revolver in your hand, and why were you so full of vituperation,—I mean, what made you swear so when I—"
"You let somebody hit you a wallop on the jaw and bang your head against the wall and dance on your ribs, and you'll cuss worse than I did."
"But,—about the revolver?"
"Well, to be honest with you, I probably would have shot you if I hadn't been so low in my mind. I won't deny that. It's a sort of principle with us, you see. No self-respecting burglar wants to be captured by the party he's tryin' to rob. Its so damn' mortifyin'. Besides, if that sort of thing happens to you, the police lose all kinds of respect for you and try to use you as a stool-pigeon, if you know what that means."
"This is most interesting, I must say. I should like to hear more about it, Mr. Smilk. I dare say we can have quite a long and edifying chat while we are waiting for the police to respond to our call for help. In the meantime, you might see if you can get them now. Spring, three one hundred."
"As I was sayin' awhile ago, would you mind puttin' that gun in your pocket?"
"While you've been chinning, Cassius, I have been making a most thrilling and amazing experiment. Do you call this thing under here a trigger?"
"Yes. Don't monkey with it, you—you—"
"I've been pressing it,—very gently and cautiously, of course,—to see just how near I can come to making it go off without actually—"
"For God's sake! Cut that—Hey, Central! Give me police headquarters again. ... Lively, please. ... Yes, it's life or death. ... Come on, Mademoiselle,—please!"
"That's the way," complimented Mr. Yollop.
"By gosh, nobody ever wanted the police more than I do at this minute," gulped Mr. Smilk. He was perspiring freely. "Hello! Police headquarters? ... Hustle someone to—to—(over his shoulder to Mr. Yollop, in a whisper,)—quick! What's the number of this,—"
"418 Sagamore Terrace."
Into the transmitter: "To 418 Sagamore Terrace, third floor front. Burglar. Hurry up!"
Telephone: "What's yer name?"
Smilk, to Yollop: "What is my name?"
Mr. Yollop: "Crittenden Yollop."
Smilk, to telephone: "Crittelyum Yop."
Telephone, languidly: "Spell it."
Smilk: "Aw, go to—"
Mr. Yollop: "After me now,—Y-o-l-l-o-p."
Telephone: "First name."
Smilk, prompted. "C-r-i-t-t-e-n-d-e-n."
Telephone, after interval: "What floor?"
Smilk: "Third."
Telephone: "Are you sure it's a burglar, or is it just a noise somewhere?"
Smilk: "It's a burglar. He's got me covered."
Telephone: "What's that?"
Smilk: "I say, I've got him covered. Hurry up or he'll blow my head off—"
Telephone: "Say, what IS this? Get back to bed, you. You're drunk."
Smilk: "I'm as sober as you are. Can't you get me straight? I tell you I beat his head off. He's down and out,—but—-"
Telephone: "All right. We'll have someone there in a few minutes. Did you say Yullup?"
Smilk: "No. I said hurry up."
"The thing that's troubling me now," said Mr. Yollop, as Smilk hung up the receiver and twisted his head slightly to peek out of the corner of his eye, "is how to get hold of my slippers. You've no idea how cold this floor is."
"If it's half as cold as the sweat I'm—-"
"We're likely to have a long wait," went on the other, frowning. "It will probably take the police a couple of hours to find this building, with absolutely no clue except the number and the name of the street."
"I'll tell you what you might do, Mr. Scollop, seein' as you won't trust me to go in and find your slippers for you. Why don't you sit on your feet? Take that big arm chair over there and—"
"Splendid! By jove, Cassius, you are an uncommonly clever chap. I'll do it. And then, when the police arrive, we'll have something for them to do. We'll let them see if they can find my slippers. That ought to be really quite interesting."
"There's something about you," said Mr. Smilk, not without a touch of admiration in his voice, "that I simply can't help liking."
"That's what the wolf said to Little Red Riding-Hood, if I remember correctly. However, I thank you, Cassius. In spite of the thump I gave you and the disgusting way in which I treated you, a visitor in my own house, you express a liking for me. It is most gratifying. Still, for the time being, I believe we can be much better friends if I keep this pistol pointed at you. Now we 'll do a little maneuvering. You may remain seated where you are. However, I must ask you to pull out the two lower drawers in the desk,—one on either side of where your knees go. You will find them quite empty and fairly commodious. Now, put your right foot in the drawer on this side and your left foot in the other one—yes, I know it's quite a stretch, but I dare say you can manage it. Sort of recalls the old days when evil-doers were put in the stocks, doesn't it? They seem to be quite a snug fit, don't they? If it is as difficult for you to extricate your feet from those drawers as it was to insert them, I fancy I'm pretty safe from a sudden and impulsive dash in my direction. Rather bright idea of mine, eh?"
"I'm beginnin' to change my opinion of you," announced Mr. Smilk.
Mr. Yollop pushed a big unholstered library chair up to the opposite side of the desk and, after several awkward attempts, succeeded in sitting down, tailor fashion, with his feet neatly tucked away beneath him.
"I wasn't quite sure I could do it," said he, rather proudly. "I suppose my feet will go to sleep in a very short time, but I am assuming, Cassius, that you are too much of a gentleman to attack a man whose feet are asleep."
"I wouldn't even attack you if they were snoring," said Cassius, grinning in spite of himself. "Say, this certainly beats anything I've ever come up against. If one of my pals was to happen to look in here right now and see me with my feet in these drawers and you squattin' on yours,—well, I can't help laughin' myself, and God knows I hate to."
"You were saying a little while ago," said Mr. Yollop, shifting his position slightly, "that you rather fancy the idea of being arrested. Isn't that a little quixotic, Mr. Smilk?"
"Huh?"
"I mean to say, do you expect me to believe you when you say you relish being arrested?"
"I don't care a whoop whether you believe it or not. It's true."
"Have you no fear of the law?"
"Bless your heart, sir, I don't know how I'd keep body and soul together if it wasn't for the law. If people would only let the law alone, I'd be one of the happiest guys on earth. But, damn 'em, they won't let it alone. First, they put their heads together and frame up this blasted parole game on us. Just about the time we begin to think we're comfortably settled up the river, 'long comes some doggone home-wrecker and gets us out on parole. Then we got to go to work and begin all over again. Sometimes, the way things are nowadays, it takes months to get back into the pen again. We got to live, ain't we? We got to eat, ain't we? Well, there you are. Why can't they leave us alone instead of drivin' us out into a cold, unfeelin' world where we got to either steal or starve to death? There wouldn't be one tenth as much stealin' and murderin' as there is if they didn't force us into it. Why, doggone it, I've seen some of the most cruel and pitiful sights you ever heard of up there at Sing Sing. Fellers leadin' a perfectly honest life suddenly chucked out into a world full of vice and iniquity and forced—absolutely forced,—into a life of crime. There they were, livin' a quiet, peaceful life, harmin' nobody, and bing! they wake up some mornin' and find themselves homeless. Do you realize what that means, Mr. Strumpet? It means—"
"Yollop, if you please."
"It means they got to go out and slug some innocent citizen, some poor guy that had nothing whatever to do with drivin' them out, and then if they happen to be caught they got to go through with all the uncertainty of a trial by jury, never knowin' but what some pin-headed juror will stick out for acquittal and make it necessary to go through with it all over again. And more than that, they got to listen to the testimony of a lot of policemen, and their own derned fool lawyers, tryin' to deprive them of their bread and butter, and the judge's instructions that nobody pays any attention to except the shorthand reporter,—and them just settin' there sort of helpless and not even able to say a word in their own behalf because the law says they're innocent till they're proved guilty,—why, I tell you, Mr. Dewlap, it's heart-breakin'. And all because some weak-minded smart aleck gets them paroled. As I was sayin', the law's all right if it wasn't for the people that abuse it."
"This is most interesting," said Mr. Yollop. "I've never quite understood why ninety per cent of the paroled convicts go back to the penitentiary so soon after they've been liberated."
"Of course," explained Mr. Smilk, "there are a few that don't get back. That's because, in their anxiety to make good, they get killed by some inexperienced policeman who catches 'em comin' out of somebody's window or—"
"By the way, Cassius, let me interrupt you. Will you have a cigar? Nice, pleasant way to pass an hour or two—beg pardon?"
"I was only sayin', if you don't mind I'll take one of these cigarettes. Cigars are a little too heavy for me."
"I have some very light grade domestic—"
"I don't mean in quality. I mean in weight. What's the sense of wastin' a lot of strength holding a cigar in your mouth when it requires no effort at all to smoke a cigarette? Why, I got it all figured out scientifically. With the same amount of energy you expend in smokin' one cigar you could smoke between thirty and forty cigarettes, and being sort of gradual, you wouldn't begin to feel half as fatigued as if you—"
"Did I understand you to say 'scientifically', or was it satirically?"
"I'm tryin' to use common, every-day words, Mr. Shallop," said Mr. Smilk, with dignity, "and I wish you'd do the same."
"Ahem! Well, light up, Cassius. I think I'll smoke a cigar. When you get through with the matches, push 'em over this way, will you? Help yourself to those chocolate creams. There's a pound box of them at your elbow, Cassius. I eat a great many. They're supposed to be fattening. Help yourself." After lighting his cigar Mr. Yollop inquired: "By the way, since you speak so feelingly I gather that you are a paroled convict."
"That's what I am. And the worst of it is, it ain't my first offense. I mean it ain't the first time I've been paroled. To begin with, when I was somewhat younger than I am now, I was twice turned loose by judges on what they call 'suspended sentences.' Then I was sent up for two years for stealin' something or other,—I forgot just what it was. I served my time and a little later on went up again for three years for holdin' up a man over in Brooklyn. Well, I got paroled out inside of two years, and for nearly six months I had to report to the police ever' so often. Every time I reported I had my pockets full of loot I'd snitched durin' the month, stuff the bulls were lookin' for in every pawn-shop in town, but to save my soul I couldn't somehow manage to get myself caught with the goods on me. Say, I'd give two years off of my next sentence if I could cross my legs for five or ten minutes. This is gettin' worse and worse all the—"
"You might try putting your left foot in the right hand drawer and your right foot in the other one," suggested Mr. Yollop.
Mr. Smilk stared. "I've seen a lot of kidders in my time, but you certainly got 'em all skinned to death," said he.
Mr. Yollop puffed reflectively for awhile, pondering the situation. "Well, suppose you remove one foot at a time, Cassius. As soon it is fairly well rested, put it back again and then take the other one out for a spell,—and so on. Half a loaf is better than no loaf at all."
Smilk withdrew his left foot from its drawer and sighed gratefully.
"As I was sayin'," he resumed, "if we could only put some kind of a curb on these here tender-hearted boobs—and boobesses—the world would be a much better place to live in. The way it is now, nine tenths of the fellers up in Sing Sing never know when they'll have to pack up and leave, and it's a constant strain on the nerves, I tell you. There seems to be a well-organized movement to interfere with the personal liberty of criminals, Mr. Poppup. These here sentimental reformers take it upon themselves to say whether a feller shall stay in prison or not. First, they come up there and pick out some poor helpless feller and say 'it's a crime to keep a good-lookin', intelligent boy like you in prison, so we're going to get you out on parole and make an honest, upright citizen of you. We're going to get you a nice job',—and so on and so forth. Well, before he knows it, he's out and has to put up a bluff of workin' for a livin'. Course, he just has to go to stealin' again. It makes him sore when he thinks of the good, honest life he was leadin' up there in the pen, with nothin' to worry about, satisfactory hours, plenty to eat, and practically divorced from his wife without havin' to go through the mill. If my calculations are correct, more than fifty per cent of the crime that's bein' committed these days is the work of paroled convicts who depended on the law to protect and support them for a given period of time. And does the law protect them? It does not. It allows a lot of pinheads to interfere with it, and what's the answer? A lot of poor devils are forced to go out and risk their lives tryin' to—"
"Just a moment, please," interrupted Mr. Yollop. "You are talking a trifle too fast, Cassius. Moderate your speed a little. Before we go any further, I would like to be set straight on one point. Do you mean to tell me that you actually prefer being in prison?"
"Well, now, that's a difficult question to answer," mused Mr. Smilk. "Sometimes I do and sometimes I don't. It's sort of like being married, I suppose. Sometimes you're glad you're married and sometimes you wish to God you wasn't. Course, I've only been married three or four times, and I've been in the pen six times, one place or another, so I guess I'm not what you'd call an unbiased witness. I seem to have a leanin' toward jail,—about three to one in favor of jail, you might say, with the odds likely to be increased pretty shortly if all goes well. Do you mind if I change drawers?"
"Eh! Oh, I see. Go ahead."
Mr. Smilk put his right foot back into its drawer and withdrew the left.
"Gets you right across this tendon on the back of your ankle," he said. "Now, you take the daily life of the average laboring man," he went on earnestly. "What does he get out of it? Nothin' but expenses. The only thing that don't cost him something is work. And all the time he's at work his expenses are goin' on just the same, pilin' up durin' his absence from home. Rent, food, fuel, light, doctor, liquor, clothes, shoes,—everything pilin' up on him while he's workin' for absolutely nothin' between pay days. The only time he gets anything for his work is on pay day. The rest of the time he's workin' for nothin', week in and week out. Say he works forty-four hours a week. When does he get his pay? While he's workin'? Not much. He has to work over time anywhere from fifteen minutes to half an hour—on his own time, mind you—standin' in line to get his pay envelope. And then when he gets it, what does he have to do? He has to go home and wonder how the hell he's goin' to get through the next week with nothin' but carfare to go on after his wife has told him to come across. Now you take a convict. He hasn't an expense in the world. Free grub, free bed, free doctor, free clothes,—he could have free liquor if the keepers would let his friends bring it in,—and his hours ain't any longer than any union man's hours. He don't have to pay dues to any labor union, he don't have to worry about strikes or strike benefits, he don't give a whoop what Gompers or anybody else says about Gary, and he don't care a darn whether the working man gets his beer or whether the revenue officers get it. He—"
"Wait a second, please. Just as a matter of curiosity, Cassius, I'd like to know what your views are on prohibition."
"Are you thinkin' of askin' me if I'll have something to drink?" inquired Mr. Smilk craftily.
"What has that to do with it?"
"A lot," said Mr. Smilk, with decision.
"Do you approve of prohibition?"
"I do," said the rogue. "In moderation."
"Well, as soon as the police arrive I'll open a bottle of Scotch. In the meantime go ahead with your very illuminating dissertation. I am beginning to understand why crime is so attractive, so alluring. I am almost able to see why you fellows like to go to the penitentiary."
"If you could only get shut up for a couple of years, Mr. Wollop, you'd appreciate just what has been done in the last few years to make us fellers like it. You wouldn't believe how much the reformers have done to induce us to come back as soon as possible. They give us all kinds of entertainment, free of charge. Three times a week we have some sort of a show, generally a band concert, a movin' picture show and a vaudeville show. Then, once a month they bring up some crackin' good show right out of a Broadway theater to make us forget that it's Sunday and we'll have to go to work the next morning. Scenery and costumes and everything and—and—" Here Mr. Smilk showed signs of blubbering, a weakness that suddenly gave way to the most energetic indignation. "Why, doggone it, every time I think of what that woman done to me, I could bite a nail in two. If it hadn't been for—"
"Woman? What woman?"
"The woman that got me paroled out. She got I don't know how many people to sign a petition, sayin' I was a fine feller and all that kind o' bunk, and all I needed was a chance to show the world how honest I am and—why, of course, I was honest. How could I help bein' honest up there? What's eatin' the darn fools? The only thing you can steal up there is a nap, and you got to be mighty slick if you want to do that, they watch you so close. But do you know what's going on in this country right now, Mr. Popple? There's a regular organized band of law-breakers operating from one end of the nation to the other. We're tryin' to bust it up, but it's a tough job. The best way to reform a reformer is to rob him. The minute he finds out he's been robbed he turns over a new leaf and begins to beller like a bull about how rotten the police are. Ninety nine times out of a hundred he quits his cussed interferin' with the law and becomes a decent, law-observin' citizen. Our scheme is to get busy as soon as we've been turned loose and while our so-called benefactors are still rejoicin' over havin' snatched a brand from the burnin', we up and show 'em the error of their ways. First offenders get off fairly easy. We simply sneak in and take their silver and some loose jewelry. The more hardened they are, the worse we treat 'em. Ring leaders some times get beat up so badly it's impossible to identify 'em at the morgue. But in time we'll smash the gang, and then if a feller goes up for ten, twenty or even thirty years he'll know there's no underhanded work goin' on and he can settle down to an honest life. The only way to stop crime in this country, Mr. Yollop, is to—"
"Thank you."
"—is to make EVERYBODY respect the law. And with conditions so pleasant and so happy in the prison I want to tell you there's nobody in the country that respects and admires the law more than we do,—'specially us fellers that remember what the penitentiaries used to be like a few years ago when conditions were so tough that most of us managed to earn an honest livin' outside sooner than run the risk of gettin' sent up." He sighed deeply. Then with a trace of real solicitude in his manner: "Are your feet warm yet?"
"Warm as toast. Your discourse, Cassius, has moved me deeply. Perhaps it would comfort you to call up police headquarters again and tell 'em to hurry along?"
"Wouldn't be a bad idea," said Mr. Smilk. He took down the receiver. Presently: "Police headquarters? ... How about sending over to 418 Sagamore for that burglar I was speakin' to you about recently? ... Sure, he's here yet. ... The same name I gave you earlier in the evening. ... Spell it yourself. You got it written down on a pad right there in front of you, haven't you? ... Say, if you don't get somebody around here pretty quick, I'm goin' to call up two or three of the newspaper offices and have 'em send—... All right. See that you do." Turning to Mr. Yollop, he said: "The police are a pretty decent lot when you get to know 'em, Mr. Yollop. They do their share towards enforcin' the law. They do their best to get us the limit. The trouble is, they got to fight tooth and nail against almost everybody that ain't on the police force. Specially jurymen. There ain't a juryman in New York City that wants to believe a policeman on oath. He'd sooner believe a crook, any day. And sometimes the judges are worse than the juries. A pal of mine, bein' in considerable of a hurry to get back home one very cold winter, figured that if he went up and plead guilty before a judge he'd save a lot of time. Well, sir, the doggone judge looked him over for a minute or two, and suddenly, out of a clear sky, asked him if he had a family,—and when he acknowledged, being an honest though ignorant guy, that he had a wife and three children, the judge said, if he'd promise to go out and earn a livin' for them he'd let him off with a suspended sentence, and before he had a chance to say he'd be damned if he'd make any such fool promise, the bailiff hustled him out the runway and told him to 'beat it'. He had to go out and slug a poor old widow woman and rob her of all the money she'd saved since her husband died—say, that reminds me. I got a favor I'd like to ask of you, Mr. Yollop."
"I'm inclined to grant almost any favor you may ask," said Mr. Yollop, sympathetically. "I know how miserable you must feel, Cassius, and how hard life is for you. Do you want me to shoot you?"
"No, I don't," exclaimed Mr. Smilk hastily. "I want you to take my roll of bills and hide it before the police come. That ain't much to ask, is it?"
"Bless my soul! How extraordinary!"
"There's something over six hundred dollars in the roll," went on Cassius confidentially. "It ain't that I'm afraid the cops will grab it for themselves, understand. But, you see, it's like this. The first thing the judge asks you when you are arraigned is whether you got the means to employ a lawyer. If you ain't, he appoints some one and it don't cost you a cent. Now, if I go down to the Tombs with all this money, why, by gosh, it will cost me just that much to get sent to Sing Sing, 'cause whatever you've got in the shape of real money is exactly what your lawyer's fee will be, and it don't seem sensible to spend all that money to get sent up when you can obtain the same result for nothin'. Ain't that so?"
"It sounds reasonable, Cassius. You appear to be a thrifty as well as an honest fellow. But, may I be permitted to ask what the devil you are doing with six hundred dollars on your person while actively engaged in the pursuit of your usual avocation? Why didn't you leave it at home?"
"Home? My God, man, don't you know it ain't safe these days to have a lot of money around the house? With all these burglaries going on? Not on your life. Even if I had had all this dough when I left home to-night, I wouldn't have taken any such chance as leavin' it there. The feller I'm roomin' with is figurin' on turning over a new leaf; he's thinkin' of gettin' married for five or six months and I don't think he could stand temptation."
"Do you mean to say, you acquired your roll after leaving home tonight, eh?"
"To be perfectly honest with you, Mr. Moppup, I—"
"Yollop, please."
"—Yollop, I found this money in front of a theater up town,—just after the police nabbed a friend of mine who had frisked some guy of his roll and had to drop it in a hurry."
"And you want me to keep it for you till you are free again,—is that it?"
"Just as soon as the trial is over and I get my sentence, I'll send a pal of mine around to you with a note and you can turn it over to him. All I'm after, is to keep some lawyer from gettin'—"
"What would you say, Cassius, if I were to tell you that I am a lawyer?"
"I'd say you're a darned fool to confess when you don't have to," replied Mr. Smilk succinctly.
Mr. Yollop chuckled. "Well, I'm not a lawyer. Nevertheless, I must decline to act as a depository for your obviously ill-gotten gains."
"Gee, that's tough," lamented Mr. Smilk. "Wouldn't you just let me drop it behind something or other,—that book case over there say,—and I'll promise to send for it some night when you're out,—"
"No use, Cassius," broke in Mr. Yollop, firmly. "I'm deaf to your entreaties. Permit me to paraphrase a very well-known line. 'None so deaf as him who will not hear.'"
"If I speak very slowly and distinctly don't you think you could hear me if I was to offer to split the wad even with you,—fifty-fifty,—no questions asked?" inquired Cassius, rather wistfully.
"See here," exclaimed Mr. Yollop, irritably; "you got me in this position and I want you to get me out of it. While I've been squatting here listening to you, they've both gone to sleep and I'm hanged if I can move 'em. I never would have dreamed of sitting on them if you hadn't put the idea into my head, confound you."
"Let 'em hang down for a while," suggested Mr. Smilk. "That'll wake 'em up."
"Easier said than done," snapped the other. He managed, however, to get his benumbed feet to the floor and presently stood up on them. Mr. Smilk watched him with interest as he hobbled back and forth in front of the desk. "They'll be all right in a minute or two. By Jove, I wish my sister could have heard all you've been saying about prisons and paroles and police. I ought to have had sense enough to call her. She's asleep at the other end of the hall."
"I hate women," growled Mr. Smilk. "Ever since that pie-faced dame got me chucked out of Sing Sing,—say, let me tell you something else she done to me. She gave me an address somewhere up on the East Side and told me to come and see her as soon as I got out. Well, I hadn't been out a week when I went up to see her one night,—or, more strictly speakin', one morning about two o'clock. What do you think? It was an empty house, with a 'for rent' sign on it. I found out the next day she'd moved a couple of weeks before and had gone to some hotel for the winter because it was impossible to keep any servants while this crime wave is goin' on. The janitor told me she'd had three full sets of servants stole right out from under her nose by female bandits over on Park Avenue. I don't suppose I'll ever have another chance to get even with her. Everything all set to bind and gag her, and maybe rap her over the bean a couple of times and—say, can you beat it for rotten luck? She—she double-crossed me, that's what she—"
A light, hesitating rap on the library door interrupted Mr. Smilk's bitter reflection.