eAPACHES 
 OF NEWYORK 
 
 ALFRED HENRY LEWIS
 
 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 UNIV::F<SITY OF 
 C/UIF OHNIA 
 
 SAN DIEGO
 
 The 
 
 Apaches of New York 
 
 BY 
 
 ALFRED HENRY LEWIS 
 
 Author of Wolfville, " " The Boss, " * Peggy O AW, 
 " The Sunset Trail," "The Throwback, " 
 " The Story of Paul Jones," etc. 
 
 M. A. DONOHUE & COMPANY 
 
 CHICAGO NEW YORK
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1912, BY 
 
 G. W. DILLINGHAM COMPANY 
 
 Entered at Stationers Hall 
 
 London 
 
 The Apaches of New York 
 
 Made in U. S. A.
 
 TO 
 
 ARTHUR WEST LITTLE
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 These stories are true in name and time and place. 
 None of them in its incident happened as far away 
 as three years ago. They were written to show you 
 how the other half live in New York. I had them 
 direct from the veracious lips of the police. The 
 gangsters themselves contributed sundry details. 
 
 You will express amazement as you read that 
 they carry so slight an element of Sing Sing and 
 the Death Chair. Such should have been no doubt 
 the very proper and lawful climax of more than one 
 of them, and would were it not for what differences 
 subsist between a moral and a legal certainty. The 
 police know many things they cannot prove in court, 
 the more when the question at bay concerns inti 
 mately, for life or death, a society where the 
 "snitch" is an abomination and to "squeal" the sin 
 gle great offense. 
 
 Besides, you are not to forget the politician, who 
 in defense of a valuable repeater palsies police effort 
 with the cold finger of his interference. With 
 apologies to that order, the three links of the Odd- 
 Fellows are an example of the policeman, the crim 
 inal and the politician. The latter is the middle link,
 
 PREFACE 
 
 and holds the other two together while keeping them 
 apart. 
 
 ALFRED HENRY LEWIS. 
 NEW YORK CITY, Dec. 22, 1911.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 I. EAT- EM-UP JACK 9 
 
 II. THE BABY S FINGERS ...... 26 
 
 III. How PIOGGI WENT TO ELMIRA . r ., 51 
 
 IV. IKE THE BLOOD ........ 68 
 
 V. INDIAN LOUIE ....... 89 
 
 VI. How JACKEEN SLEW THE Doc . .117 
 
 VII. LEONI THE TROUBLE MAKER . . . 136 
 
 VIII. THE WAGES OF THE SNITCH . . .155 
 
 IX. LITTLE Bow KUM 181 
 
 X. THE COOKING OF CRAZY BUTCH . . 199 
 
 XI. BIG MIKE ABRAMS ...... 222 
 
 XII. THE GOING OF BIFF ELLISON . . .251
 
 The Apaches of New York 
 
 i. 
 
 EAT- EM-UP JACK 
 
 Chick Tricker kept a house of call at One Hun 
 dred and Twenty-eight Park Row. There he sold 
 strong drink, wine and beer, mostly beer, and the 
 thirsty sat about at sloppy tables and enjoyed them 
 selves. When night came there was music, and those 
 who would and could arose and danced. One 
 Hundred and Twenty-eight Park Row was in re 
 cent weeks abolished. The Committee of Fourteen, 
 one of those restless moral influences so common in 
 New York, complained to the Powers of Excise and 
 had the license revoked. 
 
 It was a mild February evening. The day shift 
 had gone off watch at One Hundred and Twenty- 
 eight, leaving the night shift in charge, and all 
 things running smoothly Tricker decided upon an 
 evening out. It might have been ten o clock when, 
 in deference to that decision, he stepped into the 
 street. It was commencing to snow flakes as big 
 
 9
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 and soft and clinging as a baby s hand. Not that 
 Tricker hardy soul much minded snow. 
 
 Tricker, having notions about meeting Indian 
 Louie, swung across to Roosevelt Street. Dodging 
 down five steps, he opened the door of a dingy wine- 
 cellar. It was the nesting-place of a bevy of street 
 musicians, a dozen of whom were scattered about, 
 quaffing chianti. Their harps, fiddles and hand- 
 organs had been chucked into corners, and a general 
 air of relaxation pervaded the scene. The room was 
 blue with smoke, rich in the odor of garlic, and, 
 since the inmates all talked at once, there arose a 
 prodigious racket. 
 
 Near where Tricker seated himself reposed a 
 hand-organ. Crouched against it was a little, mouse- 
 hued monkey, fast asleep. The day s work had told 
 on him. Fatigued of much bowing and scraping for 
 coppers, the diminutive monkey slept soundly. Not 
 all the hubbub served to shake the serene profundity 
 of his dreams. 
 
 Tricker idly gave the handle of the organ a twist. 
 Perhaps three notes were elicited. It was enough. 
 The little monkey was weary, but he knew the voice 
 and heard in it a trumpet-call to duty. With the 
 earliest squeak he sprang up winking, blinking 
 and, doffing his small red hat, began begging for 
 pennies. Tricker gave him a dime, not thinking it 
 right to disturb his slumbers for nothing. The 
 mouse-hued one tucked it away in some recondite 
 
 10
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 pocket of his scanty jacket, and then, the organ hav 
 ing lapsed into silence, curled up for another snooze. 
 
 Tricker paid for his glass of wine, and since he 
 saw nothing of Indian Louie, and as a source of in 
 terest had exhausted the monkey lounged off into 
 the dark. 
 
 In Chatham Square Tricker met a big-chested 
 policeman. Tricker knew the policeman, having en 
 countered him officially. As the latter strutted 
 along, a small, mustard-colored dog came crouching 
 at his heels. 
 
 "What s the dog for?" Tricker asked. 
 
 Being in an easv mood, the trivial possessed a 
 charm. 
 
 The policeman bent upon the little dog a benign 
 eye. The little dog glanced up shyly, wagging a 
 wistful tail. 
 
 "He s lost," vouchsafed the policeman, "and he s 
 put it up to me to find out where he lives." He ex 
 plained that all lost dogs make hot-foot for the near 
 est policeman. "They know what a cop is for," said 
 the big-chested one. Then, to the little dog: "Come 
 on, my son; we ll land you all right yet." 
 
 Tricker continued his stroll. At Doyers Street 
 and the Bowery he entered Barney Flynn s. There 
 were forty customers hanging about. These loi 
 terers were panhandlers of low degree; they were 
 beneath the notice of Tricker, who was a purple 
 patrician of the gangs. One of them could have 
 
 11
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 lived all day on a quarter. It meant bed ten cents 
 and three glasses of beer, each with a free lunch 
 which would serve as a meal. Bowery beer is sold 
 by the glass ; but the glass holds a quart. The Bow 
 ery has refused to be pinched by the beer trust. 
 
 In Flynn s was the eminent Chuck Connors, his 
 head on his arm and his arm on a table. Intoxi 
 cated? Perish the thought! Merely taking his 
 usual forty winks after dinner, which repast had 
 consisted of four beef-stews. Tricker gave him a 
 facetious thump on the back, but he woke in a 
 bilious mood, full of haughtiness and cold reserve. 
 
 There is a notable feature in Flynn s. The East 
 Side is in its way artistic. Most of the places are 
 embellished with pictures done on the walls, presum 
 ably by the old monsters of the Police News. On 
 the rear wall of Flynn s is a portrait of Washington 
 on a violent white horse. The Father of his Coun 
 try is in conventional blue and buff, waving a 
 vehement blade. 
 
 "Who is it?" demanded Proprietor Flynn of the 
 artist, when first brought to bay by the violent one 
 on the horse. 
 
 "Who is it?" retorted the artist indignantly. 
 "Who should it be but Washin ton. the Father of 
 his Country?" 
 
 "Washin ton?" repeated Flynn. "Who s Wash 
 in ton?" 
 
 "Don t you know who Washin ton is ? Say, you 
 12
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 ought to go to night school ! Washin ton s th duck 
 who frees this country from th English." 
 
 "An he bate th English, did he? I can well be- 
 lave it ! Yez can see be th face of him he s a brave 
 man." Then, following a rapt silence: "Say, I ll 
 tell ye what! Paint me a dead Englishman right 
 down there be his horse s fut, an I ll give ye foor 
 dollars more." 
 
 The generous offer was accepted, and the fore 
 ground enriched with a dead grenadier. 
 
 Coming out of Flynn s, Tricker went briefly into 
 the Chinese Theater. The pig-tailed audience, sit 
 ting on the backs of the chairs with their feet in the 
 wooden seats, were enjoying the performance 
 hugely. Tricker listened to the dialogue but a mo 
 ment; it was unsatisfactory and sounded like a cat- 
 fight. 
 
 In finding his way out of Doyers Street, Tricker 
 stopped for a moment in a little doggery from which 
 came the tump-tump of a piano and the scuffle of a 
 dance. The room, not thirty feet long, was cut in 
 two by a ramshackle partition. On the grimy wall 
 hung a placard which carried this moderate warn 
 ing: 
 
 13
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 
 No discussion of 
 
 POLITICS 
 
 or 
 
 RELIGION 
 
 Allowed. Xkis goes! 
 
 
 The management seemed to be in the hands of a 
 morose personage, as red as a boiled lobster, who 
 acted behind the bar. The piano was of that flat, 
 tin-pan tone which bespeaks the veteran. It was 
 drummed upon by a bleary virtuoso, who at sight 
 of Tricker for whose favor he yearned began 
 banging forth a hurly-burly that must have set on 
 edge the teeth of every piano in the vicinity. The 
 darky who was dancing redoubled his exertions. Al 
 together, Tricker s entrance was not without eclat. 
 Not that he seemed impressed as, flinging himself 
 into a chair, he listlessly called for apollinaris. 
 
 "What do youse pay him?" asked Tricker of the 
 boiled barkeeper, indicating as he did so the hard 
 working colored person. 
 
 "Pad-money!" with a slighting glance. "Pad- 
 money; an it s twict too much." 
 
 14
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 Pad-money means pay for a bed. 
 
 "Well, I should say so!" coincided Tricker, with 
 the weary yet lofty manner of one who is a judge. 
 
 In one corner were two women and a trio of men. 
 The men were thieves of the cheap grade known as 
 lush-workers. These beasts of prey lie about the 
 East Side grog shops, and when some sailor ashore 
 leaves a place, showing considerable slant, they tail 
 him and take all he has. They will plunder their 
 victim in sight of a whole street. No one will tell. 
 The first lesson of Gangland is never to inform nor 
 p;ive evidence. One who does is called snitch ; and 
 J .he wages of the snitch is death. The lush-workers 
 pay a percentage of their pillage, to what saloons 
 they infest, for the privilege of lying in wait. 
 
 Tricker pointed to the younger of the two women 
 about eighteen, she was. 
 
 "Two years ago," said Tricker, addressing the 
 boiled barman, "I had her pinched an turned over 
 to the Aid Society. She s so young I thought mebby 
 they could save her." 
 
 "Save her !" repeated the boiled one in weary dis 
 gust. "Youse can t save em. I used to try that 
 meself. That was long ago. Now" tossing his 
 hand with a resigned air "now, whenever I see a 
 skirt who s goin to hell, I pay her fare." 
 
 One of the three men was old and gray of hair. 
 He used to be a gonoph, and had worked the rattlers 
 and ferries in his youth. But he got settled a couple 
 
 15
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 of times, and it broke his nerve. There is an age 
 limit in pocket-picking. No pickpocket is good after 
 he passes forty years; so far, Dr. Osier was right. 
 Children from twelve to fourteen do the best work. 
 Their hands are small and steady; their confidence 
 has not been shaken by years in prison. There are 
 twenty New York Fagins the police use the Dick 
 ens name training children to pick pockets. These 
 Fagins have dummy subjects faked up, their gar 
 ments covered with tiny bells. The pockets are 
 filled watch, purse, card-case, handkerchief, gloves. 
 Not until a pupil can empty every pocket, without 
 ringing a bell, is he fit to go out into the world and 
 look for boobs. 
 
 "If Indian Louie shows up," remarked Tricker to 
 the boiled-lobster barman, as he made ready to go, 
 "tell him to blow round tomorry evenin to One 
 Hundred and Twenty-eight." 
 
 Working his careless way back to the Bowery, 
 Tricker strolled north to where that historic thor 
 oughfare merges into Third Avenue. In Great 
 Jones Street, round the corner from Third Avenue, 
 Paul Kelly kept the New Brighton. Tricker de 
 cided to look in casually upon this hall of mirth, and 
 as one interested study trade conditions. True, 
 there \vas a coolness between himself and Kelly, 
 albeit, both being of the Five Points, they were of 
 the same tribe. What then? As members of the 
 gang nobility, had they not won the right to nurse 
 
 16
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 a private feud? De Bracy and Bois Guilbert were 
 both Crusaders, and yet there is no record of any 
 lost love between them. 
 
 In the roll of gang honor Kelly s name was writ 
 ten high. Having been longer and more explosively 
 before the public, his fame was even greater than 
 Tricker s. There was, too, a profound background 
 of politics to the New Brighton. It was strong with 
 Tammany Hall, and, per incident, in right with the 
 police. For these double reasons of Kelly s fame, 
 and that atmosphere of final politics which invested 
 it, the New Brighton was deeply popular. Every 
 foot of dancing floor was in constant demand, while 
 would-be merry-makers, crowded off for want of 
 room, sat in a triple fringe about the walls. 
 
 Along one side of the dancing room was ranged 
 a row of tables. A young person, just struggling 
 into gang notice, relinquished his chair at one of 
 these to Tricker. This was in respectful recognition 
 of the exalted position in Gangland held by Tricker. 
 Tricker unbent toward the young person in a toler 
 ant nod, and accepted his submissive politeness as 
 though doing him a favor. Tricker was right. His 
 notice, even such as it was, graced and illustrated 
 the polite young person in the eyes of all who be 
 held it, and identified him as one of whom the fu 
 ture would hear. 
 
 Every East Side dance hall has a sheriff, who acts 
 as floor manager and settles difficult questions of 
 
 17
 
 "THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 propriety. It often happens that, in an excess of 
 ardor and a paucity of room, two couples in their 
 dancing seek to. occupy the same space on the floor. 
 He who makes two blades of grass grow where but 
 one grew before, may help his race and doubtless 
 does. The rule, however, stops with grass and does 
 not reach to dancing. He who tries to make two 
 couples dance, where only one had danced before, 
 but lays the bed-plates of a riot. Where all the gen 
 tlemen are spirited, and the ladies even more so, 
 the result is certain in its character, and in no wise 
 hard to guess. Wherefore the dance hall sheriff is 
 not without a mission. Likewise his honorable post 
 is full of peril, and he must be of the stern ore from 
 which heroes are forged. 
 
 The sheriff of the New Brighton was Eat- Em- 
 Up-Jack McManus. He had been a prize-fighter of 
 more or less inconsequence, but a liking for mixed 
 ale and a difficulty in getting to weight had long 
 before cured him of that. He had won his nom de 
 guerre on the battle-field, where good knights were 
 wont to win their spurs. Meeting one of whose con 
 duct he disapproved, he had criticized the offender 
 with his teeth, and thereafter was everywhere hailed 
 as Eat- Em-Up-Jack. 
 
 Eat- Em-Up-Jack wore his honors modestly, as 
 great souls ever do, and there occurred nothing at 
 the New Brighton to justify that re-baptism. There 
 he preserved the proprieties with a black-jack, and 
 
 18
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 never once brought his teeth into play. Did some 
 boor transgress, Eat- Em-Up- Jack collared him, and 
 cast him into the outer darkness of Great Jones 
 Street. If the delinquent foolishly resisted, Eat- 
 Em-Up-Jack emphasized that dismissal with his 
 boot. In extreme instances he smote upon him with 
 a black-jack ever worn ready on his wrist, al 
 though delicately hidden, when not upon active ser 
 vice, in his coat sleeve. 
 
 Tricker, drinking seltzer and lemon, sat watch 
 ing the dancers as they swept by. He himself was 
 of too grave a cast to dance; it would have mis 
 matched with his position. 
 
 Eat- Em-Up-Jack, who could claim social eleva 
 tion by virtue of his being sheriff, came and stood 
 by Tricker s table. The pair greeted one another. 
 Their manner, while marked of a careful courtesy, 
 was distant and owned nothing of warmth. The 
 feuds of Kelly were the feuds of Eat- Em-Up- Jack, 
 and the latter knew that Tricker and Kelly stood not 
 as brothers. 
 
 As Eat- Em-Up- Jack paused by Tricker s table, 
 passing an occasional remark with that visitor from 
 Park Row, Bill Harrington with Goldie Cora 
 whirled by on the currents of the Beautiful Blue 
 Danube. Tricker s expert tastes rejected with dis 
 favor the dancing of Goldie Cora. 
 
 "I don t like the way she t rows her feet," he said. 
 
 Now Goldie Cora was the belle of the New Brigh- 
 19
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 ton. Moreover, Eat- Em-Up- Jack liked the way she 
 threw her feet, and was honest in his admiration. 
 As much might be said of Harrington, who had 
 overheard Tricker s remark. Eat- Em-Up- Jack, de 
 fending his own judgment, declared that Goldie 
 Cora was the sublimation of grace, and danced like 
 a leaf in a puff of wind. He closed by discrediting 
 not only the opinion but the parentage of Tricker, 
 and advised him to be upon his way lest worse hap 
 pen him. 
 
 "Beat it, before I bump me black-jack off your 
 bean !" was the way it was sternlv put by Eat- Em- 
 Up-Jack. 
 
 Tricker, cool and undismayed, waved his hand as 
 though brushing aside a wearisome insect. 
 
 "Can that black-jack guff," he retorted. "Un er- 
 stan ; your bein a fighter don t get youse nothin 
 wit me!" 
 
 Harrington came up. Having waltzed the en 
 tire length of the Beautiful Blue Danube, he had 
 abandoned Goldie Cora, and was now prepared to 
 personally resent the imputation inherent in 
 Tricker s remark anent that fair one s feet. 
 
 "He don t like the way you t row your feet, eh? 
 I ll make him like it." 
 
 Thus spake Harrington to Goldie Cora, as he 
 turned from her to seek out Tricker. 
 
 No, Gangland is not so ceremonious as to demand 
 that you lead the lady to a seat. Dance ended, it is 
 
 20
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 good form to leave her sticking in the furrow, even 
 as a farmer might his plow, and walk away. 
 
 Harrington bitterly added his views to Eat- Em- 
 Up-Jack s, and something was said about croaking 
 Tricker then and there. The threats of Harrington, 
 as had those of Eat- Em-Up-Jack, glanced off the 
 cool surface of Tricker like the moon s rays off a 
 field of ice. He was sublimely indifferent, and 
 didn t so much as get off his chair. Only his right 
 hand stole under his coat-skirt in an unmistakable 
 way. 
 
 "Why, you big stiff! w at be youse tryin to give 
 me?" was his only separate notice of Harrington. 
 Then, to both : "Unless you guys is lookin to give 
 th coroner a job, youse won t start nothin here. 
 Take it from me that, w en I m bounced out of a 
 dump like this, the bouncin 11 come off in th 
 smoke." 
 
 Eat- Em-Up-Jack, being neither so quick nor so 
 eloquent as Tricker, could only retort, "That s all 
 right ! I ll hand you yours before I m done !" 
 
 Harrington, after his first outbreak, said nothing, 
 being privily afraid of Tricker, and more or less 
 held by the spell of his fell repute. Eat- Em-Up- 
 Jack, who feared no man, was kept in check by his 
 obligations as sheriff that, and a sense of duty. 
 True, the situation irked him sorely; he felt as 
 though he were in handcuffs. But the present was 
 no common case. Tricker would shoot ; and a hail 
 
 21
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 of lead down the length of the dancing floor meant 
 loss in dollars and cents. This last was something 
 which Kelly, always a business man and liking 
 money, would be the first to condemn and the last 
 to condone. It would black-eye the place ; since few 
 care to dance where the ballroom may become a 
 battle-field and bullets zip and sing. 
 
 "If it was only later!" said Eat- Em-Up Jack, 
 wistfully. 
 
 "Later?" retorted Tricker. "That s easy. You 
 close at one, an that s ten minutes from now. Let 
 the mob make its getaway; an after that youse 
 ducks 11 find me waitin round the corner in Thoid 
 Avenue." 
 
 Tricker, manner nonchalant to the point of insult, 
 loitered to the door, pausing on his way to take a 
 leisurely drink at the bar. 
 
 "You dubs," he called back, as he stepped out 
 .nto Great Jones Street, "better bring your gatts !" 
 
 Gatts is East Sidese for pistols. 
 
 Harrington didn t like the looks of things. He 
 was sorry, he said, addressing Eat- Em-Up- Jack, but 
 he wouldn t be able to accompany him to that Third 
 Avenue tryst. He must see Goldie Cora home. The 
 Police had just issued an order, calculated invidiously 
 to inconvenience and annoy every lady found in the 
 streets after midnight unaccompanied by an escort. 
 
 Eat- Em-Up- Jack hardly heard him. Personally 
 he wouldn t have turned hand or head to have had
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 the company of a dozen Harringtons. Eat- Em-Up- 
 Jack, while lacking many things, lacked not at all in 
 heart. 
 
 The New Brighton closed in due time. Eat- Em- 
 Up-Jack waited until sure the junction of Great 
 Jones Street and Third Avenue was quite deserted. 
 As he came round the corner, gun in hand, Tricker 
 watchful as a cat stepped out of a stairway. 
 There was a blazing, rattling fusillade twelve shots 
 in all. When the shooting was at an end, Eat- Em- 
 Up-Jack had vanished. Tricker, save for a reason, 
 would have followed his vanishing example; there 
 was a bullet embedded in the calf of his leg. 
 
 Tricker hopped painfully into a stairway, where 
 he might have advantage of the double gloom. He 
 had lighted a cigarette, and was coolly leaning 
 against the entrance, when two policemen came fun 
 ning up. 
 
 "What was that shooting?" demanded one. 
 
 "Oh, a couple of geeks started to hand it to each 
 other," was Tricker s careless reply. 
 
 "Did either get hurt?" 
 
 "One of em cops it in th leg. Th other blew." 
 
 "What became of the one who s copped?" 
 
 "Oh, him? He hops into one of th stairways 
 along here." 
 
 The officers didn t see the spreading pool of blood 
 near Tricker s foot. They hurried off to make a
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 ransack of the stairways, while Tricker hobbled out 
 to a cab he had signaled, and drove away. 
 
 Twenty-four hours later ! 
 
 Not a block from where he d fought his battle 
 with Tricker, Eat- Em-Up- Jack was walking in 
 Third Avenue. He was as lone as Lot s wife; for 
 he nourished misanthropic sentiments and discour 
 aged company. It was a moonless night and very 
 dark, the snow still coming down. What with the 
 storm and the hour, the streets were as empty as a 
 church. 
 
 As Eat- Em-Up- Jack passed the building farthest 
 from the corner lamp, a crouching figure stepped out 
 of the doorway. Had it been two o clock in the 
 afternoon, instead of two o clock in the morning, 
 you would have seen that he of the crouching figure 
 was smooth and dark-skinned as to face, and that his 
 blue-black hair had been cut after a tonsorial fashion 
 popular along the Bowery as the Guinea Lop. The 
 crouching one carried in his hand what seemed to be 
 a rolled-up newspaper. In that rolled-up paper lay 
 hidden a two-foot piece of lead pipe. 
 
 The crouching blue-black one crept after Eat- Em- 
 Up-Jack, making no more noise than a cat. He up 
 lifted the lead pipe, grasping it the while with both 
 hands. 
 
 Eat- Em-Up- Jack, as unaware of his peril as of 
 what was passing in the streets of Timbuctoo, 
 slouched heavily forward, deep in thought. Perhaps
 
 he was considering a misspent youth, and chances 
 thrown away. 
 
 The lead pipe came down. 
 
 There was a dull crash, and Eat- Em-Up- Jack 
 without word or cry fell forward on his face. 
 Blood ran from mouth and ears, and melted redly 
 into the snow. 
 
 The crouching blue-black one shrank back into the 
 stairway, and was seen no more. The street re 
 turned to utter emptiness. There remained only 
 the lifeless body of Eat- Em-Up- Jack. Nothing be 
 yond, save the softly falling veil of snow, with the 
 street lamps shining through.
 
 II. 
 
 THE BABY S FINGERS 
 
 It was a Central Office man who told me how the 
 baby lost its fingers. I like Central Office men ; they 
 live romances and have adventures. The man I 
 most shrink from is your dull, proper individual to 
 whom nothing happens. You have seen a hundred 
 such. Rigidly correct, they go uneventfully to and 
 fro upon their little respectable tracks. Evenings, 
 from the safe yet severe vantage of their little re 
 spectable porches, they pass judgment upon human 
 ity from across the front fence. After which, they 
 go inside and weary their wives with their tasteless, 
 pale society, while those melancholy matrons ques 
 tion themselves, in a spirit of tacit despair, concern 
 ing the blessings of matrimony. In the end, first 
 thanking heaven that they are not as other men, they 
 retire to bed, to rise in the dawning and repeat the 
 history of every pulseless yesterday of their exist 
 ence. Nothing ever overtakes them that doesn t 
 overtake a clam. They are interesting, can be in 
 teresting, to no one save themselves. To talk with 
 one an hour is like being lost in the desert an hour. 
 I prefer people into whose lives intrudes some ele- 
 
 26
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 ment of adventure, and who, as they roll out of their 
 blankets in the morning, cannot give you, word and 
 minute, just what they will be saying and doing 
 every hour in the coming twelve. 
 
 My Central Office friend, in telling of the baby s 
 absent fingers, began by speaking of Johnny Span 
 ish. Spanish has been sent to prison for no less 
 than seven years. Dribben and Blum arrested him, 
 and when the next morning he was paraded at the 
 Central Office looking-over, the speech made upon 
 him by Commissioner Flynn set a resentful pulse 
 to beating in his swarthy cheek. 
 
 Not that Spanish had been arrested for the baby s 
 lost fingers. That story in the telling came later, 
 although the wrong it registered had happened 
 months before. Dribben and Blum picked him up 
 as a piece of work it did them credit for what 
 occurred in Mersher Miller s place. 
 
 As all the world knows, Mersher Miller, or as he 
 is called among his intimates, Mersher the Strong- 
 Arm, conducts a beer house at 171 Norfolk Street. 
 
 
 It was a placid April evening, and Mersher s brother, 
 as bottle-tosser, was busy behind the bar. Mersher 
 himself was not in, which for Mersher may or 
 may not have been greatly to the good. 
 
 Spanish came into the place. His hat was low- 
 drawn over his black eyes. Mersher s brother, wip 
 ing glasses, didn t know him. 
 
 "Where s Mersher?" asked Spanish. 
 27
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 "Not here," quoth Mersher s brother. 
 
 "You ll do," returned Spanish. "Give me ten 
 dollars out of the damper." 
 
 Mersher s brother held this proposal in finance 
 to be foolishly impossible, and was explicit on that 
 head. He insisted, not without scorn, that he was 
 the last man in the world to give a casual caller 
 ten dollars out of the damper or anything else. 
 
 "I ll be back," replied Spanish, "an 5 I bet then 
 you ll give me that ten-spot." 
 
 "That s Johnny Spanish," declared a bystander, 
 when Spanish, muttering his discontent, had gone 
 his threatening way. 
 
 Mersher s brother doubted it. He had heard of 
 Spanish, but had never seen him. It was his under 
 standing that Spanish was not in town at all, having 
 lammistered some time before. 
 
 "He s wanted be th cops," Mersher s brother 
 argued. "You don t suppose he s sucker enough to 
 walk into their mitts? He wouldn t dare show up 
 in town." 
 
 "Don t con yourself," replied the bystander, who 
 had a working knowledge of Gangland and its nota 
 bles. "That s Spanish, all right. He was out of 
 town, but not because of the bulls. It s the Dropper 
 he s leary of; an now th Dropper s in hock he s 
 chased back. You heard what he said about comin 
 round ag in ? Take my tip an rib yourself up wit 
 a rod. That Spanish is a tough kid !" 
 
 28
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 The evening wore on at Mersher s ; one hour, two 
 hours, three went peaceably by. The clock pointed 
 to eleven. 
 
 Without warning a lowering figure appeared at 
 the door. 
 
 "There he is!" exclaimed the learned bystander. 
 Then he added with a note of pride, albeit shaky 
 as to voice: "What did I tell youse?" 
 
 The figure in the doorway strode forward. It 
 was Spanish. A second figure hat over eyes - 
 followed hard on his heels. With a flourish, possi 
 ble only to the close student of Mr. Beadle s dime 
 literature, Spanish drew two Colt s pistols. 
 
 "Come through wit that ten!" said he to Mer 
 sher s brother. 
 
 Mersher s brother came through, and came 
 through swiftly. 
 
 "I thought so !" sneered Spanish, showing his side 
 teeth like a dog whose feelings have been hurt. 
 "Now come through wit th rest!" 
 
 Mersher s brother eagerly gave him the contents 
 of the cash drawer about eighty dollars. 
 
 Spanish, having pocketed the money, wheeled 
 upon the little knot of customers, who, after the 
 New York manner when crime is afoot, had stood 
 motionless with no thought of interfering. 
 
 "Hands up! Faces to the wall!" cried Spanish. 
 "Everybody s dough looks good to me to-night!" 
 
 The customers, acting in such concert diat it 
 29
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 seemed as though they d been rehearsed, hands held 
 high, turned their faces to the wall. 
 
 "You keep them covered," said Spanish to his 
 dark companion in arms, "while I go through em." 
 
 The dark companion leveled his own pistol in a 
 way calculated to do the most harm, and Spanish 
 reaped an assortment of cheap watches and a hand 
 ful of bills. 
 
 Spanish came round on Mersher s brother. The 
 latter had stooped down until his eyes were on a par 
 with the bar. 
 
 "Now," said Spanish to Mersher s brother, "I 
 might as well cook you. I ve no use for barkeeps, 
 anyway, an besides you re built like a pig an I 
 don t like your looks!" 
 
 Spanish began to shoot, and Mersher s brother 
 began to dodge. Ducking and dodging, the latter 
 ran the length of the bar, Spanish faithfully follow 
 ing with his bullets. There were two in the ice 
 box, two through the mirror, five in the top of the 
 bar. Each and all, they had been too late for Mer 
 sher s brother, who, pale as a candle, emerged from 
 the bombardment breathing heavily but untouched. 
 
 "An this," cried Ikey the pawnbroker, ten min 
 utes after Spanish had disappeared Ikey was out a 
 red watch and sixty dollars "an this iss vat 
 Mayor Gaynor calls outvard order an decency !" 
 
 It was upon the identification of the learned by 
 stander that Dribben and Blum went to work, and 
 
 30
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 it was for that stick-up in Mersher s the two made 
 the collar. 
 
 "It s lucky for you guys," said Spanish, his eye 
 sparkling venomously like the eye of a snake 
 "it s lucky for you guys that you got me wit out me 
 guns. I d have croaked one of you bulls sure, an 
 maybe both, an then took th Dutch way out me- 
 self." 
 
 The Dutch way out, with Spanish and his imme 
 diate circle, means suicide, it being a belief among 
 them that the Dutch are a melancholy brood, and 
 favor suicide as a means of relief when the burdens 
 of life become more than they can bear. 
 
 Spanish, however, did not have his gun when he 
 was pinched, and therefore did not croak Dribben 
 and Blum, and do the Dutch act for himself. Drib 
 ben and Blum are about their daily duties as thief 
 takers, as this is read, while Spanish is considering 
 nature from between the Sing Sing bars. Dribben 
 and Blum say that, even if Spanish had had his guns, 
 he would neither have croaked them nor come near 
 it, and in what bluffs he put up to that lethal effect 
 he was talking through his hat. For myself, I say 
 nothing, neither one way nor the other, except that 
 Dribben and Blum are bold and enterprising officers, 
 and Spanish is the very heart of quenchless despera 
 tion. 
 
 By word of my Central Office informant, Span 
 ish has seen twenty-two years and wasted most of 
 
 31
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 them. His people dwell somewhere in the wilds of 
 Long Island, and are as respectable as folk can be 
 on two dollars a day. Spanish did not live with his 
 people, preferring the city, where he cut a figure in 
 Suffolk, Norfolk, Forsyth, Hester, Grand, and 
 other East Side avenues. 
 
 At one time Spanish had a gallery number, and 
 his picture held an important place in Central Office 
 regard. It was taken out during what years the in 
 adequate Bingham prevailed as Commissioner of 
 Police. A row arose over a youth named Duffy, 
 who was esteemed by an eminent Judge. Duffy s pic 
 ture was in the gallery, and the judge demanded 
 its removal. It being inconvenient to refuse the 
 judge, young Duffy s picture was taken out; and 
 since to make fish of one while making flesh of 
 others might have invited invidious comment, some 
 hundreds of pictures among them that of Spanish 
 were removed at the same time. 
 
 It pleased Spanish vastly when his mug came out 
 of the gallery. Not that its presence there was cal 
 culated to hurt his standing; not but what it was 
 bound to go back as a certain incident of his method 
 of life. Its removal was a wound to police vanity; 
 and, hating the police, he found joy in whatsoever 
 served to wring their azure withers. 
 
 When, according to the rules of Bertillon, Span 
 ish was thumb-printed, mugged and measured, the 
 police described him on their books as Pickpocket 
 
 32
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 and Fagin. The police affirmed that he not only 
 worked the Broadway rattlers in his own improper 
 person, but paying a compliment to his genius for 
 organization that he had drawn about himself a 
 group of children and taught them to steal for his 
 sinful use. It is no more than truth to say, how 
 ever, that never in New York City was Spanish 
 convicted as either a Fagin or a pickpocket, and the 
 police as he charges may have given him these 
 titles as a cover for their ignorance, which some 
 insist is of as deep an indigo as the hue of their 
 own coats. 
 
 Spanish was about seventeen when he began mak 
 ing an East Side stir. He did not yearn to be re 
 spectable. He had borne witness to the hard work 
 ing respectability of his father and mother, and 
 remembered nothing as having come from it more 
 than aching muscles and empty pockets. Their 
 clothes were poor, their house was poor, their table 
 poor. Why should he fret himself with ideals of 
 the respectable? 
 
 Work? 
 
 It didn t pay. 
 
 In his blood, too, flowed malignant cross-currents, 
 which swept him towards idleness and all manner of 
 violences. 
 
 Nor did the lesson of the hour train him in self- 
 restraint. All over New York City, in Fifth Ave 
 nue, at the Five Points, the single cry was, Get the 
 
 33
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 Money ! The rich were never called upon to explain 
 their prosperity. The poor were forever being 
 asked to give some legal reason for their poverty. 
 Two men in a magistrate s court are fined ten dol 
 lars each. One pays, and walks free; the other 
 doesn t, and goes to the Island. Spanish sees, and 
 hears, and understands. 
 
 "Ah!" cries he, "that boob went to the Island not 
 for what he did but for not having ten bones!" 
 
 And the lesson of that thunderous murmur 
 reaching from the Battery to Kingsbridge of Get 
 the Money! rushes upon him; and he makes up his 
 mind to heed it. Also, there are uncounted scores 
 like Spanish, and other uncounted scores with bet 
 ter coats than his, who are hearing and seeing and 
 reasoning the same way. 
 
 Spanish stood but five feet three, and his place 
 was among the lightweights. Such as the Dropper, 
 who tilted the scales at 180, and whose name of 
 Dropper had been conferred upon him because 
 every time he hit a man he dropped him such as 
 Ike the Blood, as hard and heavy as the Dropper 
 and whose title of the Blood had not been granted 
 in any spirit of factitiousness laughed at him. 
 What matter that his heart was high, his courage 
 proof? Physically, he could do nothing with these 
 dangerous ones as big as dangerous! And so, 
 ferociously ready to even things up, he began pack 
 ing a rod. 
 
 34
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 While Spanish, proceeding as best he might by 
 his dim standards, was struggling for gang emi 
 nence and dollars, Alma, round, dark, vivacious, 
 eyes as deep and soft and black as velvet, was the 
 unchallenged belle of her Williamsburg set. Days 
 she worked as a dressmaker, without getting rich. 
 Nights she went to rackets, which are dances wide 
 open and unfenced. Sundays she took in picnics, 
 or rode up and down on the trolleys those tour 
 ing cars of the poor. 
 
 Spanish met Alma and worshipped her, for so 
 was the world made. Being thus in love, while be 
 fore he, Spanish, had only needed money, now he 
 had to have it. For love s price to a man is money, 
 just as its price to a woman is tears. 
 
 Casting about for ways and means, Spanish s 
 money-hunting eye fell upon Jigger. Jigger owned 
 a stuss-house in Forsyth Street, between Hester 
 and Grand. Jigger was prosperous beyond the 
 dreams of avarice. Multitudes, stabbing stuss, 
 thronged his temple of chance. As a quick, sure 
 way to amass riches, Spanish decided to become 
 Jigger s partner. Between them they would divide 
 the harvest of Forsyth Street stuss. 
 
 The golden beauty of the thought lit up the dark 
 face of Spanish with a smile that was like a splash 
 of vicious sunshine. Alma, in the effulgence of her 
 toilets, should overpower all rivalry! At rout and 
 racket, he, Spanish, would lead the hard walk with 
 
 35
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 her, and she should shine out upon Gangland fash 
 ion like a fire in a forest. 
 
 His soul having wallowed itself weary in these 
 visions, Spanish sought Jigger as a step towards 
 making the visions real. Spanish and his proposi 
 tion met with obstruction. Jigger couldn t see it, 
 wouldn t have it. 
 
 Spanish was neither astonished nor dismayed. He 
 had foreseen the Jiggerian reluctance, and was or 
 ganized to break it down. When Jigger declined 
 his proffered partnership in which he, Jigger, must 
 furnish the capital while Spanish contributed only 
 his avarice and asked, "Why should I ?" he, Span 
 ish, was ready with an answer. 
 
 "Why should you?" and Spanish repeated Jig 
 ger s question so that his reply might have double 
 force. "Because, if you don t, I ll bump youse off." 
 
 Gangland is so much like Missouri that you must 
 always be prepared to show it. Gangland takes 
 nothing on trust. And, if you try to run a bluff, it 
 calls you. Spanish wore a low-browed, sullen, sour 
 look. But he had killed no one, owned no dread 
 repute, and Jigger was used to sullen, sour, low 
 browed looks. Thus, when Spanish spoke of bump 
 ing Jigger off, that courtier of fortune, full of a 
 case-hardened scepticism, laughed low and long and 
 mockingly. He told the death-threatening Spanish 
 to come a-running. 
 
 Spanish didn t come a-running, but he came much 
 36
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 nearer it than Jigger liked. Crossing up with the 
 perverse Jigger the next evening, at the corner of 
 Forsyth and Grand, he opened upon that obstinate 
 stuss dealer with a Colt s-38. Jigger managed to 
 escape, but little Sadie Rotin, cetat eight, was killed. 
 Jigger, who was unarmed, could not return the fire. 
 Spanish, confused and flurried, doubtless, by the 
 poor result of his gun-play, betook himself to flight. 
 
 The police did not get Spanish; but in Gangland 
 the incident did him little good. At the Ajax Club, 
 and in other places where the best blood of the gangs 
 was wont to unbuckle and give opinions, such senti 
 ment-makers as the Dropper, Ike the Blood, Kid 
 Kleiney, Little Beno, Fritzie Rice, Kid Strauss, the 
 Humble Dutchman, Zamo, and the Irish Wop, held 
 but one view. Such slovenly work was without pre 
 cedent as without apology. To miss Jigger aroused 
 ridicule. But to go farther, and kill a child playing 
 in the street, spelled bald disgrace. Thereafter no 
 self-respecting lady would drink with Spanish, no 
 gentleman of gang position would return his nod. 
 He would be given the frozen face at the rackets, 
 the icy eye in the streets. 
 
 To be sure, his few friends, contending feebly, in 
 sisted that it wasn t Spanish who had killed the little 
 Rotin girl. When Spanish cracked off his rod at 
 Jigger, others had caught the spirit. A half dozen 
 guns they said had been set blazing; and it was 
 some unknown practitioner who had shot down the 
 
 37
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 little Rotin girl. What were the heart-feelings of 
 father and mother Rotin, to see their baby killed, 
 did not appeal as a question to either the friends or 
 foes of Spanish. Gangland is interested only in dol 
 lars or war. 
 
 That contention of his friends did not restore 
 Spanish in the general estimation. All must con 
 fess that at least he had missed Jigger. And Jigger 
 without a rod ! It crowded hard upon the unbeliev 
 able, and could be accounted for only upon the as 
 sumption that Spanish was rattled, which is worse 
 than being scared. Mere fear might mean no more 
 than an excess of prudence. To get rattled, every 
 where and under all conditions, is the mean sure 
 mark of weakness. 
 
 While discussion, like a pendulum, went swing 
 ing to and fro, Spanish possibly a-smart from what 
 biting things were being said in his disfavor came 
 to town, and grievously albeit casually shot an un 
 known. Following which feat he again disappeared. 
 None knew where he had gone. His whereabouts 
 was as much a mystery as the identity of the un 
 known whom he had shot, or the reason he had shot 
 him. These two latter questions are still borne as 
 puzzles upon the ridge of gang conjecture. 
 
 That this time he had hit his man, however, lifted 
 Spanish somewhat from out those lower reputa- 
 tional depths into which missing Jigger had cast 
 
 38
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 him. The unknown, to be sure, did not die; the 
 hospital books showed that. But he had stopped a 
 bullet. Which last proved that Spanish wasn t al 
 ways rattled when he pulled a gun. The incident, 
 all things considered, became a trellis upon which 
 the reputation of Spanish, before so prone and hope 
 less, began a little to climb. 
 
 The strenuous life doesn t always blossom and 
 bear good fruit. Balked in his intended partnership 
 with Jigger, and subsequently missing Jigger to 
 say nothing of the business of the little Rotin girl, 
 dead and down under the grass roots Spanish not 
 only failed to Get the Money ! but succeeded in driv 
 ing himself out of town. Many and vain were the 
 gang guesses concerning him. Some said he was in 
 Detroit, giving professional aid to a gifted booster. 
 The latter was of the feminine gender, and, aside 
 from her admitted genius for shoplifting, was ac 
 claimed the quickest hand with a hanger by which 
 you are to understand that outside pendant purse 
 wherewith women equip themselves as they go forth 
 to shop of all the gon-molls between the two 
 oceans. Others insisted that Spanish was in Balti 
 more, and had joined out with a mob of poke-get 
 ters. The great, the disastrous thing, however and 
 to this all Gangland agreed was that he had so 
 bungled his destinies as to put himself out of New 
 York. 
 
 39
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 "Detroit! Baltimore!" exclaimed the Dropper. 
 "Wy, it s woise n bein in stir! A guy might as 
 well be doin time as live in them burgs !" 
 
 The Dropper, in his iron-fisted way, was sincere 
 in what he said. Later, he himself was given eight 
 een spaces in Sing Sing, which exile he might have 
 missed had he fled New York in time. But he 
 couldn t, and didn t. And so the Central Office got 
 him, the District Attorney prosecuted him, the jury 
 convicted him, and the judge sentenced him to that 
 long captivity. Living in New York is not a pref 
 erence, but an appetite like drinking whiskey and 
 the Dropper had acquired the habit. 
 
 What was the Dropper settled for? 
 
 Robbery. 
 
 It s too long to tell here, however, besides being 
 another story. Some other day I may give it to 
 you. 
 
 Spanish, having abandoned New York, could no 
 longer bear Alma loving company at picnic, rout 
 and racket. What was Alma to do ? She lived for 
 routs, reveled in rackets, joyed in picnics. Must 
 these delights be swept away? She couldn t go 
 alone it was too expensive. Besides, it would 
 evince a lack of class. 
 
 Alma, as proud and as wedded to her social posi 
 tion as any silken member of the Purple and Fine 
 Linen Gang that ever rolled down Fifth Avenue in 
 her brougham, revolved these matters upon her 
 
 40
 
 THE APACHES OF NtiW YORK 
 
 wheel of thought. Also, she came to conclusions. 
 She, an admitted belle, could not consent to social 
 obliteration. Spanish had fled; she worshipped his 
 black eyes, his high courage; she would keep a 
 heart-corner vacant for him in case he came back. 
 Pending his return, however, she would go into so 
 ciety; and, for those reasons of expense and class 
 and form, she would not go alone. 
 
 Alma submitted her position to a beribboned jury 
 of her peers. Their judgment ran abreast of her 
 own. 
 
 "A goil would be a mutt," they said, "to stay 
 cocked up at home. An yet a goil couldn t go chas- 
 in around be her lonesome. Alma" this was their 
 final word "you must cop off another steady." 
 
 "But what would Johnny say?" asked Alma; for 
 she couldn t keep her thoughts off Spanish, of whom 
 she stood a little bit in fear. 
 
 "Johnny s beat it, ain t he?" returned the ad 
 visory jury of friends. "There ain t no kick comin 
 to a guy what s beat it. He ain t no longer in th 
 picture." 
 
 Alma, thus free to pick and choose by virtue of 
 the absence of Spanish, picked the Dropper. The 
 latter chieftain was flattered. Taking Alma proudly 
 yet tenderly under his mighty arm, he led her to sup 
 pers such as she had never eaten, bought her drinks 
 such as she had never tasted, revolved with her at 
 rackets where tickets were a dollar a throw, the or- 
 
 41
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 chestra seven pieces, and the floor shone like glass. 
 It was a cut or two above anything that Spanish 
 had given her, and Alma, who thought it going 
 some, failed not to say so. 
 
 Alma was proud of the Dropper; the Dropper 
 was proud of her. She told her friends of the 
 money he spent ; and the friends warmed the cockles 
 of her little heart by shrilly exclaiming at pleasant 
 intervals : 
 
 "Ain t he th swell guy !" 
 
 "Betcher boots he s th swell guy," Alma would 
 rejoin ; "an he s got money to boin a wet dog ! Th 
 only t ing that worries me," Alma would conclude, 
 "is Johnny. S ppose he blows in some day, an lays 
 for th Dropper? 
 
 "Th Dropper could do him wit a wallop," the 
 friends would consolingly return. "He d swing 
 onct; an after that there wouldn t be no Johnny 
 Spanish." 
 
 The Round Back Rangers it was, I think, the 
 Round Backs gave an outdoor racket somewhere 
 near Maspeth. The Dropper took Alma. Both 
 were in high, exultant feather. They danced, they 
 drank, they rode the wooden horses. No more gal 
 lant couple graced the grounds. 
 
 Cheese sandwiches, pig s knuckles and beer 
 brought them delicately to the banquet board. They 
 were among their friends. The talk was alvvayr in 
 teresting, sometimes educational. 
 
 42
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 Ike the Blood complained that certain annoying- 
 purists were preaching a crusade against the Raines 
 Law Hotels. Slimmy, celebrated not only for his 
 slimness, but his erudition, declared that crusades 
 had been the common curse of every age. 
 
 "Wat do youse know about it?" sourly pro 
 pounded the Humble Dutchman, who envied Slim 
 my his book-fed wisdom. 
 
 "Wat do I know about it?" came heatedly from 
 Slimmy. "Do youse think I ain t got no education ? 
 Th last time I m in stir, that time I goes up for four 
 years, I reads all th books in th prison library. 
 Ask th warden if I don t. As to them crusades, it s 
 as I tells you. There s always been crusades ; it s 
 th way humanity s gaited. Every sport, even if he 
 don t go round blowin about it, has got it tucked 
 somewhere away in his make-up that he, himself, 
 is th real thing. Every dub who s different from 
 him he riggers is worse n him. In two moves he s 
 out crusadin . In th old days it s religion; th 
 Paynims was th fall guys. Now it s rum, or racin , 
 or Raines Hotels, or some such stall. Once let a 
 community get the crusade bug, an something s got 
 to go. There s a village over in Joisey, an, there 
 bein no grog shops an no vice mills to get busy 
 wit , they ups an bounces an old geezer out of th 
 only church in town for pitchin horse-shoes." 
 
 Slimmy called for more beer, with a virtuously 
 superior air. 
 
 43
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 "But about them Paynims, Slimmy?" urged 
 Alma. 
 
 "It s hundreds of years ago," Slimmy resumed. 
 "Th Paynims hung out in Palestine. Bein they re 
 Paynims, the Christians is naturally sore on em; 
 an so, when they feels like huntin trouble, th cru 
 sade spirit d flare up. Richard over in England 
 would pass th woid to Philip in France, an th 
 other lads wit crowns. 
 
 How about it ? he d say. Cast your regal 
 peepers toward Palestine. D you make them Pay 
 nims? Ain t they th tough lot? They won t eat 
 pork ; they toe in when they walk ; they don t drink 
 nothin worse n coffee; they ve got brown skins. 
 Also, says he, we can lick em for money, marbles 
 or chalk. Wat d youse say, me royal brothers? 
 Let s get our gangs, an hand them Paynims a swift 
 soak in behalf of the troo faith. 
 
 "Philip an the other crowned lads at this would 
 agree wit Richard. Them Paynims is certainly th 
 worst ever! they d say; an one woid d borry an 
 other, until the crusade is on. Some afternoon 
 you d hear the newsies in th streets yellin , Wux- 
 try! an there it d be in big black type, Richard, 
 Philip an their gallant bands of Strong- Arms have 
 landed in Palestine. 
 
 "An then w at, Slimmy?" cooed Alma, who hung 
 on every word. 
 
 "As far as I can see, th Christians always had it
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 on th Paynims, always had em shaded, when it 
 comes to a scrap. Th Christian lads had th punch ; 
 an th Paynims must have been wise to it; for no 
 sooner would Richard, Philip an their roly-boly 
 boys hit th dock, than th Paynims would take it on 
 th run for th hills. Their mullahs would try to 
 rally em, be tellin em that whoever got downed 
 fightin Christians, the prophet would punch his 
 ticket through for paradise direct, an no stop-overs. 
 
 " That s all right about the prophet! they d say, 
 givin th mullahs th laugh. An then they d beat it 
 for th next ridge." 
 
 "Them Paynims must have been a bunch of dead 
 ones," commented the Dropper. 
 
 "Not bein able to get on a match," continued 
 Slimmy, without heeding the Dropper, "th Pay 
 nims declinin their game, th Christian hosts would 
 rough house th country generally, an in a way of 
 speakin stand th Holy Land on its head. Do what 
 they would, however, they couldn t coax th Pay 
 nims into th ring wit em ; an so after a while they 
 decides that Palestine s th bummest place they d 
 ever struck. Mebby, too, they d begin havin woid 
 from home that their wives was gettin a little gay, 
 or their kids was goin round marryin th kids of 
 their enemies, an that one way an another their do 
 mestic affairs was on th fritz. At this, Richard d 
 go loafin over to Philip s tent, an say: 
 
 " Thilly, me boy, I don t know how this crusade 
 45
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 strikes youse, but if I m any judge of these great 
 moral movements, it s on th blink. An so/ he d go 
 on, Philly, it s me for Merrie England be th night 
 boat. 
 
 "Wit that, they d break for home ; an , when they 
 got there, they d mebby hand out a taste of th 
 strap to mamma an th babies, just to teach em not 
 to go runnin out of form th next time father s far 
 away." 
 
 "Youse don t bank much on crusades, Slimmy?" 
 Ike the Blood said. 
 
 The Blood had more than a passing interest in 
 the movement, mention of which had started the dis 
 cussion, being himself a part proprietor in one of 
 those threatened Raines Law Hotels. 
 
 "Blood," observed Slimmy, oracularly, "them 
 moral movements is like a hornet; they stings onct 
 an then they dies." 
 
 Alma s attention was drawn to Mollie Squint 
 so called because of an optical slant which gave her 
 a vague though piquant look. Mollie Squint was 
 motioning from the outskirts of the little group. 
 Alma pointed to the Dropper. Should she bring 
 him? Mollie Squint shook her head. 
 
 Leaving the Dropper, Alma joined Mollie Squint. 
 
 "It s Johnny," gasped Mollie Squint. "He wants 
 you; he s over be that bunch of trees." 
 
 Alma hung back ; some impression of peril seized 
 her. 
 
 46
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 "Better go," whispered Mollie Squint. "He s 
 onto you an the Dropper, an if you don t go he ll 
 come lookin for you. Then him an the Dropper ll 
 go to th mat wit each other, an have it awful. 
 Give Johnny one of your soft talks, an mebby youse 
 can smooth him clown. Stall him off be tellin him 
 you ll see him to-night at Ding Dong s." 
 
 Mollie Squint s advice seemed good, and as the 
 lesser of two evils Alma decided to go. Mollie 
 Squint did not accompany her. 
 
 "Tell th Dropper I ll be back in a moment," said 
 Alma to Mollie Squint, "an don t wise him tip about 
 Johnny." 
 
 Alma met Spanish at the far corner of the clump 
 of trees. There was no talk, no time for talk. They 
 were all alone. As she drew near, he pulled a pistol 
 and shot her through and through the body. 
 
 Alma s moaning cry was heard by the Dropper 
 that, and the sound of the shot. When the Drop 
 per reached her, she was lying senseless in the 
 shadow of the trees a patch of white and red 
 against the green of the grass. Spanish was 
 nowhere in sight. 
 
 Alma was carried to the hospital, and revived. 
 But she would say nothing, give no names staunch 
 to the spirit of the Gangs. Only she whispered 
 feebly to Mollie Squint, when the Dropper had been 
 sent away by the doctors : 
 
 "Johnny must have loved me a lot to shoot me 
 
 47
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 up like he did. A guy has got to love a goil good 
 and plenty before he ll try to cook her." 
 
 "Did yotise tell th hospital croakers his name?" 
 asked Mollie Squint. 
 
 "Of course not ! I never squealed to nobody. Do 
 youse think I d put poor Johnny in wrong?" 
 
 "Then I won t," said Mollie Squint. 
 
 An attendant told Mollie Squint that she must 
 go ; certain surgeons had begun to assemble. Mollie 
 Squint, tears falling, kissed Alma good-by. 
 
 "Give Johnny all me love," whispered Alma. 
 "Tell him I m no snitch; I ll stick." 
 
 The Dropper did not have to be told whose bullet 
 had struck down his star, his Alma. That night, 
 Kid Kleiney with him, he went looking for Span 
 ish. The latter, as jealous as Satan, was looking 
 for the Dropper. Of the two, Spanish must have 
 conducted his hunting with the greater circumspec 
 tion or the greater luck; for about eleven of the 
 clock he crept up behind the Dropper, as the latter 
 and Kid Kleiney were walking in East Broadway, 
 and planted a bullet in his neck. Kid Kleiney bout 
 faced at the crack of the pistol, and was in fortunate 
 time to stop Spanish s second bullet with one of the 
 big buttons on his coat. Kid Kleiney fell by the 
 side of the wounded Dropper, jarred off his feet 
 by the shock. He was able, however, when the 
 police came up, to help place the Dropper in an am 
 bulance. 
 
 48
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 Spanish ? 
 
 Vanished as usual. 
 
 The police could get no line on him, did get no 
 line on him, until months later, when, as related 
 the Dropper having been lagged for robbery, and 
 safely caged he came back to stick up the joint 
 of Mersher the Strong- Arm, and be arrested by 
 Dribben and Blum. 
 
 The baby and I met casually in a Williamsburg 
 street, where Alma had brought it to take the air, 
 which was bad. Alma was thin-faced, hollow-eyed, 
 but I could see that she had been pretty. She said 
 she was twenty and the baby less than a year, and 
 I think she told the truth. 
 
 No one among Alma s friends finds fault with 
 either the baby or herself, although both are with 
 out defence by the canons of high morality. There 
 is warmth in the world; and, after all, the case of 
 Alma and the baby is not so much beyond the com 
 mon, except as to the baby s advent, which was 
 dramatic and after the manner of Caesar. 
 
 Folk say the affair reflects illustriously upon the 
 hospital. Also, what surgeons officiated are in 
 clined to plume themselves; for have not Alma and 
 the baby lived ? I confess that those boastful scien 
 tists are not wanting in excuse for strutting, al 
 though they ought, perhaps, in honor, to divide 
 credit with Alma and the baby as being hard to kill. 
 
 It is not an ugly baby as babies go. Not that I 
 49
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 pretend to be a judge. As I paused by its battered 
 perambulator, it held up a rose-leaf hand, as though 
 inviting me to look ; and I looked. The little claw 
 possessed but three talons ; the first two fingers had 
 been shot away. When I asked how, Alma lowered 
 her head sadly, saying nothing. It would have been 
 foolish to ask the baby. It couldn t talk. More 
 over, since the fingers were shot away before it was 
 born, it could possess no clear memory as to details. 
 It is a healthy baby. Alma loves it dearly, and 
 can be depended upon to give it every care. That 
 is, she can be if she lives ; and on that head her worn 
 thinness alarms her friends, who wish she were fat 
 ter. Some say her thinness is the work of the bul 
 let. Others believe that a sorrow is sapping her 
 heart. 
 
 50
 
 III. 
 
 HOW PIOGGI WENT TO ELMIRA 
 
 The Bottler was round, inoffensive, well-dressed, 
 affable. He was also generous, as the East Side 
 employs the term. Any one could touch him for a 
 quarter upon a plea of beef stew, and if plaintively 
 a bed were mentioned, for as much as fifty cents. 
 For the Bottler was a money-maker, and had Suf 
 folk Street position as among its richest capitalists. 
 
 What bridge whist is to Fifth Avenue so is stuss 
 to the East Side. No one save the dealer wins at 
 stuss, and yet the device possesses an alluring fea 
 ture. When the victim gets up from the table, the 
 bank under the descriptive of viggresh returns him 
 one-tenth of his losings. No one ever leaves a stuss 
 game broke, and that final ray of sure sunshine 
 forms indubitably the strong attraction. Stuss licks 
 up as with a tongue of fire a round full fifth of all 
 the East Side earns, and to viggresh should be given 
 the black glory thereof. 
 
 The Bottler owned talents to make money. Mor 
 ally careless, liking the easy way, with, over all, that 
 bent for speculation which sets some folk to dealing 
 in stocks and others to dealing cards, those money- 
 
 51
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 making talents found expression in stuss. Not that 
 the Bottler was so weak-minded as to buck the game. 
 Wise, prudent, solvent, he went the other way about 
 it, his theater of operations being 135 Suffolk. Also, 
 expanding liberally, the Bottler endowed his victims, 
 as stripped of their last dollar they shoved back 
 their hopeless chairs, with not ten, but fifteen per 
 cent, of what sums they had changed in. This ren 
 dered 135 Suffolk a most popular resort, and the 
 foolish stood four deep about the Bottler s tables 
 every night in the week. 
 
 The Bottler lacked utterly the war-heart, and was 
 in no wise a fighter. He had the brawn, but not the 
 soul, and this heart-sallowness would have threat 
 ened his standing save for those easy generosities. 
 Gangland is not dull, and will overlook even a want 
 of courage in one who, for bed and beef stews, 
 freely places his purse at its disposal. 
 
 There are two great gangs on the East Side. 
 These are the Five Points and the Monk Eastmans. 
 There are smaller gangs, but each owes allegiance to 
 either the one or the other of the two great gangs, 
 and fights round its standard in event of general 
 gang war. 
 
 There is danger in belonging to either of these 
 gangs. But there is greater danger in not. I speak 
 of folk of the Bottler s ways and walks. The Five 
 Points and Eastmans are at feud with one another, 
 and the fires of their warfare are never permitted 
 
 52
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 to die out. Membership in one means that it will 
 buckler you against the other while you live, and 
 avenge you should you fall. Membership in neither 
 means that you will be raided and rough-housed 
 and robbed by both. 
 
 The Bottler s stuss house was like every other 
 of its kind a Castle Dangerous. To the end that 
 the peril of his days and nights be reduced to mini 
 mum, he united himself with the Five Points. True, 
 he could not be counted upon as a shtocker or 
 strong-arm ; but he had money and would part with 
 it, and gang war like all war demands treasure. 
 Bonds must be given ; fines paid ; the Bottler would 
 have his uses. Wherefore the Five Points opened 
 their arms and their hearts to receive him. 
 
 The Eastmans had suffered a disorganizing set 
 back when the chief, who gave the sept its name, 
 went up the river for ten years. On the heels of that 
 sorrowful retirement, it became a case of York and 
 Lancaster ; two claimants for the throne stood forth. 
 These were Ritchie Fitzpatrick and Kid Twist, both 
 valorous, both with reputations of having killed, 
 both with clouds of followers at their backs. 
 
 Twist, in whom abode the rudiments of a savage 
 diplomacy, proposed a conference. Fitzpatrick at 
 that conference was shot to death, and Kid Dahl, a 
 near friend of Twist, stood for the collar. Dahl 
 was thus complacent because Fitzpatrick had not 
 died by his hand. 
 
 53
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 The police, the gangs and the politicians are not 
 without a sinister wisdom. When life has been 
 taken, and to punish the slayer would be an incon 
 venience, some one who didn t do the killing sub 
 mits to arrest. This covers the retreat of the guilty. 
 Also, the public is appeased. Later, when the pub 
 lic s memory sleeps, the arrested one for lack of 
 evidence is set at liberty. 
 
 When Fitzpatrick was killed, to clear the path to 
 gang leadership before the aspiring feet of Twist, 
 the police took Dahl, who all but volunteered for the 
 sacrifice. Dahl went smilingly to jail, while the real 
 murderer of Fitzpatrick attended that dead person 
 age s wake, and later appeared at the funeral. This 
 last, however, by the nicer tastes of Gangland, was 
 complained of as bordering upon vulgarity. 
 
 Fitzpatrick was buried with a lily in his hand, and 
 Twist was hailed chief of the Eastmans. Dahl re 
 mained in the Tombs a reasonable number of weeks, 
 and then resumed his position in society. It was but 
 natural, and to the glory of stumbling human na 
 ture, that Dahl should dwell warmly in the grateful 
 regard of Twist. 
 
 Twist, now chief of the Eastmans, cast about to 
 establish Dahl. There was the Bottler, with his 
 stuss Golconda in Suffolk Street. Were not his af 
 filiations with the Five Points? Was he not there 
 fore the enemy ? The Bottler was an Egyptian, and 
 Twist resolved to spoil him in the interest of Dahl. 
 
 54
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 Twist, with Dahl, waited upon the Bottler. Ar 
 gument was short and to the point. Said Twist : 
 
 "Bottler, the Kid" indicating the expectant 
 Dahl "is in wit your stuss graft from now on. 
 It s to be an even break." 
 
 The news almost checked the beating of the Bot 
 tler s heart. Not that he was astonished. What 
 the puissant Twist proposed was a commonest step 
 in Gangland commerce Gangland, where the 
 Scotch proverb of "Take what you may ; keep what 
 you can!" retains a pristine force. For all that, 
 the Bottler felt dismay. The more since he had 
 hoped that his hooking up with the Five Points 
 would have kept him against such rapine. 
 
 Following the Twist fulmination, the Bottler 
 stood wrapped in thought. The dangerous chief of 
 the Eastmans lit a cigar and waited. The poor Bot 
 tler s cogitations ran off in this manner. Twist had 
 killed six men. Also, he had spared no pains in car 
 rying out those homicides, and could laugh at the 
 law, which his prudence left bankrupt of evidence. 
 Dahl, too, possessed a past as red as Twist s. Both 
 could be relied upon to kill. To refuse Dahl as a 
 partner spelled death. To acquiesce called for half 
 his profits. His friends of the Five Points, to be sure, 
 could come at his call. That, however, would not 
 save his game and might not save his life. Twist s 
 demand showed that he had resolved, so far as he, 
 the Bottler, was concerned, to rule or ruin. The 
 
 55
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 latter was easy. Any dozen of the Eastmans, pick 
 ing some unguarded night, could fall upon his estab 
 lishment, confiscate his bankroll, and pitch both him 
 and his belongings into the street. The Five Points 
 couldn t be forever at his threatened elbow. They 
 would avenge him, certainly; but vengeance, how 
 ever sweet, comes always over-late, and possesses be 
 sides no value in dollars and cents. Thus reasoned 
 the Bottler, while Twist frowningly paused. The 
 finish came when, with a sickly smile, the Bottler 
 bowed to the inevitable and accepted Dahl. 
 
 All Suffolk Street, to say nothing of the thor 
 oughfares roundabout, knew what had taken place. 
 The event and the method thereof did not provoke 
 the shrugging of a shoulder, the arching of a brow. 
 What should there be in the usual to invite amaze 
 ment ? 
 
 For six weeks the Bottler and Dahl settled up, 
 fifty-and-fifty, with the close of each stuss day. 
 Then came a fresh surprise. Dahl presented his 
 friend, the Nailer, to the Bottler with this terse re 
 mark: 
 
 "Bottler, youse can beat it. The Nailer is goin to 
 be me partner now. Which lets you out, see?" 
 
 The Bottler was at bay. He owned no stomach 
 for battle, but the sentiment of desperation, which 
 the announcement of Dahl provoked, drove him to 
 make a stand. To lose one-half had been bad. To 
 lose all to be wholly wiped out in the annals of 
 
 56
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 Suffolk Street stuss was more than even his meek 
 ness might bear. No, the Bottler did not dream of 
 going 1 to the police. That would have been to 
 squeal; and even his friends of the Five Points had 
 only faces of flint for such tactics of disgrace. 
 
 The harassed Bottler barred his doors against 
 Dahl. He would defend his castle, and get word to 
 the Five Points. The Bottler s doors having been 
 barred, Dahl for his side at once instituted a siege, 
 despatching the Nailer, meanwhile, to the nearest 
 knot of Eastmans to bring reinforcements. 
 
 At this crisis O Farrell of the Central Office 
 strolled into the equation. He himself was hunting 
 a loft-worker, of more than common industry, and 
 had no thought of either the Bottler or Dahl. Hap 
 pening, however, upon a situation, whereof the ele 
 mental features were Dahl outside with a gun and 
 the Bottler inside with a gun, he so far recalled his 
 oath of office as to interfere. 
 
 "Better an egg to-day than a hen to-morrow," 
 philosophized O Farrell, and putting aside for the 
 moment his search for the loft-worker, he devoted 
 himself to the Bottler and Dahl. 
 
 With the sure instinct of his Mulberry Street 
 caste, O Farrell opened negotiations with Dahl. He 
 knew the latter to be the dangerous angle, and began 
 by placing the muzzle, of his own pistol against that 
 marauder s back. 
 
 57
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 "Make a move," said he, "and I ll shoot you in 
 two." 
 
 The sophisticated Dahl, realizing fate, moved not, 
 and with that the painstaking O Farrell collected his 
 armament. 
 
 Next the Bottler was ordered to come forth. The 
 Bottler obeyed in a sweat and a tremble. He sur 
 rendered his pistol at word of the law, and O Far 
 rell led both off to jail. The two were charged with 
 Disturbance. 
 
 In the station house, and on the way, Dahl ceased 
 not to threaten the Bottler s life. 
 
 "This pinch ll cost a fine of five dollars," said 
 Dahl, glaring round O Farrell at the shaking Bot 
 tler. "I ll pay it, an then I ll get square wit youse. 
 Once we re footloose, you won t last as long as a 
 drink of whiskey!" 
 
 The judge yawningly listened, while O Farrell 
 told his tale of that disturbance. 
 
 "Five an costs!" quoth the judge, and called the 
 next case. 
 
 The Bottler returned to Suffolk Street, Dahl 
 sought Twist, while O Farrell again took the trail of 
 the loft- worker. 
 
 Dahl talked things over with Twist. There was 
 but one way : the Bottler must die. Anything short 
 of blood would unsettle popular respect for Twist, 
 and without that his leadership of the Eastmans was 
 .a farce. 
 
 58
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 The Bottler s killing, however, must be managed 
 with a decent care for the conventionalities. For 
 either Twist or Dahl to walk in upon that offender 
 and shoot him to death, while feasible, would be 
 foolish. The coarse extravagance of such a piece of 
 work would serve only to pile needless difficulties in 
 the pathway of what politicians must come to the 
 rescue. It was impertinences of that character 
 which had sent Monk Eastman to Sing Sing. East 
 man had so far failed as to the proprieties, when as 
 a supplement to highway robbery he emptied his six- 
 shooter up and down Forty-second Street, that the 
 politicians could not save him without burning their 
 fingers. And so they let him go. Twist had justi 
 fied the course of the politicians upon that occasion. 
 He would not now, by lack of caution and a reason 
 able finesse, force them into similar peril. They 
 musr and would defend him ; but it was not for him 
 to render their labors too up-hill and too hard. 
 
 Twist sent to Williamsburg for his friend and 
 ally, Cyclone Louie. The latter was a bull-necked, 
 highly muscled individual, who was a professional 
 strong man so far as he was professionally any 
 thing- and earned occasional side-show money at 
 Coney Island by bending iron bars about his neck 
 and twisting pokers into corkscrews about his 
 brawny arms. 
 
 Louie, Twist and Dahl went into council over mu 
 tual beer, and Twist explained the imperative 
 
 59
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 for the Bottler s extermination. Also, he laid bare 
 the delicate position of both himself and Dahl. 
 
 In country regions neighbors aid one another in 
 bearing the burdens of an agricultural day by 
 changing work. The custom is not without what 
 one might call gang imitation and respect. Only 
 in the gang instance the work is not innocent, but 
 bloody. Louie, having an appreciation of what was 
 due a friend, could not do less than come to the re 
 lief of Twist and Dahl. Were positions reversed, 
 would they not journey to Williamsburg and do as 
 much for him? Louie did not hesitate, but placed 
 himself at the disposal of Twist and Dahl. The 
 Bottler should die ; he, Louie, would see to that. 
 
 "But when ?" 
 
 Twist, replying, felt that the thing should be done 
 at once, and mentioned the following evening, nine 
 o clock. The place should be the Bottler s establish 
 ment in Suffolk Street. Louie, of whom the Bot 
 tler was unafraid and ignorant, should experience 
 no difficulty in approaching his man. There would 
 be others present ; but, practiced in gang moralities, 
 slaves to gang etiquette, no one would open his 
 mouth. Or, if he did, it would be only to pour 
 forth perjuries, and say that he had seen nothing, 
 heard nothing. 
 
 Having adjusted details, Louie, Twist and Dahl 
 compared watches. Watches? Certainly. Louie, 
 
 60
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 Twist and Dahl were all most fashionably attired 
 and as became members of a gang nobility singu 
 larly full and accurate in the important element of 
 a front, indelicet, that list of personal adornments 
 which included scarf pin, ring and watch. Louie, 
 Dahl and Twist saw to it that their timepieces 
 agreed. This was so that Dahl and Twist might 
 arrange their alibis. 
 
 It was the next evening. At 8.55 o clock Twist 
 V/PS obtrusively in the Delancey Street police sta 
 tion, wrangling with the desk sergeant over the re 
 lease of a follower who had carefully brought about 
 his own arrest. 
 
 "Come," urged Twist to the sergeant, "it s next 
 to nine o clock now. Fix up the bond; I ve got a 
 date over in East Broadway at nine-thirty." 
 
 While Twist stood thus enforcing his whereabouts 
 and the hour upon the attention of the desk ser 
 geant, Dahl was eating a beefsteak in a Houston 
 street restaurant. 
 
 "What time have youse got?" demanded Dahl of 
 the German who kept the place. 
 
 "Five minutes to nine," returned the German, 
 glancing up at the clock. 
 
 "Oh, t aint no such time as that," retorted Dahl 
 peevishly. "That clock s drunk! Call up the tele 
 phone people, and find out for sure." 
 
 "The phone people say it s nine o clock," re 
 ported the German, hanging up the receiver. 
 
 61
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 "Hully gee! I didn t think it was more n half- 
 past eight !" and Dahl looked virtuously corrected. 
 
 While these fragments of talk were taking place, 
 the Bottler was attending to his stuss interests. He 
 looked pale and frightened, and his hunted eyes 
 roved here and there. Five minutes went by. The 
 clock pointed to nine. A slouch-hat stranger en 
 tered. As the clock struck the hour, he placed the 
 muzzle of a pistol against the Bottler s breast, and 
 fired twice. Both bullets pierced the heart, and the 
 Bottler fell dead without a word. There were 
 twenty people in the room. When the police arrived 
 they found only the dead Bottler. 
 
 O Farrell recalled those trade differences which 
 had culminated in the charge of disturbance, and ar 
 rested Dahl. 
 
 "You ain t got me right," scoffed Dahl. 
 
 And O Farrell hadn t. 
 
 There came the inquest, and Dahl was set free. 
 The Bottler was buried, and Twist and Dahl sent 
 flowers and rode to the grave. 
 
 The law slept, a bat-eyed constabulary went its 
 way, but the gangs knew. In the whispered gossip 
 of Gangland every step of the Bottler s murder was 
 talked over and remembered. He must have been 
 minus ears and eyes and understanding who did not 
 know the story. The glance of Gangland turned to 
 wards the Five Points. What would be their ac 
 tion? They were bound to avenge. If not for the 
 
 62
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 Bottler s sake, then for their own. For the Bottler 
 had been under the shadow of their protection, and 
 gang honor was involved. On the Five Points^ 
 part there was no stumbling of the spirit. For the 
 death of the Bottler the Five Points would exact the 
 penalty of blood. 
 
 Distinguished among the chivalry of the Five 
 Points was Kid Pioggi. Only a paucity of years 
 he was under eighteen withheld Pioggi from top 
 most honors. Pioggi was not specifically assigned 
 to avenge the departed Bottler. Ambitious and gal 
 lantly anxious of advancement, however, he of his 
 own motion carried the enterprise in the stomach of 
 his thoughts. 
 
 The winter s snow melted into spring, spring 
 lapsed into early summer. It was a brilliant even 
 ing, and Pioggi was disporting himself at Coney 
 Island. Also Twist and Cyclone Louie, following 
 some plan of relaxation, were themselves at Coney 
 Island. 
 
 Pioggi had seated himself at a beer table in Ding 
 Dong s. Twist and Louie came in. Pioggi, being 
 of the Five Points, \vas recognized as a foe by Twist^ 
 who lost no time in mentioning it. 
 
 Being in a facetious mood, and by way of express 
 ing his contempt for that gentleman, Twist made 
 Pioggi jump out of the window. It was no distance 
 to the ground, and no physical harm could come. 
 But to be compelled to leave Ding Dong s by way of
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 the window, rubbed wrongwise the fur of Pioggi s 
 feelings. To jump from a window stamps one with 
 disgrace. 
 
 Twist and Louie burly, muscular, strong as 
 horses were adepts of rough-and-tumble. Pioggi, 
 little, light and weak, knew that any thought of 
 physical conflict would have been preposterous. And 
 yet he was no one to sit quietly down with his hu 
 miliation. That flight from Ding Dong s window 
 would be on every tongue in Gangland. The name 
 of Pioggi would become a scorning; the tale would 
 stain the Pioggi fame. 
 
 Louie and Twist sat down at the table in Ding 
 Dong s, from which Pioggi had been driven, and 
 demanded refreshment in the guise of wine. Pioggi, 
 rage-swollen as to heart, busied himself at a nearby 
 telephone. Pioggi got the ear of a Higher Influ 
 ence of his clan. He told of his abrupt dismissal 
 from Ding Dong s, and the then presence of Louie 
 and Twist. The Higher Influence instructed Pioggi 
 to keep the two in sight. The very flower of the 
 Five Points should be at Coney Island as fast as 
 trolley cars could carry them. 
 
 "Tail em," said the Higher Influence, referring 
 to Twist and Louie; "an when the fleet gets there 
 go in wit your cannisters an bump em off." 
 
 While waiting the advent of his promised forces, 
 Pioggi, maintaining the while an eye on Twist and 
 Louie to the end that they escape not and disap- 
 
 64
 
 pear, made arrangements for a getaway. He es 
 tablished a coupe, a fast horse between the shafts 
 and a personal friend on the box, where he, Pioggi, 
 could find it when his work was done. 
 
 By the time this was accomplished, Pioggi s re 
 cruits had put in an appearance. They did not de 
 scend upon Coney Island in a body, with savage 
 uproar and loud cries. Much too military were they 
 for that. Rather they seemed to ooze into position 
 around Pioggi, and they could not have made less 
 noise had they been so many ghosts. 
 
 The campaign was soon laid out. Louie and 
 Twist still sat over their wine at Ding Dong s. 
 Now and then they laughed, as though recalling the 
 ignominious exit of Pioggi. Means must be em 
 ployed to draw them into the street. That accom 
 plished, the Five Points Danites were to drift up 
 behind them, and at a signal from Pioggi, empty 
 their pistols into their backs. Pioggi would fire a 
 bullet into Twist; that was to be the signal. As 
 Pioggi whispered his instructions, there shone a 
 licking eagerness in the faces of those who listened. 
 Nothing so exalts the gangster like blood in antici 
 pation ; nothing so pleases him as to shoot from be 
 hind. 
 
 Pioggi pitched upon one whose name and face 
 vvere unknown to Twist and Louie. The unknown 
 would be the bearer of a blind message it pur- 
 
 65
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 ported to come from a dancer in one of the cheap 
 theaters of the place calculated to bring forth 
 Twist and Louie. 
 
 "Stall em up this way," said Pioggi, indicating 
 a spot within touching distance of that coupe. "It s 
 here we ll put em over the jump." 
 
 The place pitched upon for the killing was 
 crowded with people. It was this very thronged 
 condition which had led to its selection. The crowd 
 would serve as a cover to Five Points operations. 
 It would prevent a premature recognition of their 
 assailants by Twist and Louie; it would screen the 
 slayers from identification by casual citizens looking 
 on. 
 
 Pioggi s messenger did well his work, and Twist 
 and Louie moved magnificently albeit unsteadily 
 into the open. They were sweeping the walk clear 
 of lesser mortals, when the voice of Pioggi arrested 
 their attention. 
 
 "Oh, there, Twist; look here!" 
 
 The voice came from the rear and to the right; 
 Pioggi s position was one calculated to place the 
 enemy at a double disadvantage. 
 
 Twist turned his head. A bullet struck him above 
 the eye! He staggered! The lead came in a 
 storm! Twist went down; Louie fell across him! 
 There were twelve bullets in Twist and eight in 
 Louie. The coroner said that they were the deadest 
 people of whom he owned official recollection. 
 
 66
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 As the forethoughtful Pioggi was dashing away 
 in his coupe, a policeman gave chase. Pioggi drove 
 a bullet through the helmet of the law. It stopped 
 pursuit; but Gangland has ever held that the shot 
 was an error. A little lower, and the policeman 
 would have been killed. Also, the death of a police 
 man is apt to entail consequences. 
 
 Pioggi went into hiding in Greenwich, where the 
 Five Points had a hold-out. There were pullings 
 and haulings and whisperings in dark political cor 
 ners. When conditions had been whispered and 
 hauled and pulled into shape satisfactory, Pioggi 
 sent word to a favorite officer to come and arrest 
 him. 
 
 Pioggi explained to the court that his life had 
 been threatened; he had shot only that he himself 
 might live. His age was seventeen. Likewise there 
 had been no public loss; the going of Twist and 
 Louie had but raised the average of all respectability. 
 The court pondered the business, and decided that 
 justice would be fulfilled by sentencing Pioggi to the 
 Elmira Reformatory. 
 
 The best fashion of the Five Points visited Pioggi 
 in the Tombs on the morning of his departure. 
 
 "It s only thirteen months, Kid," came encourag 
 ingly from one. "You won t mind it." 
 
 "Mind it!" responded Pioggi, in disdain of the 
 worst that Elmira might hold for him ; "mind it ! I 
 could do it standin on me head." 
 
 67
 
 IV. 
 
 IKE THE BLOOD 
 
 Whenever the police were driven to deal with him 
 officially, he called himself Charles Livin, albeit the 
 opinion prevailed at headquarters that in thus spell 
 ing it, he left off a final ski. The police, in the 
 wantonness of their ignorance, described him on 
 their books as a burglar. This was foolishly wide. 
 He should have been listed as a simple Strong-Arm, 
 whose methods of divorcing other people from their 
 money, while effective, were coarse. Also, it is per 
 haps proper to mention that his gallery number at 
 the Central Office was 10,394. 
 
 It was during the supremacy of Monk Eastman 
 that he broke out, and he had just passed his seven 
 teenth birthday. Being out, he at once attached 
 himself to the gang-fortunes of that chief; and it 
 became no more than a question of weeks before 
 his vast physical strength, the energy of his courage 
 and a native ferocity of soul, won him his proud 
 war-name of Ike the Blood. Compared with the 
 herd about him, in what stark elements made the 
 gangster important in his world, he shone out upon 
 the eyes of folk like stars of a clear cold night. 
 
 68
 
 Ike the Blood looked up to his chief, Monk East 
 man, as sailors look up to the North Star, and it 
 wrung his soul sorely when that gang captain 
 went to Sing Sing. In the war over the succession 
 and the baton of gang command, waged between 
 Ritchie Fitzpatrick and Kid Twist, Ike the Blood 
 was compelled to stand neutral. Powerless to take 
 either side, liking both ambitious ones, the trusted 
 friend of both, his hands were tied; and later first 
 Fitzpatrick and then Twist he followed both to the 
 grave, sorrow not only on his lips but in his heart. 
 
 It was one recent August day that I was granted 
 an introduction to Ike the Blood. I was in the com 
 pany of an intimate friend of mine he holds high 
 Central Office position in the police economy of New 
 York. We were walking in Henry Street, in the 
 near vicinity of that vigorous organization, the Ajax 
 Club so called, I take it, because its members are 
 forever defying the lightnings of the law. My Cen 
 tral Office friend had mentioned Ike the Blood, 
 speaking of him as a guiding light to such difficult 
 ones as Little Karl, Whitey Louie, Benny Weiss, 
 Kid Neumann, Tomahawk, Fritzie Rice, Dagley and 
 the Lobster. 
 
 Even as the names were in his mouth, his keen 
 Central Office glance went roving through the open 
 doorway of a grogshop. 
 
 "There s Ike the Blood now," said he, and tossed 
 a thumb, which had assisted in necking many a male- 
 
 69
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 factor with tastes to be violent, towards the grog 
 shop. 
 
 Since to consider such pillars of East Side Society 
 was the great reason of my ramble, we entered the 
 place. Ike the Blood was sitting in state at a table 
 to the rear of the unclean bar, a dozen of his imme 
 diate followers in the politics of gang life these 
 formed a minor order of nobility with him. 
 
 Being addressed by my friend, he arose and joined 
 us; none the less he seemed reticent and a bit dis 
 turbed. This was due to the official character of my 
 friend, plus the fact that the jealous eyes of those 
 others were upon him. It is no advantage to a 
 leader, like Ike the Blood, to be seen in converse 
 with a detective. Should one of his adherents be 
 arrested within a day or a week, the arrested one 
 reverts to that conversation, and imagines vain 
 things. 
 
 "Take a walk with us, Ike," said my friend. 
 
 Ike the Blood was obviously reluctant. Sinking 
 his voice, and giving a glance over his shoulder at 
 his myrmidons not ten feet away, and every eye 
 upon him he remonstrated. 
 
 "Say, I don t want to leave th push settin here, 
 to go chasin off wit a bull. Fix it so I can come 
 uptown sometime." 
 
 "Very well," returned my friend, relenting; "I 
 don t want to put you in Dutch with your fleet." 
 
 There was a whispered brief word or two, and an 
 70
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 arrangement for a meet was made ; after which Ike 
 the Blood lapsed into the uneasy circle he had 
 quitted. As we left the grogshop, we could hear 
 him loudly calling for beer. Possibly the Central 
 Office nearness of my friend had rendered him 
 thirsty. Or it may have been that the beer was 
 meant to wet down and allay whatever of sprouting 
 suspicion had been engendered in the trustless 
 breasts of his followers. 
 
 It was a week later. 
 
 The day, dark and showery, was to be exact 
 the eighth of August. Faithful to that whispered 
 Henry Street arrangement, Ike the Blood sat await 
 ing the coming of my friend and myself in the Bal 
 Tabarin. He had spoken of the stuss house of Phil 
 Casey and Paper Box Johnny, in Twenty-ninth 
 Street, but my friend entered a protest. There was 
 his Central Office character to be remembered. A 
 natural embarrassment must ensue were he brought 
 face to face with stuss in a state of activity. Stuss 
 was a crime, by surest word of law, and he had 
 taken an oath of office. He did not care to pinch 
 either Paper Box or Casey, and therefore preferred 
 not to be drawn into a situation where the only al 
 ternative would be to either pull their joint or lay 
 the bedplates of complaint against himself. 
 
 "It s no good time to be up on charges," remon 
 strated my friend, "for the commish that s over us 
 now would sooner grab a copper than a crook." 
 
 71
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 Thus instructed, and feeling the delicacy of my 
 friend s position, Ike the Blood had shifted sugges 
 tion to the Bal Tabarin. The latter house of enter 
 tainment, in Twenty-eighth Street, was innocent of 
 stuss and indeed cards in any form. Kept by Sam 
 Paul, it possessed a deserved popularity with Ike 
 and the more select of his acquaintances. 
 
 Ike the Blood appeared to better advantage in the 
 Bal Tabarin than on that other, Henry Street, grog 
 shop occasion. Those suspicious ones, of lowering 
 eye and doubtful brow, had been left behind, and 
 their absence contributed to his relief, and therefore 
 to his looks. Not that he had been sitting in the 
 midst of loneliness at the Bal Tabarin; Whitey 
 Dutch and Slimmy were with him, and who should 
 have been better company than they? Also, their 
 presence was of itself an honor, since they were of 
 his own high caste, and many layers above a mere 
 gang peasantry. They would take part in the con 
 versation, too, and, if to talk and touch glasses with 
 a Central Office bull were an offense, it would leave 
 them as deep in the police mud as was he in the 
 police mire. 
 
 Ike the Blood received us gracefully, if not en 
 thusiastically, and was so polite as to put me on a 
 friendly footing with his companions. Greetings 
 over, and settled to something like our ease, I en 
 gaged myself mentally in taking Ike s picture. His 
 
 72
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 forehead narrow, back-sloping at that lively angle 
 identified by carpenters as a quarter-pitch, was not 
 the forehead of a philosopher. I got the impression, 
 too, that his small brown eyes, sad rather than ma 
 lignant, would in any heat of anger blaze like twin 
 balls of brown fire. Cheek-bones high ; nose beaky, 
 predatory such a nose as Napoleon loved in his 
 marshals; mouth coarsely sensitive, suggesting tem 
 perament; the broad, bony jaw giving promise of 
 what staying qualities constitute the stock in trade 
 of a bulldog ; no mustache, no beard ; a careless lib 
 erality of ear that should complete the portrait. 
 Fairly given, it was the picture of one who acted 
 more than he thought, and whose atmosphere above 
 all else conveyed the feeling of relentless force the 
 picture of one who under different circumstances 
 might have been a Murat or a Massena. 
 
 My friend managed the conversation, and did it 
 with Central Office tact. Knowing what I was after, 
 he brought up Gangland and the gangs, upon which 
 topics Whitey Dutch, seeing no reasons for silence, 
 spoke instructively. Aside from the great gangs, 
 the Eastmans and the Five Points, I learned that 
 other smaller yet independent gangs existed. Also, 
 from Whitey s discourse, it was made clear that 
 just as countries had frontiers, so also were there 
 frontiers to the countries of the gangs. The Five 
 Points, with fifteen hundred on its puissant muster 
 
 73
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 rolls, was supreme he said between Broadway 
 and the Bowery, Fourteenth Street and City Hall 
 Park. The Eastmans, with one thousand warriors, 
 flourished between Monroe and Fourteenth Streets, 
 the Bowery and the East River. The Gas House 
 Gang, with only two hundred in its nose count, was 
 at home along Third Avenue between Eleventh and 
 Eighteenth Streets. The vivacious Gophers were 
 altogether heroes of the West Side. They numbered 
 full five hundred, each a holy terror, and ranged the 
 region bounded by Seventh Avenue, Fourteenth 
 Street, Tenth Avenue and Forty-second Street. The 
 Gophers owned a rock-bottom fame for their fight 
 ing qualities, and, speaking in the sense militant, 
 neither the Eastmans nor the Five Points would 
 care to mingle with them on slighter terms than 
 two to one. The fulness of Whitey Dutch, himself 
 of the Five Points, in what justice he did the 
 Gophers, marked his splendid breadth of soul. 
 
 Ike the Blood, overhung by some cloud of moodi- 
 nes, devoted himself moderately to beer, taking lit 
 tle or less part in the talk. Evidently there was 
 something bearing him down. 
 
 "I ain t feelin gay," he remarked; "an at that, 
 if youse was to ast me, I couldn t tell youse why." 
 
 As though a thought had been suggested, he 
 arose and started for the door. 
 
 "I won t be away ten minutes," he said. 
 
 Slimmy looked curiously at Whitey Dutch. 
 74
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 "He s chased off to one of them fortune-tellers," 
 said Whitey. 
 
 "Do youse take any stock in them ginks who 
 claims they can skin a deck of cards, or cock their 
 eye into a teacup, an then put you next to everyt ing 
 that ll happen to you in a year?" 
 
 Slimmy aimed this at me. 
 
 Upon my assurance, given with emphasis, that I 
 attached no weight to so-called seers and fortune 
 tellers, he was so magnanimous as to indorse my 
 position. 
 
 "They re a bunch of cheap bunks," he declared. 
 "I ve gone ag inst em time an time, an there s 
 nothin in it. One of em gives me his woid after 
 me comin across wit fifty cents th time Belfast 
 Danny s in trouble, that Danny ll be toined out all 
 right. Two days later Danny gets settled for five 
 years." 
 
 "Ike s stuck on em," remarked Whitey. 
 
 Slimmy and Whitey Dutch, speaking freely and 
 I think veraciously, told me many things. Whitey 
 explained that, while he and Slimmy were shining 
 lights of the Five Points, yet to be found fraterniz 
 ing with Ike the Blood an Eastman was in per 
 fect keeping with gang proprieties. For, as he 
 pointed out, there was momentary truce between the 
 Eastmans and the Five Points. Among the gangs, 
 in seasons of gang peace, the nobles by word of 
 Whitey were expected to make stately calls of cere- 
 
 75
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 mony and good fellowship upon one another, as had 
 been the wont among Highland chieftains in the 
 days of Bruce and Wallace. 
 
 "Speaking of the Gas House Gang : how do they 
 live?" I asked. 
 
 "Stickin* up lushes mostly." 
 
 "How much of this stick-up work goes on?" 
 
 "Well" thoughtfully "they ll pull off as many 
 as twenty-five stick-ups to-night." 
 
 "There s no such number of squeals coming in at 
 headquarters." 
 
 The contradiction emanated from my Central Of 
 fice friend, who felt criticized by inference. 
 
 "Squeals!" exclaimed Whitey Dutch with 
 warmth, "w y should they squeal ? The Gas House 
 push d cook em if they squealed. Suppose right 
 now I was to go out an get put in th air; do you 
 think I d squeal? Well, I should say not; I m no 
 mutt ! They d about come gallopin round tomorry 
 wit bale-sticks, an break me arms an legs, or 
 mebby knock me block off. W y, not a week ago, 
 three Gas House shtockers stands me up in Riving- 
 ton Street, an takes me clock a red one wit two 
 doors. Then they pinches a fiver out of me keck. 
 They even takes me bank-book. 
 
 " Wat license has a stiff like youse got to have 
 $375 in th bank? they says like that. 
 
 "Next night they comes bluffin round for me 
 three hundred and seventy-five dollar plant w at 
 
 76
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 do you t ink of that? But I m there wit a gatt me- 
 self that time, an ready to give em an argument. 
 Wen they sees I m framed up, they gets cold feet. 
 But you can bet I don t do no squealin !" 
 
 "Did you get back your watch ?" 
 
 "How could I get it back?" peevishly. "No, I 
 don t get back me watch. All the same, I ll lay for 
 them babies. Some day I ll get em right, an trim 
 em to the queen s taste." 
 
 My friend, leading conversation in his specious 
 Central Office way, spoke of Ike the Blood s iron 
 fame, and slanted talk in that direction. 
 
 "Ike can certainly go some!" observed Slimmy 
 meditatively. "Take it from me, there ain t any of 
 em, even th toughest ever, wants his game." 
 Turning to Whitey: "Don t youse remember, 
 Whitey, when he tears into Humpty Jackson an 
 two of his mob, over in Thirteenth Street, that time ? 
 There s nothin to it ! Ike simply makes em jump 
 t rough a hoop! Every lobster of em has his rod 
 wit him, too." 
 
 "They wouldn t have had the nerve to fire em if 
 they d pulled em," sneered Whitey. "Ike d have 
 made em eat th guttaperchy all off th handles, too. 
 Say, I don t t ink much of that Gas House fleet. 
 They talk strong; but they don t bring home th 
 goods, see!" 
 
 It appeared that, in spite of his sanguinary title, 
 Ike the Blood had never killed his man. 
 
 77
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 . "He s tried," explained Slimmy, who felt as 
 though the absent one, in his blood-guiltlessness, re 
 quired defense; "but he all th time misses. Ike s 
 th woist shot wit a rod in th woild." 
 
 "Sure, Mike!" from Whitey Dutch, his nose in 
 his drink; "he couldn t hit th Singer Buildin ." 
 "How does he make his money?" I asked. 
 
 "Loft worker," broke in my friend. 
 
 The remark was calculated to explode the others 
 into fresh confidences. 
 
 "Don t youse believe it! came in vigorous de 
 nial from Whitey Dutch. "Ike never cracked a bin 
 in his life. You bulls" this was pointed especially 
 at my friend "say he s a dip, too. W y, it s a 
 laugh ! Ike couldn t pick th pocket of a dead man 
 couldn t put his hand into a swimmin tank! 
 That s how fly he is." 
 
 "Now don t try to string me," retorted my friend, 
 severely. "Didn t Ike fill in with Little Alaxie and 
 his mob, when they worked the Jersey fairs?" 
 
 "But that was only to do the strong-arm work, 
 in case there s a scrap," protested Whitey. "On th 
 level, Ike is woise than Big Abrarns. He can t even 
 stall. An as for gettin a leather or a watch, gettin 
 a perfecto out of a cigar box would be about his 
 limit." 
 
 "That Joisey s a bum place; youse can go there 
 for t ree cents." 
 
 The last was interjected by Slimmy who had a 
 78
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 fine wit of his own with the hopeful notion of di 
 verting discussion to less exciting questions than 
 pocket-picking at the New Jersey fairs. 
 
 It developed that while Ike the Blood had now 
 and then held up a stuss game for its bank-roll, dur 
 ing some desperate ebb-tide of his fortunes, he drew 
 his big income from a yearly ball. 
 
 "He gives a racket," declared Whitey Dutch; 
 "that s how Ike gets his dough. Th last one he 
 pulls off nets him about twenty-five hundred plunks." 
 
 "What price were the tickets?" I inquired. 
 Twenty-five hundred dollars sounded large. 
 
 "Th tickets is fifty cents," returned Whitey, "but 
 that s got nothin to do wit it. A guy t rows down 
 say a ten-spot at th box-office, like that" and 
 Whitey made a motion with his hand, which wa 
 royal in its generous openness. " Gimme a paste 
 board! he says; an that ends it; he ain t lookin 
 for no change back. Every sport does th same. 
 Some t rows in five, some ten, some guy even 
 changes in a twenty if he s pulled off a trick an is 
 feelin flush. It s all right; there s nothin in bein 
 a piker. Ike himself sells th tickets; an th more 
 you planks down th more he knows you like him." 
 
 It was becoming plain. A gentleman of gang 
 prominence gives a ball a racket and coins, so to 
 speak, his disrepute. He of sternest and most 
 bloody past takes in the most money. To discover 
 one s status in Gangland, one has but to give a 
 
 79
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 racket. . The measure of the box-receipts will be 
 the dread measure of one s reputation. 
 
 "One t ing youse can say of Ike," observed 
 Slimmy, wearing the while a look of virtue, "he 
 never made no money off a woman." 
 
 "Never in all his life took a dollar off a doll !" 
 added Whitey, corroboratively. 
 
 Ike the Blood reappearing at this juncture, it was 
 deemed best to cease audibly, at least all consid 
 eration of his merits. He might have regarded dis 
 cussion, so personal to himself, with disfavor. 
 Laughing lightly, he took his old place at the table, 
 and beckoned the waiter. Compared with what had 
 been its former cloudy expression, his face wore a 
 look of relief. 
 
 "Say, I don t mind tellin youse guys," he said 
 at last, breaking into an uneasy laugh, "but th fact 
 is, I skinned round into Sixt Avenoo to a fortune 
 teller a dandy, she is one that t rows a fit, or 
 goes into a trance, or some such t ing." 
 
 "A fortune teller!" said Slimmy, as though he d 
 never heard the word before. 
 
 "It s on account of a dream. In all th years" 
 Ike spoke as might one who had put a century be 
 hind him "in all th years I ve been knockin about, 
 an I ve had me troubles, I never gets a notch on me 
 gun, see ? Not that I went lookin for any ; not that 
 I m lookin for any now. But last night I had a 
 dream : I dreams I croaks a guy. Mebby it s some- 
 
 80
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 t in I d been eatin ; mebby it s because of me bav 
 in a pretty hot argument th mornin before; but 
 anyhow it bothers me that dream does. You see" 
 this to my friend "I m figgerin on openin a 
 house over in Twenty-fift Street, an these West 
 Side ducks is all for givin me th frozen face. They 
 say I oughter stick down on th East Side, where I 
 belongs, an not come chasin up here, cuttin in on 
 their graft. Anyhow, I dreams I puts th foist 
 notch on me gun " 
 
 "And so you consult a fortune teller," laughed my 
 friend, who was not superstitious, but practical. 
 
 "Wait till I tells you. As I says, I blows in on 
 that trance party. I don t wise her up about any 
 dream, but comes t rough wit th little old one buck 
 she charges, an says : There you be ! Now roll 
 your game for th limit ! 
 
 "Which she proceeded to do," broke in my friend. 
 
 "Listen! Th old dame after coppin me dollar 
 stiffens back an shuts her eyes ; an next, th foist 
 flash out of -th box she says speakin like th wind 
 in a keyhole : You re in th midst of trouble ; a man 
 is killed! Then she wakes up. W y didn t youse 
 go t rough ? I says ; I want th rest. Who is it gets 
 croaked, th other dub or me ? Th old dame insists 
 that to go back, an get th address of th party who s 
 been bumped off, she must have another dollar. Oh, 
 they re th birds, them fortune tellers, to grab th 
 dough ! But of course I can t stop there, so I bucks 
 
 81
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 up wit another bone. There you be/ I says; now, 
 is it me that gets it, or does he?" 
 
 "Wat he?" demanded Whitey. 
 
 "How do I know ?" The tone and manner were 
 impatient. "It s th geek I m havin trouble wit ." 
 Ike looked at me, as one who would understand and 
 perhaps sympathize, and continued: "This time th 
 old dame says th party who s been cooked is some 
 other guy; it ain t me. T can see now that it ain t 
 you, she says. You re ridin away in a patrol 
 wagon, wit a lot of harness bulls. That s good so 
 far. So I gets th collar? I says. How about th 
 trial ? She answers, There ain t no trial ; an then 
 she comes out of her trance, same as a diver comes 
 up out o the water." 
 
 "Is that all ?" asked Slimmy. 
 
 "That s where she lets me off." 
 
 "W y don t youse dig for another dollar," said 
 Whitey, "an tell th old hag to put on her suit an 
 go down ag in for th rest?" Whitey had been im 
 pressed by that simile of the diver. 
 
 "Wat more is there to get? I ain t killed; an I 
 ain t tried that oughter do me. Th coroner t rows 
 me loose, most likely. Anyhow, I ain t goin to sit 
 there all day, skinnhr me roll for that old sponge 
 a plunk a crack, too." 
 
 "Talk of th cost of livin !" remarked Slimmy, 
 with a grin. "Ain t it fierce, th way them fortune 
 tellers ll slim a guy s bank-roll for him, once they 
 
 82
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 has him hooked ? They ll get youse to goin ; an 
 after that it s like one of them stories w at ends wit 
 Continued in our next. W y, it s like playin th 
 horses, only woise. Th foist day you goes out to 
 win; an after that, you keep goin back to get even." 
 
 Ike the Blood paid no heed to the pessimistic phi 
 losophy of Slimmy; he was too wholly wrapped up 
 in what he had been told. 
 
 "Well," he broke forth, following a ruminative 
 pause, "anyhow, I d sooner he gets it than me." 
 
 "There you go ag in about that he, " protested 
 Whitey, and the manner of Whitey was querulous. 
 
 "Th guy she sees me hooked up wit !" This 
 came off a bit warmly. "You know w at I mean." 
 
 "Take it easy! take it easy!" urged my friend. 
 "What is there to get hot about? You don t mean 
 to say, Ike, you re banking on that guff the old 
 dame handed you?" 
 
 "Next \veek" the shadow of a smile playing 
 across his face "I won t believe it. But it sounds 
 like th real t ing now." 
 
 The door of the Bal Tabarin opened to the advent 
 of a weasel-eyed individual. 
 
 "Hello, Whitey!" exclaimed Weasel-eye cheerily, 
 shaking hands with Whitey Dutch. "I just leaves 
 a namesake of yours ; an say, he s in bad !" 
 
 "Wat namesake?" 
 
 "Whitey Louie. A bunch of them West Side 
 83
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 guerrillas has him cornered, over in a dump at 
 Twenty-seventh Street and Seventh Avenoo. It 
 looks like there d be somethin doin ; an , as I don t 
 want no part of it, I screws out." 
 
 At the name of Whitey Louie, Ike the Blood 
 arose to his feet. 
 
 "Whitey Louie?" he questioned; "Seventh Ave 
 noo an Twenty-seventh Street?" 
 
 "That s th ticket," replied Weasel-eye; "an* 
 youse can cash on it." 
 
 Ike the Blood hurried out the door. 
 
 "Whitey Louie is Ike s closest pal," observed 
 Whitey Dutch, explaining the hurried departure. 
 
 "Will there be trouble ?" I asked. 
 
 "I don t t ink so," said Slimmy. "It s four for 
 one they ll lay down to Ike." 
 
 "Don t put your swell bet on it !" came warn- 
 ingly from Whitey Dutch; "them Gophers are as 
 tough a bunch as ever comes down the pike." 
 
 "Tough nothin !" returned Slimmy: "they ll be 
 duck soup to Ike." 
 
 "Why don t you look into it?" I asked, turning 
 to my friend. As a taxpayer, I yearned for some 
 return on that $16,000,000 a year which New York 
 City pays for its police. 
 
 That ornament of the Central Office yawned, and 
 motioned to the waiter to bring his bill. 
 
 "That sort of thing is up to the cop on the beat," 
 said he. 
 
 84
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 "Whitey an me ud get in on it," explained 
 Slimmy his expression was one of half apology 
 "only you see we belong at th other end of th 
 alley. We re Five Points; Ike an Whitey Louie 
 are Eastmans ; an in a clash between Eastmans an 
 Gophers, it s up to us to stand paws-off, see!" 
 
 "That s straight talk," coincided Whitey. 
 
 "Suppose, seeing it s stopped raining, we drift 
 over there," said my friend, adjusting his Panama 
 at the exact Central Office angle. 
 
 As we journeyed along, I noticed Slimmy and 
 Whitey Dutch across the street. It was already 
 written that Whitey Dutch, himself, would be shot 
 to death in the Stag before the year was out; but 
 the shadow of that impending taking-off was not 
 apparent in his face. Indeed, from that face there 
 shone forth only pleasure in anticipation, and a 
 lively interest. 
 
 "They d no more miss it than they d miss a play 
 at the theater," remarked my friend, who saw 
 where my glance was directed. 
 
 About a ginmill, on the corner of Seventh Ave 
 nue and Twenty-seventh Street, a crowd had col 
 lected. A patrol wagon was backing up. 
 
 An officer in uniform tossed a prisoner into the 
 wagon, with no more ceremony than should attend 
 the handling of a bag of bran. 
 
 "It s Dubillier!" exclaimed Whitey Dutch, nam 
 ing 1 the prisoner. 
 
 85
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 The two Five Pointers had taken position on the 
 edge of the crowd, directly in front of my friend 
 and me. 
 
 "There s Ike!" said Slimmy, as two policemen 
 were seen pushing their way towards the patrol 
 wagon, Ike the Blood between them. "Them bulls 
 is holdin him up, too, an his face is as pale as 
 paper! By thunder, they ve nailed him!" 
 
 "I told you them Gophers were tough students," 
 was the comment of Whitey Dutch. 
 
 My friend began forcing his way forward. As 
 he plowed through the crowd, Whitey Dutch and 
 Slimmy, having advantage of his wake, kept close 
 at his heels. 
 
 Slimmy threw me a whispered word : "Be th 
 way th mob is actin , I t ink Ike copped one." 
 
 Slimmy, before the lapse of many minutes, was 
 again at my side, attended by Whitey Dutch. The 
 pair wore that manner of quick yet neutral appre 
 ciation which belongs we ll say with such as 
 English army officers visiting the battlefield of 
 Santiago while the action between the Spaniards 
 and the Americans is being waged. It wasn t their 
 fight, it was an Eastman-Gopher fight, but as full 
 blown Five Pointers it became them vastly to be 
 present. Also, they might learn something. 
 
 "Ike dropped one," nodded Whitey Dutch, an 
 swering the question in my eye. "It s Ledwich." 
 
 "What was the row about?" I asked.
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 "Whitey Louie. The Gophers was goin to hand 
 it to him; but just then Ike comes through th door 
 on th run, an wit that they outs wit their rods 
 an goes to peggin at him. Then Ike gets to goin 
 an cops Ledwich." 
 
 "Th best th Gophers can get," observed Slimmy 
 and his manner was as the manner of one bal 
 ancing an account "th best th Gophers can get 
 is an even break ; an to do that they ll have to cash 
 on Ike. Whitey Louie? He makes his get-away 
 all right. Say, Whitey, let s beat it round to the 
 Tenderloin Station, an get th finish." 
 
 The finish was soon told. Ike the Blood lay 
 dead on the station house floor ; a bullet had drilled 
 its dull way through his lungs. An officer was 
 just telephoning his people in Chrystie Street. 
 
 "Now do youse see?" said Whitey Dutch, cor 
 recting what he conceived to be Slimmy s skepti 
 cism ; "that fortune tellin skirt handed out th right 
 dope. One croaked ! Ike in th hurry-up wagon ! 
 no trial! That s th spiel she makes; an it falls 
 true, see!" 
 
 "Ike oughter have dug down for another bone," 
 returned Slimmy, more than half convinced; "she d 
 have put him hep to that bullet in his breather, 
 mebby." 
 
 "Wat good ud that have done?" 
 
 "Good ? If he d got th tip, he might have ducked 
 you can t tell." 
 
 87
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 "It s a bad business," I commented to my friend, 
 who had rejoined me. 
 
 "It would be a good thing" shrugging his 
 cynical Central Office shoulders "if, with a change 
 of names, it could happen every day in the year. 
 By the way, I forgot my umbrella ; let s go back to 
 the Bal Tabarin." 
 
 88
 
 V. 
 
 INDIAN LOUIE 
 
 No one knew his real name, not even the police, 
 and the police, let me tell you, know much more 
 than they can prove. The Central Office never once 
 had the pleasure of mugging and measuring and 
 parading him at the morning bawling out, and the 
 Mulberry Street records to the last were barren con 
 cerning him. For one brief space and only one did 
 Mulberry Street nourish hopes. That was when he 
 himself let it be thought that somewhere, some 
 time, somehow, he had taken some one s life. At 
 this, Mulberry Street fairly shook the wide earth 
 like a tablecloth in search of proof, but got not 
 so much as one poor crumb of confirmation. 
 
 It was at Big Jack s in Chatham Square that 
 local history first laid eyes on him. Big Jack is 
 gone now; the Committee of Fourteen decided upon 
 him virtuously as an immoralist, handed him the 
 fatal blue paper, and he perished. Jack Sirocco 
 who was himself blue-papered in a Park Row hour 
 keeps the place now. 
 
 Starting from Big Jack s, he soon began to be 
 known in Flynn s, and Nigger Mike s, and about 
 
 89
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 the Chatham Club. When his pals spoke to him 
 they called him Louie. When they spoke of him they 
 called him Indian Louie, or Spanish Louie, to the 
 end that he be identified among 1 the hosts of East 
 Side Louies, who were and are as many as the 
 leaves on a large tree. 
 
 Rumor made Indian Louie a native of South 
 America, and his dark skin, black eyes, thin lips, 
 high cheek-bones and high curved nose helped 
 rumor out in this. Also, he was supposed to be 
 of Spanish or Portuguese extraction. 
 
 When Louie was buried, this latter assumption 
 received a jolt. His funeral, conducted by a rabbi, 
 was according to strictest Hebrew ceremonial. 
 Two pieces of porcelain were laid upon his eyes, 
 as intimating that he had seen enough. A feather, 
 which a breath would have disturbed, was placed 
 upon his upper lip. This was to evidence him as 
 fully and conclusively dead, although on that point, 
 in all conscience, the coroner s finding should have 
 been enough. The flowers, which Gangland sent 
 to prove its grief, were put aside because too gay 
 and pleasant. The body was laid upon straw. A 
 would-be pallbearer, since his name was Cohen, 
 had to be excluded from the rites, as any orthodox 
 Jew could have told him must be the case. For 
 death and the dead are unclean ; and a Cohen, who 
 by virtue of his name is of the high-priest caste 
 Aaron was a Cohen and tends the altars, must 
 
 90
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 touch nothing, approach nothing, that is unclean. 
 The funeral was scrupulously held before the sec 
 ond sun went down, and had to be hurried a little, 
 because the morgue authorities, hobbled of red 
 tape, move as slowly as the sea itself in giving up 
 the dead. The coffin of poorest pine was 
 knocked to pieces in the grave, before the clods of 
 earth were shoveled in and the doomsday sods laid 
 on. The garments of him who acted as principal 
 mourner were faithfully torn; that is to say, the 
 rabbi cut a careful slit in the lapel of that mourner s 
 waistcoat where it wouldn t show. 
 
 You will see from this, that every detail was 
 holy by most .ancient Jewish prescription. And the 
 business led to talk. Those about Flynn s, Nigger 
 Mike s and the Chatham Club, to say naught of 
 members of the Humpty Jackson gang, and others 
 who in his latter days had been near if not dear 
 to him, confessed that it went far in contradic 
 tion of any Spanish or Portuguese ancestry for 
 Louie. 
 
 Louie was a mystery, and studied to be so. And 
 to be a mystery is as difficult as being a hypocrite. 
 One wrong word, one moment off your guard, and 
 to, a flood of light ! The mystery vanishes, the 
 hypocrisy is laid bare. You are no longer a riddle. 
 Or, if so, then a riddle that has been solved. And 
 he who was a riddle, but has been solved, is every 
 where scoffed at and despised. 
 
 91
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 Louie must have possessed a genius for mystery, 
 since not once did he fall down in that difficult 
 role. He denied nothing, confirmed nothing, of the 
 many tales told about him. A waif -word wagged 
 that he had been in the army, without pointing to 
 any regiment; and that he had been in the navy, 
 without indicating what boat. Louie, it is to be 
 thought, somewhat fostered this confusion. It 
 deepened him as a mystery, and made him more 
 impressive. 
 
 Louie was careful, also, that his costume should 
 assist. He made up all in black black shoes, black 
 trousers, black coat, black hat of semi-sombrero 
 type. Even in what may be spoken of as the matter 
 of linen although there was no linen about it he 
 adhered to that funereal hue, and in lieu of a shirt 
 wore a sweater, collar close up to the chin, and all 
 as black as his coat. As he walked the streets, 
 black eyes challenging, threatening, from under 
 neath the black, wide-rimmed hat, he showed not 
 from top to toe a fleck of white. 
 
 Among what tales went here and there concern 
 ing Louie, there was one which described him as 
 the deadest of dead shots. This he accentuated by 
 a brace of big Colt s pistols, which bore him con 
 stant company, daylight and dark. There was no 
 evidence of his having used this artillery, no word 
 of any killing to his perilous glory. Indeed, he 
 
 92
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 couldn t have pointed to so much as one wounded 
 man. 
 
 Only once did those pistols come into play. Val- 
 enski s stuss house, in Third Avenue near Four 
 teenth Street, was put in the air. The hold-ups 
 descended upon Valenski s, grabbed $80 which was 
 on the table, and sent Valenski into his safe for 
 $300 more. While this went on, Louie stood in the 
 door, a gun in each fist, defying the gaping, star 
 ing, pop-eyed public to interfere. He ran no risk, 
 as everyone well knew. The East Side, while valor 
 ous, never volunteers. There was no more chance 
 of outside interference to save Valenski from be 
 ing plundered, than of outside contributions to 
 make him up another roll. 
 
 The incident might have helped in building up 
 for Louie a reputation, had it not been that all that 
 was starkly heroic therein melted when, two days 
 later, the ravished $380 was privily restored to 
 Valenski, with the assurance that the entire busi 
 ness was a jest. Valenski knew nothing humor 
 ous had been intended, and that his bundle was 
 returned in deference only to the orders of one 
 high in politics and power. Also, it was the com 
 mon feeling, a feeling no less cogent for not being 
 put into words, that had Louie been of the wood 
 from which champions are carved, the $380 would 
 never have come back. To refrain from some in- 
 
 93
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 tended stick-up upon grave orders given, might 
 mean no more than prudence and a right discipline. 
 But to send back money, once in actual hand and 
 when the risk and work of which it stood the 
 harvest had been encountered and performed, was 
 to fly in the face of gang ethics. An order to that 
 effect, however eminent its source, should have 
 been met with stony refusal. 
 
 There was one tale which should go, perhaps, to 
 the right side of the reputational ledger, as indicat 
 ing that Louie had nerve. Crazy Charlie was 
 found dead in the mouth of a passageway, which 
 opened off Mulberry Street near the Bowery. His 
 throat had been cut from ear to ear. No one of 
 sense supposed Louie did that throat slashing. 
 Crazy Charlie was a hop-head, without a dollar in 
 his jeans, and Louie never did anything except for 
 money. He would no more have gone about a 
 profitless killing, than he would have wasted time 
 and effort by fishing in a bathtub. 
 
 For all that, on the whispered hint of the Ghost 
 who himself was killed finally as a snitch two 
 plain-clothes men from the Eldridge Street station 
 grabbed Louie. They did not tell him the reason 
 of the pinch. Neither did they spread it on the 
 books. The police have a habit of protecting them 
 selves from the consequences of a foolish collar 
 by a specious system of concealment, and put noth 
 ing on the blotter until sure. 
 
 94
 
 When searched at the desk, Louie s guns were 
 discovered. Also, from inside his waistcoat was 
 taken a seven-inch knife, which, as said the police 
 sergeant, might have slit the windpipe of Crazy 
 Charlie or any other bug. But, as anyone with eyes 
 might see, the knife was as purely virginal as when 
 it came from a final emery wheel in its far-off Shef 
 field home. It had slit nothing. 
 
 Still, those plain-clothes dicks did not despair. 
 They hoped to startle Louie into a confession. With 
 a view to his moral and physical stampede, they 
 conveyed Louie in a closed patrol wagon, at mirk 
 midnight, to the morgue. He hadn t been told what 
 he was charged with; he didn t know where he. was 
 going. 
 
 The wagon backed up to the morgue door. Louie 
 had never visited the morgue before, though fated 
 in the end to appear there officially. The plain- 
 clothes men, one at each shoulder, steered him in 
 side. All was thick blackness; you couldn t have 
 seen your own nose. Feeling their wordless way, 
 the painstaking plain-clothes folk manhandled Louie 
 into position. 
 
 Then they flashed on a flood of electric light. 
 
 There, within two feet of Louie, and squarely 
 beneath his eyes, lay the dead Crazy Charlie, posed 
 so as to show effectively that gruesome slash across 
 the throat. Louie neither started nor exclaimed. 
 Gazing down on the dead Charlie, he searched forth 
 
 95
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 a cigarette and turned to one of his plain-clothes 
 escorts for a match. 
 
 "Do you see this?" demanded the plain-clothes 
 man, slewing round the dead head until that throat- 
 gash yawned like some horrid mouth. 
 
 The plain-clothes man was wroth to think he 
 should have worked so hard to achieve so little. 
 
 "Yes," retorted Louie, as cold as a wedge. "Also, 
 I ll tell you bulls another thing. You think to rattle 
 me. Say, for ten cents I d sit on this stiff all night 
 an smoke a pipe." 
 
 Those plain-clothes artists gave Louie up. They 
 turned him loose at the morgue door. 
 
 The affair worked round, and helped Louie to a 
 better position in the minds of all fair men. It fell 
 in lucky, too, since it more than stood off a set 
 back which overtook him about the same time. 
 Louie had called upon the Irish Wop, at the latter s 
 poolroom in Fourth Avenue. This emigrant from 
 Mayo was thin and slight and sickly, and Louie 
 argued that he might bully him out of a handful of 
 money. Putting on a darkest frown, he demanded 
 fifty dollars, and intimated that dire indeed would 
 be the consequences of refusal. 
 
 "Because," said Louie, "when I go out for any 
 thing I get it, see?" 
 
 The Wop coughed timidly and made a sugges 
 tion. "Come round in half an hour," said he, 
 
 96
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 "when the last race from New Orleans is in; I ll 
 have the cush ready for yez." 
 
 Louie withdrew, and the Wop shoved the poker 
 into the blazing big-bellied stove. 
 
 An hour later, that New Orleans race having 
 been run, Louie returned. The poker being by 
 this time white-hot, the Wop drew it forth from 
 the stove. There were no stage waits. Applying 
 the poker to the shrinking rear of Louie, the Wop 
 compelled that yearner after fifty dollars to leap 
 screechingly from a second-storey window. 
 
 "That s phwy I puts th windy up," explained the 
 Wop; "I didn t want that chape skate to bre-a-ak 
 th glassh. Indian Louie ! Spanish Louie !" he 
 repeated with measureless contempt. "Let me tell 
 youse ginks wan thing." This to a circle who had 
 beheld the flight of Louie. " If ever that bum shows 
 up here ag in, I ll put him out av business alto 
 gether. Does he think a two-cint Guinea from 
 Sout Ameriky can bluff a full-blown Mick ?" 
 
 Louie s flight through the Wop s window, as had 
 his steadiness at the morgue, went the gossipy 
 rounds. It didn t injure him as much as you might 
 think. 
 
 "For who," said the general voice, "would face 
 and fight a white-hot poker ?" 
 
 On the whole, public sentiment was inclined to 
 sustain Louie in that second-storey jump. 
 
 97
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 From what has been written, it will not astonish 
 you to hear that, upon the important matter of 
 courage, Louie s place in society had not been ab 
 solutely fixed. Some said one thing, some another. 
 There are game men in Gangland; and there exist 
 others who aren t the real thing. Sardinia Frank 
 believes, with the Irish Wop, that Louie belonged 
 in the latter class. Also, Sardinia Frank is en 
 titled to an opinion. For he was born in Mulberry 
 Bend, and has himself been tried twice on charges 
 of murder. 
 
 It was Sardinia Frank, by the wa}^, who smote 
 upon Eat- em-up Jack with that effective lead pipe, 
 albeit, there being no proof, he was never arrested 
 for it. No, he doesn t admit it, even among inti 
 mates and where such admission would be respected 
 as sacred. But when joked concerning it, he has 
 ever worn a cheerful, satisfied look like the pic 
 tures of the cat that ate the canary and while 
 careful not to accept, was equally careful not to 
 reject, the compliment implied. Moreover, when 
 the dead Eat- em-up- Jack was picked up, the lead 
 pipe used to break his skull had been tucked jocosely 
 under his arm. It was clear to knowing ones that 
 irone except Sardinia Frank would have thought of 
 such a jest. To him it would have come readily 
 enough, since death always appealed to his sense 
 of humor. 
 
 Clad in a Tuxedo and an open-face suit, Sar- 
 98
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 dinia Frank, at the time I questioned him, was offi 
 ciating as peace-preserver in the Normandie raths 
 keller. By way of opener, I spoke of his mission 
 on the rathskeller earth. 
 
 "I m here to keep out everybody I know," said 
 he simply. 
 
 There was a pathetic side to this which, in his 
 ingenuousness, Frank failed wholly to remark. 
 
 "About Indian Louie?" I at last said. 
 
 It was within an hour after Louie had been 
 killed. 
 
 "I ll tell youse about Louie," returned Frank. 
 "Of course, he s dead, an lyin on a slab in th 
 morgue right now. They phoned me woid ten 
 minutes ago. But that don t make no difference. 
 He was a bluff; he wasn t th goods. He went 
 around wit his hat over his eyes, bulldozin every 
 body he could, an lettin on to be a hero. An he s 
 got what heroes get." 
 
 "Did you ever get tangled up with him ?" I asked. 
 
 "Let me show you," and Frank became confi 
 dential. "This ll give youse a line. One time he s 
 got two hundred bones. Mollie Squint climbs into 
 a yap-wagon an touches a rube for it. Louie takes 
 it, an plants it wit Nigger Mike. That s about six 
 months ago. Th next night, me bein wise to it, 
 I chases to Mike an says, Louie s over to Jigger s, 
 pointin stuss, an he wants th two hundred. So 
 Mike hands me th dough. I splits it five ways wit 
 
 99
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 th gang who s along, each of us gettin his little 
 old bit of forty dollars apiece. 
 
 "Louie, when he finds out next day, makes an 
 awful beef. He tells everybody he s goin to hand 
 it to me goin to cook me on sight, see? I hears 
 of it, an I hunts Louie up in Jack Sirocco s. 
 
 " Say, Louie, I says, about that cookin me. 
 Th bully way would be to come right now over to 
 Hoboken, an bump me off to-night. I ll go wit 
 youse. An there won t be no hang-over, see; 
 cause no one in Joisey ll care, an no one in New 
 York ll know. 
 
 "Do youse think Louie ll come? Not on your 
 necktie! He didn t want me game just wanted 
 to talk, that s all. 
 
 " Not youse, Frank, he said ; I ain t gunnin 
 for youse. It s Nigger Mike; he s th guy I m 
 goin to croak. He oughtn t to have let youse have 
 th money. No, of course, he don t go after Mike; 
 that s simply his crawl. 
 
 "Take it from me," Frank concluded, "Louie 
 wasn t th goods. He d run a bluff, but he never 
 really hoited a guy in his whole life. As I says, 
 he goes about frownin , an glarin , an givin peo 
 ple th fiery eye, an t rowin a chest, an lettin it go 
 broadcast that he s a hero. An for a finish he s 
 got w at heroes get." 
 
 Such was the word of Sardinia Frank. 
 
 When he fell with two bullets through his brain, 
 100
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 and two more through his body, Louie had $170 in 
 his pocket, $700 in his shoe, and $3,000 in the 
 Bowery Bank. This prosperity needn t amaze. 
 There was, for one thing, a racket reason to be 
 hereinafter set forth. Besides, Pretty Agnes and 
 Mollie Squint both walked the streets in Louie s 
 loved behalf, and brought him all in the way of 
 riches that came to their lure. Either was sure for 
 five dollars a day, and Mollie Squint, who could 
 graft a little, once came in with $800. Both Pretty 
 Agnes and Mollie Squint most fiercely adored 
 Louie, and well did he know how to play one lov 
 ing heart against the other. Some say that of the 
 pair he preferred Pretty Agnes. If so, he wasn t 
 fool enough to let her find it out. She might have 
 neglected her business to bask in his sweet society. 
 
 Besides, when it came to that, Louie s heart was 
 really given to a blonde burlesquer, opulent of 
 charm. This artiste snubbed and neglected Louie 
 for the love of a stage manager. But she took 
 and spent Louie s money, almost if not quite as 
 fast as Pretty Agnes and Mollie Squint could bring 
 it to him from the streets. 
 
 Louie never made any place his hangout long. 
 There was no element of loyalty in him, whether 
 for man or for woman, and he went from friend to 
 friend and gang to gang. He would stay nowhere, 
 remain with no one, after his supremacy had been 
 challenged. And such hardy natures as Biff Ellison, 
 
 101
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 Jimmy Kelly, Big Mike Abrams, Chick Tricker and 
 Jack Sirocco were bound to challenge it. They had a 
 way, too, of putting the acid on an individual, and 
 unless his fighting heart were purest gold they d 
 surely find it out. And Louie never stood the test. 
 Thus, beginning at Big Jack s in Chatham Square, 
 Louie went from hangout to hangout, mob to mob, 
 until, working through Nigger Mike s, the Chat 
 ham Club and Sharkey s, he came at last to pal in 
 with the Humpty Jackson guerrillas. 
 
 These worthies had a stamping ground in a 
 graveyard between First and Second Avenue, in the 
 block bounded north and south by Twelfth and 
 Thirteenth Streets. There Louie was wont to meet 
 such select company as Monahokky, Nigger Ruhl, 
 Candy Phil, the Lobster Kid, Maxie Hahn, and the 
 Grabber. As they lolled idly among the tombstones, 
 he would give them his adventures by flood and by 
 field. Louie, besides being conceited, was gifted 
 with an imagination and liked to hear himself talk. 
 Not that he felt obliged to accuracy in these narra 
 tions. It was enough that he made them thrilling, 
 and in their telling shed an effulgent ray upon 
 himself. 
 
 While he could entertain with his stories, Louie 
 was never popular. There was that doubt about his 
 courage. Also, he was too frugal. No one had 
 ever caught the color of his money. Save in the 
 avaricious instance of the big blonde burlesquer, 
 
 102
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 as hungry as false, he held by the selfish theology 
 that it is more blessed to receive than to give. 
 
 Taking one reason and another, those about 
 Louie at the finish were mainly the Humpty Jackson 
 bunch. His best hangout of any fashion was the 
 Hesper Club. Had Humpty Jackson remained with 
 his own, Louie might have been driven, in search 
 of comradeship, to go still further afield. Humpty 
 was no weakling, and while on the surface a whin 
 ing, wheedling, complaining cripple, owned his vol 
 canic side, and had once shot it out, gun to gun 
 and face to face, with no less a paladin than Jimmy 
 Kelly. Louie would have found the same fault 
 with Humpty that he had found with those others. 
 Only Humpty didn t last long enough after Louie 
 joined his forces. Some robbery came off, and a 
 dull jury held Humpty responsible. With that, the 
 judge sent him up for a long term of years, and 
 there he sticks to-day. Humpty took the journey 
 crying that he had been jobbed by the police. How 
 ever that may have been, his going made it possible 
 for Louie to remain with the Jacksons, and shine 
 at those ghoulish, graveyard meetings, much longer 
 than might otherwise have been the case. 
 
 While Louie had removed to the remote regions 
 about Fourteenth Street and Third Avenue, and 
 was seldom seen in Chatham Square or Chinatown, 
 he was not forgotten in those latter precincts. Jew 
 Yetta brought up his name one evening in the Chat- 
 
 103
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 ham Club, and spoke scornfully of him in conjunc 
 tion with the opulent blonde. 
 
 "That doll s makin a farmer of Louie," was the 
 view of Jew Yetta. 
 
 "At that," remarked the Dropper for this was 
 in the days of his liberty and before he had been 
 put away "farmer or no farmer, it s comin easier 
 for him now than when he was in the navy, eatin 
 sow-belly out of a harness cask an drinkin bilge. 
 Wat s that ship he says he s sailin in, Nailer?" 
 continued the Dropper. "Ain t it a tub called 
 Aidant a?" 
 
 "There never is a ship in the navy named Ata- 
 lanta." 
 
 This declaration, delivered with emphasis, ema 
 nated from old Jimmy, who had a place by himself 
 in East Side consideration. Old Jimmy was about 
 sixty, with a hardwood-finish face and possum- 
 colored hair. He had been a river pirate in the old 
 days, and roamed the midnight waters for what he 
 might pick up. Those were times when he troubled 
 the police, who made him trouble in return. But 
 one day old Jimmy salvaged a rich man s daughter, 
 who as though to make his fortune had fallen 
 overboard from a yacht, and bored her small hole 
 in the water within a rod or two of Jimmy s skiff. 
 Certainly, he fished her out, and did it with a boat 
 hook. More ; he sagaciously laid her willowy form 
 across a thwart, to the end that the river water flow 
 
 104
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 more easily from her rosebud mouth. Relieved 
 of the water, the rescued beauty thanked Jimmy 
 profusely; and, for his generous part, her million 
 aire father proceeded to pension his child s pre 
 server for life. The pension was twenty-five dol 
 lars a week. Coming fresh and fresh with every 
 Monday, Jimmy gave up his piracies and no longer 
 haunted in the name of loot the nightly reaches of 
 the river. Indeed, he became offensively idle and 
 honest. 
 
 "No sir," repeated old Jimmy; "there never is a 
 ship in our navy named Atalanta." 
 
 "All th same," retorted the dropper, "I lamps a 
 yacht once w at s called Atalanta." 
 
 "An who says No?" demanded old Jimmy, test 
 ily. "I m talkin about th United States Navy. 
 But speakin of Louie, it ain t no cinch he s ever 
 in th navy. I d sooner bet he s been in jail." 
 
 "An if he was," said Jew Yetta, "there ain t no 
 one here who s got anything on him." 
 
 "Wat does Atalanta mean, anyway?" questioned 
 the Dropper, who didn t like the talk of jails. "Is 
 it a place?" 
 
 "Nixie," put in Slimmy, the erudite, ever ready 
 to display his learning. "Atalanta s the name of a 
 skirt, who b longs way back. She s some soon as 
 a sprinter, too, an can run her one hundred yards 
 in better than ten seconds. Every god on Olympus 
 clocked this dame, an knew what she could do." 
 
 105
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 "Wat s her story?" asked the Dropper. 
 
 "It gets along, d ye see, where Atalanta s folks 
 thinks she ought to get married. But she won t 
 have it; she d sooner be a sprinter. With that, 
 they crowd her hand; an to get shut of em, she 
 finally tacks it up on the bulletin board that she ll 
 chase to th altar only with some student who can 
 beat her at a quarter mile dash. No lobsters need 
 apply! says she. Also, there s conditions. Under 
 the rules, if some chump calls th bluff, an can t 
 make good if she lands him loses her papa s 
 headsman will be on th job with his axe, an that 
 beaten gink ll get his block whacked off." 
 
 "An does any one go against such a game?" 
 queried Jew Yetta. 
 
 "Sure ! A whole fleet of young Archibalds and 
 Reginalds went up ag inst it. They all lose; an 
 his jiblets wit th cleaver chops off their youthful 
 beans. 
 
 "But the luck turns. One day a sure-thing geek 
 shows up whose monaker is Hippomenes. Hippy s 
 a fly Indian ; there ain t goin to be no headsman in 
 his. Hippy s hep to skirts, too, an knows where 
 th board is off their fence. He organizes with 
 three gold apples, see, an every time little Atalanta 
 Shootin Star goes flashin by, he chucks down one 
 of em in front of her. She simply eats it up; she 
 can t get by not one ; an she loses so much time 
 grabbin for em, Hippy noses in a winner." 
 
 106
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 "Good boy !" broke forth the Dropper. "An do 
 they hook up?" 
 
 "They re married; but it don t last. You see its 
 Venus who shows Hippy how to crab Atalanta s act 
 an stakes him to th gold apples. An later, when 
 he double-crosses Venus, that goddess changes him 
 an his baby mine into a couple of lions." 
 
 The Irish Wop had been listening impatiently. 
 It was when Governor Hughes flourished in Al 
 bany, and the race tracks were being threatened. 
 The Wop, as a pool-room keeper, was vastly con 
 cerned. 
 
 "I see," said the Wop, appealing directly to old 
 Jimmy as the East Side Nestor, "that la-a-ad 
 Hughes is makin it hot for Belmont an Keene an 
 th rist av th racin gang. Phwat s he so ha-a-ard 
 on racin for ? Do yez look on playin th ponies as 
 a vice, Jimmy?" 
 
 "Well," responded old Jimmy with a conserva 
 tive air, "I don t know as I d call it a vice so much 
 as a bonehead play." 
 
 "They call it th shpo-r-rt av kings," observed 
 <he Wop, loftily. 
 
 Old Jimmy snorted. "Sport of kings!" said he. 
 Sport of come-ons, rather. Them Sport-of-kings 
 ^ezebos 11 go on, too, an give you a lot of guff 
 about racin bein healthy. But they ain t sayin 
 a word concernin th mothers an youngones liv- 
 in in hot two-room tenements, an jumpin side- 
 
 107
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 ways for grub, while th husbands and fathers is 
 blowin in their bank-rolls in th bettin ring an 
 gettin healthy. An th little jocks, too mere kids! 
 I ve wondered th Gerries didn t get after em. But 
 I suppose th Gerries know who to pass up, an 
 who to pinch, as well as th oldest skipper on th 
 Force." 
 
 "F r all that," contended the Wop, stubbornly, 
 "thim la-a-ads that s mixed up wit th racin game 
 is good fellys." 
 
 "Good fellows," repeated old Jimmy with con- 
 tempt. "I recollect seein a picture once, a picture 
 of a girl a young wife, she is lyin with her 
 head on an untouched dinner table fallen asleep, 
 poor thing! Th clock in the picture is pointin to 
 midnight. There she s been waitin with th din 
 ner she s cooked with her own little lovin mitts, 
 for that souse of a husband to come home. Under 
 th picture it says, For he s a jolly good fellow ! 
 
 "Somebody d ought to have put a head on him !" 
 quoth Jew Yetta, whose sympathies were both ac 
 tive and militant. 
 
 "Say," went on Jimmy, "that picture gets on my 
 nerves. A week later I m down be th old Delmon- 
 ico joint at Twenty-sixth an Broadway. It s meb- 
 by one o clock in th mornin . As I m goin by 
 th Twenty-sixt Street door, out floats a fleet of 
 Willies, stewed to the gills, singin in honor of a 
 
 108
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 dude who s in th middle, For he s a jolly good 
 fellow. 
 
 " Who s that galoot? I asks th dub who s 
 slammin carriage doors at the curb. Is he a mar 
 ried man? 
 
 " He s married all right," says th door-slammin 
 dub. 
 
 "Wit that I tears into him. It s a good while 
 ago, an I could slug a little. Be th time th cop 
 per gets there, I ve got that jolly good fellow look- 
 in like he d been caught whistlin Croppies Lie 
 Down at Fiftieth Street an Fift Avenoo when th 
 Cathedral lets out." 
 
 "Well, I m not married," remarked the Wop, 
 snappishly; "I m not married; I niver was mar 
 ried; an I niver will be married aloive." 
 
 "Did youse notice?" remarked the Dropper, 
 "how they gets a roar out of old Boss Croker? 
 He s for racin all right." 
 
 "Naturally,"said old Jimmy. "Him ownin race 
 horses, Croker s for th race tracks. He don t cut 
 no ice." 
 
 "How much do yez figger Croker had cleaned 
 up, Jimmy, when he made his getaway for Ire 
 land ?" asked the Wop, licking an envious lip. 
 
 "Without comin down to book-keepin ," returned 
 old Jimmy, carelessly, "my understandin is that, 
 be havin th whole wad changed into thousand 
 
 109
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 dollar bills, he s able to get it down to th dock on 
 a dray." 
 
 The Grabber came in. He beckoned Slimmy, and 
 the two were at once immersed in serious whisp 
 erings. 
 
 "What are youse two stews chinnin about? * 
 called out the Dropper lazily, from across the room. 
 "Be youse thinkin of orderin th beer?" 
 
 "It s about Indian Louie," replied Slimmy, an 
 grily. "Th Grabber here says Louie s out to skin 
 us." 
 
 "Indian Louie," remarked the Wop, with a gleam 
 in his little gray eye. "That s th labberick w at s 
 goin to shti-i-ick up me poolroom f r thim fifty 
 bones. Anny wan that d have annything to do wit 
 a bum loike him ought to get skinned." 
 
 "W at s he tryin to saw off on youse?" asked 
 the Dropper. 
 
 "This is th proposition." It was the Grabber 
 now. "Me an Slimmy here goes in wit Louie to 
 give that racket last week in Tammany Hall. Now 
 Louie s got th whole bundle, an he won t split 
 it. Me an Slimmy s been t run down for six 
 hundred good iron dollars apiece." 
 
 "An 5 be yez goin to let him get away wit it?" 
 demanded the Wop. 
 
 "W at can we do?" asked the Grabber, discon 
 solately. 
 
 "It s that big blonde," declared Jew Yetta with 
 110
 
 acrimony. "She s goin through Louie for every 
 dollar. I wonder Mollie Squint an Pretty Agnes 
 don t put her on th fritz." 
 
 The Hesper Club was in Second Avenue between 
 Sixth and Seventh Streets. It was one o clock in 
 the morning when Indian Louie took his accus 
 tomed seat at the big table in the corner. 
 
 "How s everybody?" he asked, easily. "I over 
 sleeps meself, or I d been here hours ago." 
 . "Wat tires you?" asked Candy Phil. Not that 
 he cared, but merely by way of conversation. 
 
 "It s th big feed last night at Terrace Garden. 
 I m two days trainin for it, an all day gettin over 
 it. Them swell blowouts is something fierce !" and 
 Louie assumed a wan and weary air, intended to be 
 superior. 
 
 "So you was at Terrace Garden?" said Nigger 
 Ruhl. 
 
 "Was I? Youse should have seen me! Patent 
 leathers, white choker, and a diamond in th middle 
 of me three-sheet big enough to trip a dog." 
 
 "There s nothin in them dress suits," protested 
 Maxie Hahn. "I m ag inst em; they ain t dimmy- 
 cratic." 
 
 "All th same, youse ve got to wear em at these 
 swell feeds," said Candy Phil. "They d give youse 
 th gate if you don t. An as for not bein dimmy- 
 cratic" Candy Phil had his jocose side "they 
 make it so you can t tell th high-guys from th 
 
 111
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 waiters, an if that ain t dimmycratic what is? Th 
 only thing I know ag inst em is that youse can t go 
 to th floor wit a guy in em. You ve got to cut 
 out th scrappin , an live up to the suit, see?" 
 
 The Grabber strolled in, careless and smiling. 
 Louie fastened him with eyes of dark suspicion, 
 while Maxie Hahn, the Lobster Kid and Candy 
 Phil began pushing their chairs out of the line of 
 possible fire. For they knew of those monetary 
 differences. 
 
 "Not a chance, sports," remarked the Grabber, 
 reassuringly. "No one s goin to start anything. 
 Let s take a drink," and the Grabber beat upon the 
 table as a sign of thirst. "I ain t after no one here." 
 
 "Be youse alludin to me, Grabber?" asked Louie, 
 with a frown like a great cloud. "I don t like them 
 cracks about startin somethin ." 
 
 "Keep your shoit on," expostulated the Grabber, 
 clinking down the change for the round of beers; 
 "keep your shoit on, Louie. I ain t alludin at no 
 body nor nothin , least of all at youse. Besides, 
 I just gets a message for you only you don t seem 
 in no humor to receive it." 
 
 "Who s it from?" asked Louie. 
 
 "It s Laura" Laura was the opulent blonde 
 "Mollie Squint an Pretty Agnes runs up on her 
 about an hour ago at Twelfth Street an Second 
 Avenoo, an Mollie bounces a brick off her coco. 
 A copper comes along an chases Mollie an Pretty
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 Agnes. I gets there as they re carry in Laura into 
 that Dago s joint be th corner. Laura asks me 
 if I sees youse to tell w at s happened her; that s 
 all." 
 
 "Was Mollie and Agnes sloughed in?" asked 
 Louie, whose practical mind went first to his bread 
 winners. 
 
 "No, they faded into th next street. Th cop 
 don t want to pinch em anyway." 
 
 "About Laura; was she hoited much?" 
 
 "Ten stiches, an a week in Roosevelt Hospital; 
 that s the best she can get." 
 
 "I must chase round an look her over," was 
 Louie s anxious conclusion. "W at s that Dago 
 joint she s at?" 
 
 "It s be th corner," said the Grabber, "an up 
 stairs. I forgets the wop s monaker." As Louie 
 hesitated over these vague directions, the Grabber 
 set down his glass. "Say, to show there s no hard 
 feelin , I ll go wit youse." 
 
 As Louie and the Grabber disappeared through 
 the door, Candy Phil threw up both hands as one 
 astonished to the verge of nervous shock. 
 
 "Well, w at do youse think of that?" he ex 
 claimed. "I always figgered Louie had bats in his 
 belfry; now I knows it. They ll croak him sure!" 
 
 Nigger Ruhl and the Lobster Kid arose as 
 though to follow. At this, Candy Phil broke out 
 fiercely. 
 
 113
 
 "Wat s wrong wit youse stews? Stick where 
 you be!" 
 
 "But they ll cook Louie!" expostulated the Lob 
 ster Kid. 
 
 "It ain t no skin off your nose if they do. W y 
 should youse go buttin in?" 
 
 Louie and the Grabber were in Twelfth Street, 
 hurrying towards Second Avenue. Not a soul, 
 except themselves, was abroad. The Grabber 
 walked on Louie s right, which showed that either 
 the latter was not the gunplayer he pretended, or 
 the word from Laura had thrown him off his 
 guard. 
 
 Suddenly, as the pair passed a dark hallway, the 
 Grabber s left arm stole round Louie s neck. 
 
 "About that dough, Louie !" hissed the Grabber, 
 at the same time tightening his left arm. 
 
 Louie half turned to free himself from the art 
 ful Grabber. As he did so, the Grabber s ready 
 right hand brought his pistol into action, and one 
 bullet and then another flashed through Louie s 
 brain. A slim form rushed out of the dark hall 
 way, and fired two bullets into Louie s body. Louie 
 was dead before he struck the pavement. 
 
 The Grabber, with his slim companion, darted 
 through the dark hallway, out a rear door and over 
 a back fence. Sixty seconds later they were quietly 
 walking in Thirteenth Street, examples of law-abid 
 ing peace. 
 
 114
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 "It was th easiest ever, Slimmy!" whispered the 
 Grabber, when he had recovered his breath. "I knew 
 that stall about Laura d fetch him." 
 
 "Who was at th Hesper Club?" 
 
 "On y Candy Phil, th Lobster Kid an two or 
 three other blokes. Every one of em s a right guy. 
 They won t rap." 
 
 "Thim la-a-ads," remarked the Wop, judiciously, 
 when he heard of Louie s taking off "thim la-a-ads 
 musht av lost their heads. There s six or seven 
 hundred bones on that bum, an they niver copped 
 a splinter!" 
 
 The word came two ways to the Central Office. 
 One report said "Indian Louie" and another 
 "Johnny Spanish." Detective O Farrell invaded 
 Chinatown, and dug up Big Mike Abrams, that the 
 doubt might be removed. 
 
 "It s Indian Louie, all right," said Big Mike, fol 
 lowing a moment s silent survey of the rigid form. 
 Then, in a most unlocked for vein of sentiment: 
 "They all get here at last !" 
 
 "That s no dream!" agreed the morgue attend 
 ant. "An , say, Mike" he liked his joke as well 
 as any other "I ve been expectin you for some 
 time." 
 
 "Sure !" returned Big Mike, with a friendly grin ; 
 "I ll come chasin along, feet foist, some mornin . 
 But don t forget that while I m waitin I m workin . 
 I ve sent two stiffs down here to youse already, to 
 
 115
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 help keep you goin till I comes. Accordin to th 
 chances, however, me own turn oughtn t to be so 
 very far away." 
 
 Big Mike Abram s turn was just three weeks 
 away. 
 
 "Who were those two, Mike, you sent down here 
 to the morgue?" asked O Farrell, carelessly. 
 
 O Farrell had a catlike fame for slyness. 
 
 "Say," grinned Big Mike, derisively; "look me 
 over! I ain t wearin no medals, am I, for givin 
 meself up to you bulls?" 
 
 116
 
 VI. 
 
 HOW JACKEEN SLEW THE DOC 
 
 In person he was tall, languid, slender, as neat 
 as a cat, and his sallow face over which had set 
 tled the opium pallor was not an ugly face. Also, 
 there abode such weakness, some good, and no 
 harm in him. His constitution was rickety. In the 
 winter he coughed and invited pneumonia ; in the 
 summer, when the sun poured down, he trembled 
 on the brink of a stroke. But neither pneumonia 
 nor sunstroke ever quite killed him. 
 
 It was written that Jackeen would do that 
 Jackeen Dalton, alias Brady; and Jackeen did it 
 with five bullets from an automatic^S. Some said 
 that opium was at the bottom of it; others laid it 
 to love. It is still greatly talked over in what pipe 
 joints abound in Mott, Pell and Doyers, not to 
 mention the wider Catherine Street, in- the neigh 
 borhood of number Nineteen, where he had his flat 
 and received his friends. 
 
 They called him the Doc. Twenty years ago the 
 Doc studied dentistry with his father, who flour 
 ished reputably as a tooth surgeon at the Troy Den 
 tal Parlors in Roosevelt Street. The father died 
 
 117
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 before the Doc had been given a diploma; and the 
 Doc, having meanwhile picked up the opium habit, 
 was never able afterwards to see the use. Why 
 should he be examined or ask for a license? What 
 foolishness! Magnanimously waving aside every 
 thought of the sort, he plunged into the practice 
 of his cheerless art among those who went in and 
 out of Chinatown, and who lived precariously by 
 pocket-picking, porch-climbing, safe-blowing and 
 all-round strong-arm methods; and, careless of the 
 statute in such case made and provided, he pro 
 ceeded to file and drill and cap and fill and bridge 
 and plug and pull their aching cuspids, bicuspids 
 and molars, and all with as quick an instinct and as 
 deft a touch as though his eyes were sharpened and 
 his hand made steady by the dental sheepskins of 
 a dozen colleges. That he was an outlaw among 
 tooth-drawers served only to knit him more closely 
 to the hearts of his patients themselves merest 
 outlaws among men. 
 
 The Doc kept his flat in Catherine Street as 
 bright and burnished as the captain s cabin of a 
 man-of-war. There was no prodigious wealth of 
 furniture, no avalanche of ornament to overwhelm 
 the taste. Aside from an outfit of dental tools, 
 the most expensive belongings appeared to be what 
 lamps and pipes and kindred paraphernalia were 
 required in the smoking of opium. 
 
 Those who visited the Doc were compelled to ore 
 118
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 formality. Before he would open his door, they 
 must push the bell four times and four times tap 
 on the panel. Thus did they prove their friendly 
 identity. Lawful dentists, in their jealousy, had, 
 had the Doc arrested and fined, from time to time, 
 for intromitting with the teeth of his fellow worms 
 without a license. Hence that precautionary quar 
 tet of rings, followed by the quartet of taps, indic 
 ative that a friend and not a foe was at his gate. 
 
 The Doc had many callers who came to smoke 
 opium. For these he did divers kindly offices, 
 mostly in the letter-writing line. As they reclined 
 and smoked, they dictated while the Doc tran 
 scribed, and many and weird were the epistles from 
 Nineteen Catherine Street which found their way 
 into the mails. For this service, as for his opium 
 and dentistry, the Doc s callers never failed to 
 press upon him an honorarium. And so he lived. 
 
 Love, that flowerlike sentiment for which as 
 some jurist once remarked of justice all places are 
 palaces, all seasons summer, is not incompatible 
 with either dentistry or opium. The Doc had a 
 sweetheart named Lulu. Lulu was very beautiful 
 and very jealous. Also, she was broadly popular. 
 All Chinatown made songs to the deep glories of 
 her eyes, which were supposed to have excited the 
 defeated envy of many stars. The Doc, in what 
 odd hours he could snatch from tooth-drawing and 
 opium-smoking, worshipped at the shrine of Lulu; 
 
 119
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 and Lulu was wrapped up in the Doc. Number 
 Nineteen Catherine Street served as their Garden 
 of Eden. 
 
 Now it is among the many defects of opium that 
 it renders migratory the fancy. An ebon evidence 
 of this was to be given at number Nineteen. The 
 { love of the Doc became, as it were, pipe-deflected, 
 and one day left Lulu, and, after a deal of fond 
 circling, settled like some errant dove upon a rival 
 belle called May. 
 
 Likewise, there was a dangerous side to this dul 
 cet, new situation. The enchanting May, when the 
 Doc chose her for his goddess, vice Lulu thrown 
 down, could not be described as altogether disen 
 gaged. Was she not also the goddess of Jackeen? 
 Had not that earnest safe-robber laid his heart at 
 her feet? 
 
 Moreover, there were reasons even more sub 
 stantial. The gentle May was in her way a bread 
 winner. When the fortunes of Jackeen were low, 
 she became their mutual meal-ticket. May was the 
 most expert shoplifter in all of broad New York. 
 If not upon heart arguments, then upon arguments 
 of the pocket, not to say stomach, Jackeen might 
 be expected to fiercely resent any effort to win her 
 love away. 
 Jackeen ? 
 
 Not much is to be told by an appearance, al 
 though physiognomists have sung otherwise. The 
 
 120
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 egg of the eagle is less impressive than the egg of 
 the goose. And yet it hotly houses in its heart an 
 eagle. The egg of the nightingale shows but 
 meanly side by side with the egg of the crow. And. 
 yet it hides within its modest bosom the limpid: 
 music of the moon. 
 
 So it is with men. 
 
 Jackeen was not an imposing personality. But 
 neither is the tarantula. He was five feet and an 
 inch in stunted stature, and weighed a mean shadow 
 under one hundred and ten pounds. Like the Doc 
 who had stolen his love away Jackeen s hollow 
 cheeks were of that pasty gray which speaks of 
 opium. Also, from opium, the pupils of his ver 
 min eyes had become as the points of two dull pins. 
 Shrivelled, degenerate, a tattered rag of humanity, 
 Jackeen was none the less a perilous spirit, and so 
 the Doc too late would learn. 
 
 From that Eden at Nineteen Catherine Street, 
 the fair Lulu had been put into the street. This 
 was to make pleasant room for the visits of the 
 fairer May. Jackeen was untroubled, knowing 
 nothing about it. He was for the moment too 
 wholly engaged, being in the throes of a campaign 
 against the Savoy theatre safe, from which strong 
 box he looked forward to a harvest of thousands. 
 
 The desolate Lulu went everywhere seeking 
 Jackeen, to tell him of his wrongs. Her search was 
 vain ; those plans touching the Savoy safe had with-
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 drawn him from his accustomed haunts. One 
 night, however, the safe was blown and plundered. 
 Alas and alack! Jackeen s share, from those hoped- 
 for thousands, dwindled to a paltry sixty dollars 
 not enough for a single spree! 
 
 In his resentment, Jackeen, with the aid of a 
 "bevy of friends, hastily stuck-up a wayfarer, 
 whom he met in Division Street. The wayfarer s 
 pockets proved empty. It was even more of a 
 waterhaul than had been the Savoy safe. The 
 double disappointment turned Jackeen s mood to 
 gall and it was while his humor was thus bilious 
 that he one day walked into the Chatham Club. 
 
 There was a distinguished company gathered at 
 the Chatham Club. Nannie Miller, Blinky the Lob- 
 bygow, Dago Angelo, Roxie, Jimida, Johnny Rice, 
 Stagger, Jimmy Foy, and St. Louis Bill all were 
 there. And these were but a handful of what high 
 examples sat about the Chatham Club, and with 
 calls for beer, and still more beer, kept Nigger Mike 
 and his assistants on the joyful jump. 
 
 When Jackeen came in, Mike greeted him 
 warmly, and placed a chair next to that of Johnny 
 Rice. Conversation broke out concerning the dead 
 and departed Kid Twist. While Twist was an 
 Eastman and an enemy of Roxie himself of the 
 Five Points the latter was no less moved to speak 
 in highest terms of him. He defended this softness 
 by remarking:
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 "Twist s dead, see! An once a guy s been put 
 to bed wit a shovel, if youse can t speak well of 
 him youse had better can gabbin about him alto 
 gether. Them s my sentiments." 
 
 Dago Angelo, who had been a friend of the 
 vanished Twist, applauded this, and ordered beer. 
 
 Twist according to the veracious Roxie had 
 not been wanting in brilliancy as a Captain of In 
 dustry. He had showed himself ingenious when 
 he took his poolroom into the Hatmakers Union, 
 as a safeguard against raids by the police. 
 
 Upon another occasion, strictly commercial so 
 said Roxie Twist had displayed a generalship 
 which would have glorified a Rockefeller. Baby 
 Flax, named for the soft innocuousness of his 
 countenance, kept a grogshop in Houston Street. 
 One quiet afternoon Twist abruptly broke that 
 cherubic publican s windows, mirrors, glasses, 
 bottles. 
 
 Lighting a cigar, Twist stood in the midst of that 
 ruin undismayed. 
 
 "What s up?" demanded the policeman, who 
 came hot-foot to the scene. 
 
 "Well," vouchsafed Twist, between puffs, "there s 
 a party chases in, smashes things, an then beats it 
 up the street wit out sayin a woid." 
 
 The policeman looked at Baby Flax. 
 
 "It s straight," chattered that ill-used proprietor, 
 who, with the dangerous eye of Twist upon him, 
 
 123
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 wouldn t have told the truth for gold and precious 
 stones. 
 
 "What started youse, Twist ?" asked a friend. 
 
 "It s this way," explained Twist. "I m intro- 
 ducin a celery bitters because there s cush in it. 
 I goes into Baby Flax s an asks him to buy. He 
 hands me out a No! So I ups an puts his joint 
 on the bum. After this, when I come into a dump, 
 they ll buy me bitters, see! Sure, I cops an order 
 for two cases from Flax before I leaves." 
 
 Leaving Twist to sleep in peace, and by way 
 of turning the laugh on that gentleman, Roxie re 
 lated an adventure with Nigger Mike. It was 
 when that sub-chief of the Eastmans kept at num 
 ber Twelve Pell, by word of the vivacious Roxie, 
 he, with certain roysterers belonging to the Five 
 Points, had gone to Mike s to drink beer. They 
 were the foe. But no less he served them, as he 
 was doing now, for such was and is the bland eti 
 quette of the gangs. 
 
 One o clock struck, and Mike locked his door. 
 Key turned, the beer flowed on unchecked. 
 
 At half after one, when Mike himself was a 
 law-breaker under the excise statute by full thirty 
 criminal minutes, Roxie with his Five Points merry 
 makers arose, beat up Mike and his few retainers, 
 skinned the damper for fifty bones, and departed 
 singing songs of victory. 
 
 Mike was powerless.
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 As was well said by Roxie : "Wat could he do ? 
 If he makes a roar to th cops for us puttin his 
 joint in th air, we d have whipped one over on 
 him for bein open after hours." 
 
 Mike laughed with the rest at Roxie s reminis 
 cence. It was of another day. 
 
 "Wat s th matter wit your mouth, Mike?" 
 asked St. Louis Bill, for there was a lisping queer- 
 ness, not only about Mike s talk, but about his 
 laugh. 
 
 Nigger Mike proceeded to lay bare the causes of 
 that queerness. While engaged in a joint debate 
 years ago, it was with a gentleman given as much 
 to sudden petulances as to positive views, he had lost 
 three of his teeth. Their place had been artifically 
 but not artistically supplied. 
 
 "An lately they ve been feelin funny," explained 
 Mike, alluding to the supplemental teeth, "an I 
 toins em over to th Doc to fix. That guy who 
 made em for me foist must have been a bum den 
 tist. An at that, w at do you t ink he charges? 
 I m a Dutchman if he don t lash me to th mast for 
 forty bucks! He says th gold plate is wort 
 twenty." 
 
 "Well, Mike," said Nannie Miller, who d been 
 listening, "I don t want to make you sore, but on 
 the level you talk like your mouth is full of mush. 
 I d make th Doc come through wit em as soon 
 as I could." 
 
 125
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 "He says he ll bring em in to-morry," returned 
 Mike. 
 
 "It s ten to one you don t see em for a week," 
 declared the pessimistic St. Louis Bill. "Youse 
 can t tell nothin about them hop-heads. They say 
 to-morry when they mean next year." 
 
 St. Louis Bill, being virtuously superior to opium, 
 never lost a chance to speak scornfully of those who 
 couldn t make that boast. 
 
 Mike, at the discouraging view expressed, became 
 doleful. "Say," he observed, "I d look like a 
 sucker, wouldn t I, if anything happens th Doc, 
 an I don t get em?" 
 
 St. Louis Bill assured Mike that he would indeed 
 look like a sucker, and re-declared his conviction 
 based upon certain occult creepings and crawl- 
 ings in his bones that Mike had seen the last of 
 those teeth. 
 
 "Take my steer," said St. Louis Bill in conclu 
 sion; "treat them teeth you gives th Doc as a 
 dead issue, an go get measured for some more. 
 Twenty dollars wort of gold, you says ! It ain t no 
 cinch but the Doc s hocked em for hop." 
 
 "Nothin to that!" returned Mike, decisively. 
 "Th Doc s a square guy. Them teeth is all safe 
 enough. Only, as you says, bein he hits the pipe, 
 he may be slow about chasin in wit em." 
 
 While Nigger Mike and his guests are in talk, 
 run your eye over the scene. Those citizens of 
 
 126
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 Gangland assembled about the Chatham Club tables 
 would have made a study, and mayhap a chapter, 
 for Lombroso. Speaking generally, they are a 
 stunted litter, these gangmen, and seldom stand 
 taller than five feet four. Their weight wouldn t 
 average one hundred and twenty pounds. They are 
 apt to run from the onslaught of an outsider. This 
 is not perhaps from cowardice ; but they dislike 
 exertion, even the exertion of fighting, and unless 
 it be to gain money or spoil, or a point of honor is 
 involved as in their duels and gang wars they 
 back away from trouble. In their gang battles, or 
 when fighting the police, their strategy is to lie 
 flat on the ground and shoot. Thus they save 
 themselves a clubbing, and the chances from hosr 
 tile lead are reduced. 
 
 To be sure there are exceptions. Such as Chick 
 Tricker, Ike the Blood, Big Mike Abrams, Jack 
 Sirocco, the Dropper, and the redoubtable Jimmy 
 Kelly never fly and always fight. No one ever saw 
 their backs. 
 
 You are inclined to doubt the bloody character of 
 those gang battles. Why doesn t one hear of them? 
 you ask. Because the police conceal as much as 
 may be all word and all sign of them. For the pub 
 lic to know might get the police criticized, and they 
 are granted enough of that without inviting it 
 through any foolish frankness. The hospitals, 
 however, will tell you of a weekly average of fifty 
 
 127
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 patients, suffering- from knife or gun-shot wounds, 
 not to name fractures born of bottles, bricks and 
 blackjacks. A bottle judiciously wielded, or a beer 
 stein prudently broken in advance to assure a jagged 
 edge, is no mean weapon where warriors are many 
 and the fields of battle close. 
 
 While Roxie rattled on, and the others gave in 
 terested ear, Jackeen was commenting in discour 
 aged whispers to Johnny Rice on those twin set 
 backs of the Division Street stick-up and the Savoy 
 safe. 
 
 "It looks like nobody s got any dough," replied 
 Rice, in a spirit of sympathy. "Take me own self. 
 I ain t made a touch youse could call a touch, for a 
 mont of Sundays. Me rag, Josie, an I was chin- 
 nin about it on y last night, an Josie herself says 
 she never sees th town so dead." 
 
 "It s somethin fierce!" returned Jackeen, mood- 
 ily. 
 
 More beer, and a moment of silence. 
 
 "Wat s you goil May doin ?" asked Rice. 
 
 "She s graftin a little," responded Jackeen; "but 
 w at wit th stores full of private dicks a booster 
 can t do much." 
 
 "Well, you can bet May ought to know!" re 
 turned Rice. "As a derrick, she got the Darby Kid 
 an the best of em beat four ways from th jack. 
 She could bring home th bacon, if any of them 
 hoisrer.e could." 
 
 128
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 Then appeared Lulu the houseless Lulu, the 
 forlorn and outcast Eve of that Catherine Street 
 Eden! 
 
 Lulu stood a polite moment behind the chair of 
 Jackeen. At a lull in the talk, she whispered a word 
 in his ear. He looked up, nodded, and then fol 
 lowed her out into Doyers Street. 
 
 "It s this way," said Lulu. "May s copped th 
 Doc from me, see! An she s givin you the cross, 
 Jackeen. You ought to hand her out a good beatin . 
 She s over hittin the pipe wit th Doc right now." 
 
 "G wan!" came jealously from Jackeen. 
 
 "Honest! You come wit me to number Nine 
 teen, an I ll show youse." 
 
 Jackeen paused as though weighing the pros and 
 cons. 
 
 "Let me go get Ricey," he said at last. "He s 
 got a good nut, an I ll put th play up to him." 
 
 "All right," responded Lulu, impatient in her 
 desolation; "but get a move on! I ve wised you; 
 an now, if you re any good at all, you ll take May 
 out of number Nineteen be th mop. Wat license 
 has she, or any other skirt for that matter, got to 
 do me out of me Doc?" 
 
 The last ended in a howl. 
 
 Leaving Lulu in the midst of her complaints, 
 Jackeen wheeled back into the Chatham Club for 
 a word with Rice. Even during his absence, a 
 change had come over the company. He found 
 
 120
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 Rice, St. Louis Bill and Nannie Miller, holding 
 anxious confab with a ratfaced person who had just 
 come in. 
 
 "See here, Jackeen," said St. Louis Bill in an 
 excited whisper, "there s been a rap about that 
 Savoy safe trick, an th bulls are right now lookin 
 for th whole mob. They say it s us, too, who put 
 that rube in the air over in Division Street." 
 
 "An th question is," broke in Nannie Miller, 
 who was quick to act, "do we stand pat, or do we 
 do a lammister?" 
 
 "There s on y one answer to that," said St. Louis 
 Bill. "For my end of it I m goin to lamm." 
 
 Jackeen had May and his heart troubles upon the 
 back of his regard. Still he heard; and he arrived 
 at a decision. He would run yes; for flight was 
 preferable to four stone walls. But he must have 
 revenge revenge upon the Doc and May. 
 
 "Wit th bulls after me, an me away, it ud 
 be comin* too soft for em," thought Jackeen. 
 
 "Wat do youse say?" asked St. Louis Bill, who 
 was getting nervous. 
 
 "How did youse get the woid?" demanded Jack 
 een, turning upon Ratface. It was he who had 
 brought the warning. 
 
 "I m a stool for one of the bulls," replied Rat 
 face, "an it s him tells me you blokes is wanted, 
 see!" 
 
 "So you re stoolin for a Central Office cop?" 
 130
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 Jackeen s manner was fraught with suspicion. 
 "How do we know you re givin us th correct 
 dope?" 
 
 "Miller knows me," returned Ratface, "an so 
 does Bill. They ll tell youse I m a right guy. That 
 stool thing is only a stall. I gets more out of the 
 bull than he gets out of me. Sure; I give him a 
 dead one now an then, just be way of puttin in a 
 prop for meself. But not youse; w en it s any 
 of me friends I puts em hep, see!" 
 
 "Do you sign for this duck?" demanded Jackeen 
 of St. Louis Bill. "He s a new one on me." 
 
 "Take it from me, he s all right," said St. Louis 
 Bill, decisively. "Why, you ought to know him, 
 Jackeen. He joined out wit that mob of gons 
 Goldie Louie took to Syracuse last fall. He s no 
 farmer, neither; Ricey there ain t got nothin oif 
 him as a tool." 
 
 This endorsement of Ratface settled all doubt. 
 Jackeen s mind was made up. Addressing the 
 others, he said : 
 
 "Fade s the woid! I ll meet youse over in Ho- 
 boken to-night at Beansey s. Better make th ferry 
 one at a time." 
 
 "Wat do youse want to wait till night for?" 
 asked Nannie Miller. "Th foist t ing you know 
 you ll get th collar." 
 
 "I m goin to take the, chance, though," retorted 
 Jackeen. "It s some private business of me own. 
 
 131
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 An say" looking at Rice "I want a pal. Will 
 youse stick, Ricey?" 
 
 "Sure, Mike!" said Rice, who had nerve and 
 knew how to be loyal. 
 
 Thus it was adjusted. Ratface went his way, to 
 exercise his gifts of mendacity upon his Central 
 Office principal, while the others scattered all save 
 Jackeen and Rice. 
 
 Jackeen gave his faithful friend the story of his 
 wrongs. 
 
 "I wouldn t have thought it of the Doc," was the 
 pensive comment of Rice. He had exalted the Doc, 
 because of his book learning, and groaned to see 
 his idol fall. "No, I wouldn t have guessed it of 
 him! Of course, it s different wit a doll. They d 
 double-cross their own mothers." 
 
 Over in Catherine Street at number Nineteen the 
 Doc was teaching May how to cook opium. The 
 result fell below the Doc s elevated notions. 
 
 "You aren t to be compared with Lulu," he com- 
 p.ained, as he trimmed the peanut-oil lamp. "All 
 Chinatown couldn t show Lulu s equal for cooking 
 hop. She had a genius for it." 
 
 The Doc took the needle from May, and cooked 
 for himself. May looked discouraged and hurt. 
 
 "It s all right," said the Doc, dreamily, replying 
 to the look of injury. "You ll get it right in time, 
 dear. Only, of course, you ll never quite equal 
 Lulu; that would be impossible." 
 
 132
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 The Doc twirled the little ball of opium in the 
 flame of the lamp, watching the color as it changed. 
 May looked on as upon the labors of a master. 
 
 "I ll smoke a couple of pipes," vouchsafed the 
 Doc; "then I must get to work on Nigger Mike s 
 teeth. Mike s a good fellow ; they re all good 
 fellows over at the Chatham Club," and the Doc 
 sank back upon the pallet. 
 
 There was the sound of someone in the hall. 
 Then came those calmative four rings and four 
 taps. 
 
 "That s Mike now," said the Doc, his eyes half 
 closed. "Let him in; I suppose he s come for his 
 teeth. I ll have to give him a stand-off. Mike 
 ought to have two sets of teeth. Then he could 
 wear the one while I m fixing the other. It s a 
 good idea; I ll tell him." 
 
 May, warned by some instinct, opened the door 
 but a timorous inch. What she saw did not inspire 
 confidence, and she tried with all her little strength 
 to close and bolt it. 
 
 Too late! 
 
 The door was flung inward, and Jackeen, fol 
 lowed by Rice, entered the room. They paid no 
 heed to the opium fumes ; almost stifling they were, 
 but Jackeen and Rice had long been used to them. 
 
 May gazed at Jackeen like one planet-struck. 
 The Doc, moveless on the pallet, hardly raised his 
 opium-weighted lids. 
 
 133
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 "This is a fine game I m gettin !" 
 
 Jackeen sneered out the words. The Doc pulled 
 tranquilly at his pipe; while May stood voiceless, 
 staring with scared eyes. 
 
 "I d ought to peg a bullet into you," continued 
 Jackeen, addressing May. 
 
 He had drawn his heavy gun. May stood as if 
 the sight of the weapon had frozen her. Jackeen 
 brought it down on her temple. The Doc never 
 moved. Peace the peace of the poppy was on his 
 brow and in his heart. May fell to the floor, her 
 face a-reek with blood. 
 
 "Now you ve got yours !"said Jackeen. 
 
 May struggled unsteadily to her feet, and began 
 groping for the door. 
 
 "That ought to do youse till I get back," was 
 Jackeen s good-by. "You ll need a few stitches for 
 that." 
 
 Unruffled, untroubled, the Doc drew blandly at 
 the mouthpiece of the pipe. 
 
 Jackeen surveyed him. 
 
 "Go on!" cried Rice; "hand it to him, if you re 
 goin to!" 
 
 Rice was becoming fretted. He hadn t Jackeen s 
 sustaining interest. Besides, he was thinking of that 
 word from the Central Office, and how much safer 
 he would be with Beansey, on the Hoboken side of 
 the Hudson. 
 
 134
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 Jackeen took a step nearer. The Doc smiled, eyes 
 just showing- through the dreamy lids. 
 
 "Turn it loose!" cried Rice. 
 
 The gun exploded five times, and five bullets 
 ploughed their way into the Doc s body. 
 
 Not a cry, not a movement! The bland, pleased 
 smile never left the sallow face. With his mouth 
 to the pipestem, the Doc dreamed on. 
 
 In the street, Jackeen and Rice passed Lulu. As 
 they brushed by her, Rice fell back a pace and 
 whispered : 
 
 "He croaked th Doc." 
 
 Lulu gave a gulping cry and hurried on. 
 
 "Is that you, Lulu?" asked the Doc, his drug- 
 uplifted soul untouched, untroubled by what had 
 passed, and what would come. Still, he must have 
 dimly known; for his next words, softly spoken, 
 were: "I m sorry about Mike s teeth! Cook me 
 a pill, dear; I want one last good smoke." 
 
 135
 
 VII. 
 
 LEONI THE TROUBLE MAKER 
 
 It was a perfect day for a funeral. The thin 
 October air had in it a half-chill, like the cutting 1 
 edge of the coming winter, still six weeks away. 
 The leaves, crisp and brown from early frosts, 
 seemed to rustle approval of the mournful com 
 pleteness of things. 
 
 Florists shops had been ransacked, greenhouses 
 laid waste, the leading carriages were moving- 
 jungles of blossoms. It was magnificent, and as the 
 procession wound its slow way into Calvary, the 
 heart of the undertaker swelled with pride. Not 
 that he was justified; the glory was the glory of 
 Paper-Box Johnny, who stood back of all this 
 gloomy splendor with his purse. 
 
 "Remember," was Paper-Box s word to the un 
 dertaker, "I m no piker, an neither was Phil; so 
 wade in wit th bridle off, an make th spiel same 
 as if you was bury in yourself." 
 
 Thus exhorted, and knowing the solvency of 
 Paper-Box, the undertaker had no more than broken 
 even with his responsibilities. 
 
 Later, Paper-Box became smitten of concern be- 
 
 136
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 cause he hadn t thought to hire a brass band. A 
 brass band, he argued, breathing Chopin s Funeral 
 March, would have given the business a last artis 
 tic touch. 
 
 "I d ought to have me nut caved in for forget- 
 tin it," he declared; "but Phil bein croaked like 
 he was, got me rattled. I m all in th air right now ! 
 Me head won t be on straight ag in for a mont ." 
 
 In the face of Paper-Box s self-condemnation, 
 ones expert in those sorrowful matters of crape and 
 immortelles, averred that the funeral was a credit 
 to Casey, and regrets were expressed that the bullet 
 in that dead hero s brain forbade his sitting up in 
 the hearse and enjoying what was being done in 
 his honor. 
 
 As the first shovelful of earth awoke the hollow 
 responses of the coffin, there occurred what story 
 writers are fond of describing as a dramatic in 
 cident. As though the hollow coffin-note had been 
 the dead voice of Casey calling, Dago Frankie 
 knelt at the edge of the grave. Lifting his hands 
 to heaven, he vowed to shed without mercy the blood 
 of Goldie Louie and Brother Bill Orr, on sight. 
 The vow was well received by the uncovered ring 
 of mourners, and no one doubted but Casey s 
 eternal slumbers would be the sounder for it. 
 
 In the beginning, she went by the name of 
 Leoni ; the same being subsequently lengthened, 
 for good and sufficient reasons, to Leoni the 
 
 137
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 Trouble Maker. As against this, however, her 
 monaker, with the addition, "Badger," as written 
 upon her picture gallery number 7409 to be 
 found in that interesting art collection maintained 
 by the police, was given as Mabel Grey. 
 
 Leoni according to Detective Biddinger of that 
 city s Central Office was born in Chicago, upon a 
 spot not distant from the banks of the classic Drain 
 age Canal. She came to New York, and began 
 attracting police attention about eight years ago. 
 In those days, radiant as a star, face of innocent 
 beauty, her affections were given to an eminent pick 
 pocket known and dreaded as Crazy Barry, and it 
 was the dance she led that bird-headed person s 
 unsettled destinies which won her the nom dc cocur 
 of Trouble Maker. 
 
 It was unfortunate, perhaps, since it led to many 
 grievous complications, that Leoni s love lacked 
 every quality of the permanent. Hot, fierce, it re 
 sembled in its intensity a fire in a lumber yard. Al 
 so, like a fire in a lumber yard, it soon burned it 
 self out. Her heart was as the heart of a wild 
 goose, and wondrous migratory. 
 
 Having loved Crazy Barry for a space, Leoni 
 turned cool, then cold, then fell away from him 
 altogether. At this, Crazy Barry, himself a volcano 
 of sensibility, with none of Leoni s saving genius to 
 grow cold, waxed wroth and chafed. 
 
 While in this mixed and storm-tossed humor, he 
 138
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 came upon Leoni in the company of a fello\v 
 gonoph known as McTaffe. In testimony of what 
 hell-pangs were tearing at his soul, Crazy Barry 
 fell upon McTaffe, and cut him into red ribbons 
 with a knife. He would have cut his throat, and 
 spoke of doing so, but was prevailed upon to re 
 frain by Kid Jacobs, who pointed out the electro- 
 cutionary inconveniences sure to follow such a cere 
 mony. 
 
 "They d slam youse in th chair, sure ! was the 
 sober-headed way that Jacobs put it. 
 
 Crazy Barry, one hand in McTaffe s hair, had 
 drawn the latter s head across his knee, the better 
 to attend to the throat-cutting. Convinced, how 
 ever, by the words of Jacobs, he let the head, throat 
 all unslashed, fall heavily to the floor. After which, 
 first wiping the blood from his knife on McTaffe s 
 coat for he had an instinct to be neat he lam- 
 mistered for parts unknown, while McTaffe was 
 conveyed to the New York Hospital. This chanced 
 in the Sixth Avenue temple of entertainment kept 
 by the late Paddy the Pig. 
 
 Once out of the hospital and into the street, Mc 
 Taffe and the fair Leoni found no trouble in being 
 all the world to one another. Crazy Barry was a 
 thing of the past and, since the Central Office dicks 
 wanted him, likely to remain so. 
 
 McTaffe was of the swell mob. He worked with 
 Goldie Louie, Fog-eye Howard and Brother Bill 
 
 139
 
 Orr. Ask any Central Office bull, half learned in 
 his trade of crook-catcher, and he ll tell you that 
 these names are of a pick-purse peerage. McTaffe 
 himself was the stinger, and personally pinched 
 the poke, or flimped the thimble, or sprung the prop, 
 of whatever boob was being trimmed. The others, 
 every one a star, were proud to act as his stalls; 
 and that, more than any Central Office assurance, 
 should show how near the top was McTaffe in 
 gonoph estimation. 
 
 Every profession has its drawbacks, and that of 
 picking pockets possesses several. For one irri 
 tating element, it is apt to take the practitioner out 
 of town for weeks on end. Some sucker puts up 
 a roar, perhaps, and excites the assiduities of the 
 police ; or there is a prize fight at Reno, or a World s 
 Fair at St. Louis, or a political convention at Chi 
 cago, or a crowd-gathering tour by some notable like 
 Mr. Roosevelt or Mr. Taft, which gives such prom 
 ise of profit that it is not to be refused. Thus it 
 befell that McTaffe, with his mob, was greatly 
 abroad in the land, leaving Leoni deserted and 
 alone. 
 
 Once McTaffe remained away so long that it 
 caused Leoni uneasiness, if not alarm. 
 
 "Mack s fell for something," was the way she 
 set forth her fears to Big Kitty : "You can gamble 
 lie s in hock somewheres, or I d have got the office 
 from him by wire or letter long ago." 
 
 140
 
 When McTaffe at last came back, his face ex 
 hibited pain and defeat. He related how the mob 
 had been caught in a jam in Chihuahua, and Goldie 
 Louie lagged. 
 
 "The rest of the fleet managed to make a get 
 away," said McTaffe, "all but poor Goldie. Those 
 Greasers have got him right, too ; he s cinched to 
 do a couple of spaces sure. When I reached El 
 Paso, I slimmed me roll for five hundred bucks, an 
 hired him a mouthpiece. But what good is a mouth 
 piece when there ain t the shadow of a chance to 
 spring him ?" 
 
 "So Goldie got a rumble, did he?" said Leoni, 
 with a half sigh. 
 
 Her tones were pensive to the verge of tears; 
 since her love for Goldie was almost if not quite 
 equal to the love she bore McTaffe. 
 
 Goldie Louie lay caged in the Chihuahua cala 
 boose, and Sanky Dunn joined out with McTaffe 
 and the others in his place. With forces thus re 
 organized, McTaffe took up the burdens of life 
 again, and here one day and gone the next ex 
 istence for himself and Leoni returned to old-time 
 lines. 
 
 Leoni met Casey. With smooth, dark, handsome 
 face, Casey was the superior in looks of either Mc 
 Taffe or Goldie Louie. Also, he had fame as a gun- 
 fighter, and for a rock-like steadiness under fire. 
 He was credited, too, by popular voice, with having 
 
 141
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 been busy in the stirring, near vicinity of events, 
 when divers gentlemen got bumped off. This had 
 in it a fascination for Leoni, who as have the 
 ladies of every age and clime dearly loved a war 
 rior. Moreover, Casey had money, and, unlike 
 those others, he was always on the job. This last 
 was important to Leoni, who at any moment might 
 find herself at issue with the powers, and Casey, 
 because of his political position, could speak to the 
 judge. 
 
 Leoni loved Casey, even as she had aforetime 
 loved McTaffe, Goldie Louie and Crazy Barry. 
 True, Casey owned a wife. But there arose nothing 
 in his conduct to indicate it; and since he was too 
 much of a gentleman to let it get in any one s way, 
 Leoni herself was so generous as to treat it as a 
 technicality. 
 
 McTaffe and his mob returned from a losing ex 
 pedition through the West. Leoni asked as to re 
 sults. 
 
 "Why," explained McTaffe, sulkily, "th trip was 
 not only a waterhaul, but it leaves me on the nut 
 for twelve hundred bones." 
 
 McTaffe turned his pockets inside out, by way 
 of corroboration. 
 
 While thus irritated because of that financial set 
 back, McTaffe heard of Leoni s blushing nearness 
 to Casey. It was the moment of all moments when 
 he was least able to bear the blow with philosophy. 
 
 142
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 And McTaffe stormed. Going 1 farther, and by 
 way of corrective climax, he knocked Leoni down 
 with a club. After which according to eye-wit 
 nesses, who spoke without prejudice he pro 
 ceeded to beat her up for fair. 
 
 Leoni told her adventures to Casey, and showed 
 him what a harvest of bruises her love for him had 
 garnered. Casey, who hadn t been born and 
 brought up in Mulberry Bend to become a leading 
 light of Gangland for nothing, took his gun and 
 issued forth on the trail of McTaffe. McTaffe 
 left town. Also, that he didn t take his mob with 
 him proved that not graft, but fear of Casey, was 
 the bug beneath the chip of his disappearance. 
 
 "He s sherried," Casey told Leoni, when that ill- 
 used beauty asked if he had avenged her bruises. 
 "But he ll blow in ag in; an when he does I ll cook 
 him." 
 
 Goldie Louie came up from Chihuahua, his yel 
 low hair shot with gray, the prison pallor in the 
 starved hollows of his cheeks. Mexicans are the 
 most merciless of jailers. Fog-eye Howard, who 
 was nothing if not a gossip, wised him up as to 
 Leoni s love for Casey. In that connection Fog- 
 eye related how McTaffe, having rebuked Leoni s 
 heart wanderings with that convincing club, had 
 now become a fugitive from Casey s gun. 
 
 Having heard Fog-eye to the end, Goldie faith 
 fully hunted up Leoni and wore out a second club 
 
 143
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 on her himself. Again did Leoni creep to Casey 
 with her woes and her wrongs, and again did that 
 Knight of Mulberry Bend gird up his fierce loins to 
 avenge her. 
 
 Let us step rearward a pace. 
 
 After the Committee of Fourteen, in its uneasy 
 purities, had caused Chick Tricker s Park Row li 
 cense to be revoked, Tricker, seeking a livelihood, 
 became the owner of the Stag in Twenty-eighth 
 Street, just off Broadway. That license revocation 
 had been a financial jolt, and now in new quarters, 
 with Berlin Auggy, whom he had brought with him 
 as partner, he was striving, in every way not likely 
 to invoke police interference to re-establish his 
 prostrate destiny. 
 
 It was the evening next after the one upon which 
 Goldie Louie, following the example of the van 
 ished McTaffe, had expressed club-wise his disap 
 proval of Leoni s love for Casey. The Stag was 
 a riot of life and light and laughter; music and 
 conversation and drink prevailed. In the rear room 
 fenced off from the bar by swinging doors 
 was Goldie Louie, together with Fog-eye Howard, 
 Brother Bill Orr and Sanky Dunn. There, too, 
 Whitey Dutch was entertaining certain of the 
 choicest among the Five Pointers. Scattered here 
 and there were Little Red, the Baltimore Rat, Louis 
 Buck, Stager Bennett, Jack Cohalan, the Humble 
 
 144
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 Dutchman, and others of renown in the grimy 
 chivalry of crime. There were fair ones, too, and 
 the silken sex found dulcet representation in such 
 unchallenged belles as Pretty Agnes, Jew Yetta, 
 Dutch Ida, and Anna Gold. True, an artist in wom 
 anly beauty might have found defects in each of 
 these. And if so? Venus had a mole on her 
 cheek, Helen a scar on her chin. 
 
 Tricker was not with his guests at the Stag that 
 night. His father had been reported sick, and 
 Tricker was in filial attendance at the Fourteenth 
 Street bedside of his stricken sire. In his ab 
 sence, Auggy took charge, and under his genial 
 management beer flowed, coin came in, and all Stag 
 things went moving merrily. 
 
 Whitey Dutch, speaking to Stagger Bennett con 
 cerning Pioggi, aforetime put away in the Elmira 
 Reformatory for the Coney Island killing of Cyclone 
 Louie and Kid Twist, made quite a tale of how 
 Pioggi, having served his time, had again shown up 
 in town. Whitey mentioned, as a matter for gen 
 eral congratulation, that Pioggi s Elmira experience 
 had not robbed him of his right to vote, as would 
 have been the blighting case had he gone to Sing 
 Sing. 
 
 "There s nothing in that disfranchisement thing, 
 anyhow," grumbled the Humble Dutchman, who 
 sat sourly listening. "I ve been up th river twict, 
 
 145
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 an I ve voted a dozen times every election since. 
 Them law-makin stiffs is goin to take your vote 
 away! Say, that gives me a pain!" 
 
 The Humble Dutchman got off the last in tones 
 of supreme contempt. 
 
 Grouped around a table near the center, and under 
 convoy of a Central Office representative who per 
 formed towards them in the triple role of guide, 
 philosopher and friend, were gathered a half dozen 
 Fifth Avenue males and females, all members in 
 good standing of the Purple and Fine Linen Gang. 
 Auggy, in the absence of Tricker, had received 
 them graciously, pressed cigars and drinks upon 
 them, declining the while their proffered money of 
 the realm in a manner composite of suavity and 
 princely ease. 
 
 "It s an honor, loides an gents," said Auggy, 
 "merely to see your maps in the Stag at all. As for 
 th booze an smokes, they re on th house. Your 
 dough don t go here, see!" 
 
 The Purple and Fine Linen contingent called 
 their visit slumming. If they could have heard what 
 Auggy, despite his beaming smiles and royal lib 
 erality touching those refreshments, called both 
 them and their visit, after they had left, it might 
 have set their patrician ears afire. 
 
 Having done the Stag, and seen and heard and 
 misunderstood things to their slumming souls con 
 tent, the Purple and Fine Linen Gang said good- 
 
 146
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 bye. They must drop in they explained at the 
 Haymarket, just around the corner in Sixth Ave 
 nue. Auggy invited them to come again, but was 
 visibly relieved once they had gone their slumming 
 way. 
 
 "I was afraid every minute some duck d start 
 something," said Auggy, "an of course if any 
 thing did break loose any little t ing, if it ain t 
 no more than soakin some dub in th jaw one 
 of them Fift Avenoo dames s ud be bound to t row 
 a fit." 
 
 "Say!" broke in Anna Gold resentfully; "it s 
 somethin fierce th way them high s ciety fairies 
 comes buttin in on us. Wat do they think they re 
 tryin to give us, anyway ? For th price of a beer, 
 I d have snatched one of them baby-dolls bald- 
 headed. I d have nailed her be th mop; an w en 
 I d got t rough doin stunts wit her, she wouldn t 
 have had to tell no one she d been slummin ." 
 
 "Now, forget it !" interposed Auggy warningly. 
 "You go reachin for any skirt s puffs round here, 
 an it ll be the hurry-up wagon at a gallop an you 
 for the cooler, Anna. The Stag s a quiet joint, an* 
 that rough-house stuff don t go. Chick won t stand 
 for no one to get hoited." 
 
 "Oh, Chick won t stand for no one to get hoited !" 
 retorted the acrid Anna, in mighty dudgeon. "An 
 the Stag s a quiet joint! Why, it ain t six weeks 
 since a guy pulls a cannister in this very room, an 
 
 147
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 shoots Joe Rocks full of holes. You helps take 
 him to the hospital yourself." 
 
 "Cut out that Joe Rocks stuff," commanded Aug- 
 gy, with vast heat, "or you ll hit the street on your 
 frizzes don t make no mistake!" 
 
 Observing the stormy slant the talk was taking, 
 Whitey Dutch diplomatically ordered beer, and 
 thus put an end to debate. It was a move full of 
 wisdom. Auggy was made nervous by the absence 
 of Tricker, and Anna the Voluble, on many a field, 
 had shown herself a lady of spirit. 
 
 While the evening at the Stag thus went happily 
 wearing towards the smaller hours, over in Twen 
 ty-ninth Street, a block away, the stuss game of 
 Casey and Paper-Box Johnny was in full and prof 
 itable blast. Paper-Box himself was in active 
 charge. Casey had for the moment abandoned 
 business and every thought of it. Leoni had just 
 informed him of those visitations at the hands of 
 Goldie Louie, and set him to thinking on other 
 things than cards. 
 
 "An 5 he says," concluded Leoni, preparing to go, 
 "after he s beat me half to death, now chase round 
 an tell your Dago friend, Casey, that my monaker 
 ain t McTaffe, an that if he starts to hand me 
 anythin , I ll put him down in Bellevue for the 
 count. " 
 
 The dark face of Casey displayed both anger and 
 148
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 resolution. He made neither threat nor comment, 
 but his eyes were full of somber fires. Leoni de 
 parted with an avowed purpose of subjecting her in 
 juries to the curative effects of arnica, while Casey 
 continued to gloom and glower, drinking deeply 
 the while to take the edge off his feelings. 
 
 Harry Lemmy, a once promising prize-fighter of 
 the welter-weight variety, showed up. Also, he 
 had no more than settled to the drink, which Casey 
 whom the wrongs of his idolized Leoni could 
 not render unmindful of the claims of hospitality 
 had ordered, when Jack Kenny and Charlie 
 Young appeared. 
 
 The latter, not alive to the fatal importance of 
 such news, spoke of the Stag, which he had left 
 but the moment before, and of the presence there 
 of Goldie Louie. 
 
 "McTaffe s stalls, Fog-eye, Brother Bill an 
 Sanky Dunn, are lushin wit him," said Young. 
 "You know Sanky filled in wit th mob th time 
 Goldie gets settled in Mexico." 
 
 Goldie Louie, only a block away, set the torch 
 to Casey s heart. 
 
 "Where s Dago Frankie?" he asked. 
 
 Dago Frankie was his nearest and most trusted 
 friend. 
 
 "He s over in Sixt Avenoo shootin craps," re 
 plied Lemmy. "Shall I go dig him up ?" 
 
 149
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 "It don t matter," said Casey, after a moment s 
 thought. Then, getting up from his chair, he in 
 quired, "Have you guys got your cannons?" 
 
 "Sure t ing!" came the general chorus, with a 
 closer from Kenny. 
 
 "I ve got two," he said. "A sport might get 
 along wit out a change of shoits in Noo York, but 
 he never ought to be wit out a change of guns." 
 
 "Wat s on, Phil?" asked Charlie Young, anx 
 iously, as Casey pulled a magazine pistol, and care 
 fully made sure that its stomach was full of cart 
 ridges; "w at s on?" 
 
 "I m goin over to the Stag," replied Casey. "If 
 you ducks ll listen you ll hear a dog howl in about 
 a minute." 
 
 "We ll not only listen, but we ll go long," re 
 turned Young. 
 
 Lemmy and Kenny fell behind the ethers. 
 "W at s th muss?" whispered Lemmy. 
 
 "It s Leoni," explained Kenny guardedly. 
 "Goldie give her a wallop or two last night, an 
 Phil s goin to do him for it." 
 
 Casey strode into the Stag, his bosom a storm- 
 center for every black emotion. The sophisticated 
 Auggy smelled instant trouble on him, as one smells 
 fire in a house. Bending over the friendly shoulder 
 of Whitey Dutch, Auggy spoke in a low tone of 
 warning. 
 
 "There s Phil Casey," he said, "an t ree of his 
 150
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 bunch. It s apples to ashes he s gunnin for Goldie. 
 If Chick were here, now, he d somehow put the 
 smother on him." 
 
 "Give him a call-down your own self," was 
 Whitey s counsel. "Wat with Chick s license bein 
 revoked in Park Row, an Joe Rocks goin to the 
 hospital from here only a little over a mont ago, 
 the least bit of cannonadin* s bound to put th 
 joint in Dutch all the way from headquarters to the 
 State excise dubs in Albany." 
 
 "I know it," returned Auggy, in great trouble of 
 mind. "If a gun so much as cracks once, it ll be th 
 fare-you-well of the Stag." 
 
 "Well, w at do youse say?" demanded the loyal 
 Whitey. "I m wit youse, an I m wit Chick, an 
 I m wit Goldie. Give th woid, an I ll pull in a 
 harness bull from off his beat." 
 
 "No, none of that! Chick d sooner burn the 
 joint than call a cop." 
 
 "I ll go give Casey a chin," said Whitey, "meb- 
 by I can hold him down. You put Goldie wise. 
 Tell him to keep his lamps on Casey, an if Casey 
 reaches for his gatt to beat him to it." 
 
 Casey the decisive moved swiftly, however, and 
 the proposed peace intervention failed for being too 
 slow. Casey got a glimpse of Goldie through the 
 separating screen doors. It was all he wanted. The 
 next moment he had charged through. 
 
 Chairs crashed, tables were overthrown, women 
 151
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 shrieked and men cursed. Twenty guns were out. 
 Casey fired six times at Goldie Louie, and six times 
 missed that lucky meddler with other people s 
 pocket-books. Not that Casey s efforts were alto 
 gether thrown away. His first bullet lodged in the 
 stomach of Fog-eye, while his third broke the arm 
 of Brother Bill. 
 
 Whitey Dutch reached Casey as the latter began 
 his artillery practice, and sought by word and 
 moderate force to induce a truce. Losing patience, 
 however, Whitey, as Casey fired his final shot, 
 pulled his own gun and put a bullet through and 
 through that berserk s head. As Casey fell for 
 ward, a second bullet coming from anywhere 
 buried itself in his back. 
 
 "By the Lord, I ve croaked Phil !" was the ex 
 clamation of Whitey, addressed to no one in par 
 ticular. 
 
 They were Whitey s last words ; some one shoved 
 the muzzle of a gun against his temple, and he fell 
 by the side of Casey. 
 
 No sure list of dead and wounded for that even 
 ing s battle of the Stag will ever be compiled. The 
 guests scattered like a flock of blackbirds. Some 
 fled limping and groaning, others nursing an in 
 jured arm, while three or four, too badly hurt to 
 travel, were dragged into nooks of safety by 
 friends who d come through untouched. There
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 Twenty-eighth Street pavements, and a wounded 
 gentleman was picked up in Broadway, two blocks 
 away. The wounded one, full of a fine prudence 
 and adhering strictly to gang teachings, declared 
 that the bullet which had struck him was a bullet of 
 mystery. Also, he gave his word of honor that, 
 personally, he had never once heard of the Stag. 
 
 When the police reached the field of battle 
 wearing the ill-used airs of folk who had been 
 unwarrantably disturbed they found Casey and 
 Whitey Dutch dead on the floor, and Fog-eye 
 groaning in a corner. To these counting the in 
 jured Brother Bill and the prudent one picked up 
 in Broadway, finlly identified as Sanky Dunn 
 rumor added two dead and eleven wounded. 
 
 Leoni ? 
 
 The Central Office dicks who met that lamp of 
 loveliness the other evening in Broadway reported 
 her as in abundant spirits, and more beautiful than 
 ever. She had received a letter from McTaffe, she 
 said, who sent his love, and her eyes shone like 
 twin stars because of the joy she felt. 
 
 "Mack always had a good heart," said Leoni. 
 
 Paper-Box Johnny all in tears bore sorrowful 
 word of her loss to Mrs. Casey, calling that matron 
 from her slumbers to receive it. Paper-Box man 
 aged delicately. 
 
 "It s time to dig up black!" sobbed Paper-Box; 
 "they ve copped Phil. 
 
 153
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 "Copped Phil?" repeated Mrs. Casey, sleepily. 
 "Where is he?" 
 
 "On a slab in the morgue. Youse d better chase 
 yourself over." 
 
 "All right," returned Mrs. Casey, making ready 
 to go back to bed, "I will after awhile." 
 
 164
 
 VIII. 
 THE WAGES OF THE SNITCH 
 
 Knowledge is power, and power is a good thing, 
 as you yourself well know. Since Eve opened the 
 way, and she and Adam paid the price a high 
 one, I sometimes think you are entitled to every 
 kind of knowledge. Also, you are entitled to all 
 that you can get. 
 
 But having acquired knowledge, you are not en 
 titled to peddle it out in secret to Central Office 
 bulls, at a cost of liberty and often life to other 
 men. When you do that you are a snitch, and have 
 thrown away your right to live. Anyone is free 
 to kill you out of hand, having regard only to his 
 own safety. For such is the common law of Gang 
 land. 
 
 Let me ladle out a cautionary spoonful. 
 
 As you go about accumulating knowledge, you 
 should fix your eye upon one or two great truths. 
 You must never forget that when you are close 
 enough to see a man you are close enough to be seen. 
 It is likewise foolish, weakly foolish, to assume 
 that you are the only gas jet in the chandelier, the 
 only pebble on the beach, or possess the only kodak 
 
 155
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 throughout the entire length of the boardwalk. 
 Bear ever in mind that while you are getting the 
 picture of some other fellow, he in all human 
 chance is snapping yours. 
 
 This last is not so much by virtue of any law of 
 Gangland as by a law of nature. Its purpose is to 
 preserve that equil brium, wanting which, the uni 
 verse itself would slip into chaos and the music of 
 the spheres become but the rawest tuning of the 
 elemental instruments. The stars would no longer 
 sing together, but shriek together, and space itself 
 would be driven to stop its ears. Folk who fail to 
 carry these grave matters upon the constant 
 shoulder of their regard, get into trouble. 
 
 At Gouverneur hospital, where he died, the regis 
 ter gave his name as "Samuel Wendell," and let 
 it go at that. The Central Office, which finds its 
 profit in amplification, said Samuel Wendell, 
 alias Kid Unger, alias the Ghost," and further 
 identified him as "brother to Johnny the Mock." 
 
 Samuel Wendell, alias Kid Unger, alias the 
 Ghost, brother to Johnny the Mock, was not the 
 original Ghost. Until less than two years ago the 
 title was honorably worn by Mashier, who got 
 twenty spaces for a night trick he turned in Brook 
 lyn. Since Mashier could not use the name in 
 Sing Sing, Wendell, alias Kid Unger, brother to 
 Johnny the Mock, adopted it for his own. It fitted 
 well with his midnight methods and noiseless, glid- 
 
 156
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 ing, skulking ways. Moreover, since it was upon 
 his own sly rap to the bulls, who made the collar, 
 that Mashier got pinched, he may have felt him 
 self entitled to the name as part of his reward. The 
 Indian scalps his victim, and upon a similar princi 
 ple Wendell, alias Unger, brother to Johnny the 
 Mock, when Mashier was handed that breath-taking- 
 twenty years, may have decided to call himself the 
 Ghost. 
 
 It will never be precisely known how and why 
 and by whose hand the Ghost was killed, although it 
 is common opinion that Pretty Agnes had much to 
 do with it. Also, common opinion is more often 
 right than many might believe. In view of that 
 possible connection with the bumping off of the 
 Ghost, Pretty Agnes is worth a word. She could 
 not have been called old. When upon a certain 
 Saturday evening, not remote, she stepped into Jack 
 Sirocco s in Chatham Square, her years counted 
 fewer than nineteen. Still, she had seen a good 
 deal or a bad deal whichever you prefer. 
 
 Pretty Agnes father, a longshoreman, had 
 found his bread along the docks. None better ever 
 shaped for a boss stevedore, or trotted up a gang 
 plank with a 28o-pound sack of sugar on his back. 
 One day he fell between the side of a moored 
 ship and the stringpiece of the wharf; and the 
 ship, being at that moment ground against the 
 wharf by the swell from a passing steamer, he was 
 
 157
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 crushed. Those who looked on called him a fool 
 for having been killed in so poor a way. He was 
 too dead to resent the criticism, and after that his 
 widow, the mother of Pretty Agnes, took in wash 
 ing. 
 
 Her mother washed, and Pretty Agnes carried 
 home the clothes. This went on for three years. 
 One wind-blown afternoon, as the mother was 
 hanging out clothes on the roof a high one and 
 refreshing her energies with intermittent gin from 
 the bottle of her neighbor, the generous Mrs. Calla- 
 han, she stepped backward down an airshaft. She 
 struck the flags ten stories below, and left Pretty 
 Agnes to look out for herself. 
 
 Looking out for herself, Pretty Agnes worked 
 in a sweatshop in Division Street. Here she made 
 three dollars a week and needed five. The sweat 
 shop owner for she w r as a dream of loveliness, 
 with a fog of blue-black hair and deep brown eyes 
 offered to make up the lacking two, and was 
 accepted. 
 
 Round, ripe, willowy, Pretty Agnes graduated 
 from the Division Street sweatshop to a store in 
 Twenty-third Street. There she served as a cloak 
 model, making fourteen dollars a week while need 
 ing twenty. The manager of the cloak store was 
 as generous as had been the owner of the sweatshop, 
 and benevolently made up the absent six. 
 
 158
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 For Pretty Agnes was lovelier than ever. 
 
 All work and no play, makes Jack a dull boy. 
 Also, it has the same effect on Jill. Pretty Agnes 
 she had a trunkful of good clothes and yearned 
 to show them went three nights a week to one 
 of those dancing academies wherewith the East 
 Side was and is rife. As she danced she met Indian 
 Louie, and lost no time in loving him. 
 
 Having advantage of her love, that seeker after 
 doubtful dollars showed Pretty Agnes where and 
 how she could make more money than would come 
 to her as a cloak model in any Twenty-third Street 
 store. Besides, he jealously disapproved of the 
 benevolent manager, though, all things considered, 
 it is hard to say why. 
 
 Pretty Agnes, who had grown weary of the 
 manager and to whom Louie s word was law, threw 
 over both the manager and her cloak-model posi 
 tion. After which she walked the streets for Louie 
 as likewise did Mollie Squint and, since he 
 often beat her, continued to love him from the bot 
 tom of her heart. 
 
 Between Pretty Agnes and Mollie Squint, Louie 
 lived sumptuously. Nor could they themselves be 
 said to have altogether suffered ; for each knew 
 how to lick her fingers as a good cook should. 
 Perhaps Louie was aware that his darlings held out 
 on him, but regarded it as just an investment. He 
 must have known that to dress well stood first 
 
 159
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 among the demands of their difficult profession, 
 which was ancient and had been honorable, albeit 
 in latter days ill spoken of. 
 
 Louie died, and was mourned roundly by Pretty 
 Agnes for eight weeks. Then she gave her love 
 to Sammy Hart, who was out-on-the-safe. Charlie 
 Lennard, alias Big Head, worked pal to Sammy 
 Hart, and the Ghost went with them as outside 
 man and to help in carrying the tools. 
 
 Commonly Sammy and Big Head tackled only 
 inferior safes, in cracking which nothing nobler 
 nor more recondite than a can-opener was de 
 manded. Now and then, however, when a first- 
 class box had to be blown and soup was an absolute 
 requirement, the Ghost came in exceeding handy. 
 No yegg who ever swung under and traveled from 
 town to town without a ticket, knew better than 
 did the Ghost how to make soup. 
 
 The soup-making process, while ticklish, ought 
 to be worth reading about. A cake of dynamite is 
 placed in the cold bottom of a kettle. Warm water 
 is added, and the kettle set a-simmer over a ben 
 zine lamp. As the water heats, the dynamite melts 
 into oil, and the oil being lighter rises to the 
 top of the water. 
 
 The oil is drawn softly off with a syringe, and 
 as softly discharged into a bottle half filled with 
 alcohol. The alcohol is to prevent explosion by 
 jarring. Soup, half oil, half alcohol, can be fired 
 
 160
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 with a fuse, but will sustain quite a jolt without 
 resenting it. 
 
 This was not true in an elder day, before our 
 box workers discovered that golden alcoholic secret. 
 There was a yegg once who was half in, half out, 
 of the window of a P. O. He had the bottle of 
 soup in his hip pocket. The sash fell, struck the 
 consignment of hip-pocket soup, and all that was 
 found of the yegg were the soles of his shoes. 
 Nothing so disconcerting would have happened 
 had the Ghost made the soup. 
 
 The Ghost, while believed in by Big Head and 
 Sammy, was distrusted by Pretty Agnes. She 
 distrusted him because of his bad repute as a snitch. 
 She called Sammy s attention to what tales were 
 abroad to the black effect that the Ghost was a 
 copper in his mildewed soul, and one time and an 
 other had served stoolpigeon to many dicks. 
 
 Sammy took no stock in these reports, and told 
 Pretty Agnes so. 
 
 "Th Ghost s all right," he said; "he s been wit 
 me an Big Head when we toins off twenty joints." 
 
 "He may go wit you," retorted Pretty Agnes, 
 "for twenty more tricks, an never rap. But mark 
 me woids, Sammy; in th end he ll make a present 
 of youse to th bulls." 
 
 Sammy only laughed, holding that the feminine 
 intelligence, while suspicious, was not a strong in 
 telligence. 
 
 161
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 "Well," said Sammy, when he had ceased laugh 
 ing, "if th Ghost does double-cross me, w at ll 
 youse do?" 
 
 "W at ll I do ? As sure as my monaker is Pretty 
 Agnes, I ll have him cooked." 
 
 "Good goil!" said Sammy Hart. 
 
 Gangland discusses things social, commercial, 
 political, and freely forms and gives opinions. 
 From a panic in Wall Street to the making of a 
 President, nothing comes or goes uncommented 
 upon and unticketed in Gangland. Even the fash 
 ions are threshed out, and sage judgments rend 
 ered concerning frocks and hats and all the latest 
 hints from Paris. This you can test for yourself, 
 on any evening, at such hubs of popular interest 
 as Sirocco s, Tony s, Jimmy Kelly s or the Chat 
 ham Club. 
 
 Sirocco s was a-swarm with life that Saturday 
 evening when Pretty Agnes dropped in so casually. 
 At old Jimmy s table they were considering the steel 
 trust investigation, then proceeding ex-President 
 Roosevelt had that day testified and old Jimmy 
 and the Irish \Vop voiced their views, and gave their 
 feelings vent. Across at Slimmy s the dread doings 
 of a brace of fair ones, who had excited Coney 
 Island by descending upon that lively suburb in 
 harem skirts, was under discussion. 
 
 Speaking of the steel trust investigation and its 
 developments, old Jimmy was unbelting after this 
 
 162
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 wise. Said he, bringing down his hairy fist with a 
 whack that startled every beer glass on the table 
 into an upward jump of full three inches : 
 
 "Th more I read of th doin s of them rich guys, 
 th more I begin to think that th makin of a 
 mutt lurks in every million dollars. Say, Wop, 
 they don t know how to pick up a hand an play it, 
 after it s been dealt em. Take em off Wall Street 
 an mix em up wit anything except stocks, an 
 they can t tell a fire plug from a song an dance sou- 
 brette. If some ordinary skate was to go crabbin 
 his own personal game th way they do theirs, th 
 next you d hear that stew would be in Blooming- 
 dale." 
 
 "Phwat s eatin yez now, Jimmy?" inquired the 
 Wop, carelessly. "Is it that steel trusht thing th 
 pa-a-apers is so full of?" 
 
 "That an th way Morgan an th balance of 
 that fur-lined push fall over themselves. Th big 
 thing they re shy on is diplomacy. When it comes 
 to diplomacy, they re a lot of dead ones." 
 
 "An phwat s diplom cy ?" 
 
 The Wop didn t like big words ; his feeling was 
 to first question, then resent them. 
 
 "Phwat s diplom cy?" he repeated. 
 
 "Diplomacy," said old Jimmy, "is any cunnin 
 move that lands th trick. You wake up an hear a 
 noise; an you think it s some porch-climber, like 
 th Nailer here, turnin off th joint. At that, not 
 
 163
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 knowin but he s framed up with a gun, you don t 
 feel like goin to th mat with him. What do you 
 do? Well, you use diplomacy. You tosses mebby 
 a dumbbell over th bannisters, an lets it go bump- 
 in along from step to step, makin more row than 
 some geezer fallin down stairs with a kitchen 
 stove. Th racket throws a scare into th Nailer, 
 an he beats it, see?" 
 
 "An that s diplom cy!" said the Wop. 
 
 "Also, it s exactly what them Wall Streeters 
 ain t got. Look at th way they re always fightin 
 Roosevelt. For twenty-five years they ve been 
 roustin Teddy; an for twenty-five years they ve 
 done nothin but keep him on th map. When 
 Teddy was in Mulberry Street th Tammany ducks 
 gets along with him as peaceful as a basketful of 
 pups. Diplomacy does it; that, an payin strict 
 attention to Teddy s blind side. What s th use 
 of kickin in th gate, says they, when we knows 
 where a picket s off th fence ? You remember Big 
 Florrie Sullivan puttin young Brady on th Force ? 
 Teddy s in Mulberry Street then. Do you think 
 Big Florrie goes queerin th chances, be tellin 
 Teddy how Brady passes th cush box in Father 
 Curry s church? Not on your life! It wouldn t 
 have been diplomacy ; Teddy wouldn t have paid 
 no attention. Big Florrie gets in his work like 
 this: 
 
 " Say, Commish, he says, I sees th fight of 
 164
 
 my life last night. Nineteen rounds to a knockout! 
 It s a left hook to th jaw does it. 
 
 " No ! Teddy says, lightin up like Chinatown 
 on th night of a Chink festival ; you int rest me ! 
 Pull up a stool, says he, an put your feet on th 
 desk. There; now you re comfortable, go on about 
 th fight. Who were they ? 
 
 " A lad from my district named Brady, says 
 Big Florry, an a dock-walloper from Williams- 
 burg. You ought to have seen it, Commish! Oh, 
 Brady s th goods! He s th lad to go th route! 
 He s all over that Williamsburg duffer like a cat 
 over a shed roof! He went round him like a 
 cooper round a barrel ! 
 
 "Big Florrie runs on like that, using diplomacy, 
 an two weeks later Brady s thumpin a beat." 
 
 "Ye re r-r-right, Jimmy," said the Wop, after 
 a pause which smelled of wisdom; "I agrees wit 
 yez. Morgan, Perkins, Schwab an thim rich 
 omadauns is th bum lot. Now I think av it, too, 
 Fatty Walsh minchons that wor-r-rd diplom cy to 
 me long ago. Yez knew Fatty, Jimmy?" 
 
 "Fatty an me was twins." 
 
 "Fatty s th foine la-a-ad; on y now he s dead 
 Mary resht him! Th time I m in th Tombs for 
 bouncin th brick off th head av that Orangeman, 
 who s whistlin th Battle av th Boyne to see how 
 long I can shtand it, Fatty s th warden; an say, 
 he made th place home to me. He s talkin , Fatty 
 
 165
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 is, wan day about Mayor Hughey Grant, an it s 
 then he shpeaks av diplom cy. He says Hughey 
 didn t have anny." 
 
 "Don t you believe it!" interrupted old Jimmy; 
 "Fatty had Hughey down wrong. When it comes 
 to diplomacy, Hughey could suck an egg an never 
 chip th shell." 
 
 "It s a special case loike. Fatty s dishtrict, d yez 
 see, has nothin in it but Eyetalians. Wan day 
 they r makin ready to cilibrate somethin . Fatty s 
 in it, av course, bein leader, an he chases down to 
 th City Hall an wins out a permit for th Dago 
 parade." 
 
 "What s Hughey got to do with that?" 
 
 "Lishten! It shtrikes Hughey, him bein Mayor, 
 it ll be th dead wise play, when Fatty marches by 
 wit his Guineas, to give them th gay, encouragin* 
 face. Hughey thinks Fatty an his pushcart 
 la-a-ads is cilibratin some Dago Saint Patrick s 
 day, d yez see. It s there Fatty claims that Hughey 
 shows no diplom cy; he d ought to have ashked." 
 
 "Asked what?" 
 
 "I m comin to it. Fatty knows nothin about 
 phwat s on Hughey s chest. His firsht tip is when 
 he sees Hughey, an th balance av th Tammany 
 adminishtration cocked up in a hand-me-down 
 grandshtand they ve faked together in City Hall 
 Park. Fatty pipes em, as he an his Black Hand 
 bunch comes rowlin along down Broadway, an th 
 
 166
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 sight av that grandshtand full av harps, Hughey at 
 th head, almosht gives him heart failure. 
 
 "Fatty halts his Eyetalians, sets them to 
 ma-a-arkin toime, an comes sprintin an puffin 
 on ahead. 
 
 " Do a sneak ! he cries, when he comes near 
 enough to pass th wor-r-rd. Mother above ! don t 
 yez know phwat these wops av mine is cilibratin ? 
 It s chasm th pope out av Rome. Duck, I tell 
 yez, duck!" 
 
 "Sure; Hug!.3y an th rist av th gang took 
 it on th run. Fatty could ma-a-arch all right, 
 because there s nobody but blackhanders in his dish- 
 trict. But wit Hughey an th others it s different. 
 They might have got his grace, th archbishop, 
 afther thim." 
 
 "Coin back to Teddy," observed old Jimmy, as 
 he called for beer, "them rich lobsters is always 
 stirrin him up. An they always gets th worst 
 of it. They ve never brought home th bacon yet. 
 He s put one over on em every time. 
 
 "Yez can gamble that Ticldy s th la-a-ad that 
 can fight!" cried the Wop in tones of glee; "he s 
 tli baby that s always lookin f r an argument!" 
 Then in a burst, both rapturous and irrelevant: 
 "He s th idol av th criminal illimint !" 
 
 "I don t think that s ag inst him," interjected 
 the Nailer, defensively. 
 
 "Nor me neither," said old Jimmy. "When it 
 167
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 comes down to tacks, who s quicker wit th ap- 
 plaudin mitt at sight of an honest man than th 
 crim nal element? only so he ain t bumpin into 
 their graft. Who is it hisses th villyun in th 
 play till you can hear him in Hoboken? Ain t it 
 some dub just off the Island? Once a Blind Tom 
 show is at Minor s, an a souse in th gallery is 
 so carried away be grief at th death of Little 
 Eva, he falls down two flights of stairs. I gets 
 a flash at him as they tosses him into th ambulance, 
 an I hopes to join th church if it ain t a murderer 
 I asks Judge Battery Dan to put away on Black- 
 well s for beatin up his own little girl till she 
 can t get into her frock. Wall Streeters an college 
 professors, when it comes to endorsin an honest 
 man, can t take no medals off th crim nal element." 
 
 "Phwy has Morgan an th rist av thim Wall 
 Street geeks got it in f r Tiddy? queried the Wop. 
 "Phwat s he done to em?" 
 
 "Nothin ; only they claims it ain t larceny if 
 you steal more n a hundred thousand dollars, an* 
 Teddy won t stand for a limit." 
 
 "If that s phwat they re in a clinch about, then 
 I m for Tiddy," declared the Wop. "Ain t it him, 
 too, that says th only difference bechune a rich 
 man an a poor man is at th bank? More power 
 to him! why not? Would this beer be annythin 
 but beer, if it came through a spigot av go-o-old, 
 
 168
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 from a keg av silver, an th bar-boy had used a dia- 
 mond-shtudded bung-starter in tappin it?" 
 
 Over at Slimmy s table, where the weaker 
 sex predominated, the talk was along lighter lines. 
 Mollie Squint spoke in condemnation of those 
 harem skirts at Coney Island. 
 
 "What do youse think," she asked, "of them 
 she-scouts showin up at Luna Park in harem 
 skirts? Coarse work that very coarse. It goes 
 to prove how some frails ain t more n half baked." 
 
 "Why does a dame go to th front in such togs?" 
 asked Slimmy disgustedly. 
 
 "Because she s stuck on herself," said the Nailer, 
 who had drifted over from old Jimmy and the 
 Wop, where the talk was growing too heavy for 
 him; "an besides, it s an easy way of gettin th 
 spot-light. Take anything like this harem skirt 
 stunt, an oodles of crazy Mollies ll fall for it. 
 Youse can t hand it out too raw! So if it s goin to 
 stir things up, an draw attention, they re Johnny- 
 at-the-rat-hole every time!" 
 
 "We ladies," remarked Jew Yetta, like a com 
 placent Portia giving judgment, "certainly do like 
 to be present at th ball game! An if we can t 
 beat th gate can t heel in we ll climb th fence. 
 Likewise, we re right there whenever it s th latest 
 thing. Especially, if we ve got a face that d stop 
 traffic in th street. Do youse remember" -this to 
 
 169
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 Anna Gold "when bicycles is new, how a lot of 
 old iron-bound fairies, wit maps that d give youse 
 a fit of sickness, never wastes a moment in wheelin 
 to th front?" 
 
 "Do I remember when bicycles is new ?" retorted 
 Anna Gold, resentfully. "How old do youse think 
 I be?" 
 
 "Th Nailer s right," said Slimmy, cutting skil 
 fully in with a view to keeping the peace. "Th 
 reason why them dames breaks in on bicycles, an 
 other new deals, is because it attracts attention ; 
 an attractin attention is their notion of bein great. 
 Which shows that they don t know th difference 
 between bein famous an bein notorious." 
 
 Slimmy, having thus declared himself, looked 
 as wise as a treeful of owls. 
 
 "Well, w at is th difference?" demanded Anna 
 Gold. 
 
 "What s th difference between fame an noto 
 riety?" repeated Slimmy, brow lofty, manner high. 
 "It s th difference, Goldie, between havin your 
 picture took at th joint of a respectable photog 
 rapher, an bein mugged be th coppers at th Cen 
 tral Office. As to harem skirts, however, I m like 
 Mollie there. Gen rally speakin , I strings wit th 
 loidies ; but when they springs a make-up like them 
 harem skirts, I pack in. Harem skirts is where 
 I get off." 
 
 "Of course," said Eig Kitty, who while speaking 
 170
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 little spoke always to the point, "youse souses un 
 derstands that them dolls who shakes up Coney 
 has an ace buried. They re simply a brace of roof- 
 gardeners framin up a little ink. I s pose they fig- 
 gered they d make a hit. Did they?" this was in 
 reply to Mollie Squint, who had asked the question. 
 "Well, if becomin th reason why th bull on post 
 rings in a riot call, an brings out th resoives, is 
 your idee of a hit, Mollie, them dames is certainly 
 th big scream." 
 
 "Them harem skirts won t do!" observed the 
 Nailer, firmly ; "youse hear me, they won t clo !" 
 
 "An that goes f r merry widdy hats, too." called 
 out the Wop, from across the room. "Only yister- 
 day a big fat baby rounds a corner on me, an 
 bang! she ketches me in th lamp wit th edge av 
 her merry widdy. On the livil, I thought it was a 
 cross-cut saw ! She came near bloindin me f r 
 loife. As I side-steps, a rooshter s tail that s 
 sproutin out av th roof, puts me other optic on th 
 blink. I couldn t have seen a shell av beer, even if 
 Jimmy here was payin fer it. Harem skirts is bad ; 
 but th real minace is merry widdys." 
 
 "I thought them lids was called in," remarked 
 Slimmy. 
 
 "If they was," returned the Wop, "they got 
 bailed out ag in. Th one I m nailed wit is half 
 as big as Beftnont Pa-a-ark. Youse could ve raced 
 a field av two-year olds on it." 
 
 171
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 "Well," remarked the Nailer, resignedly, "it s th 
 fashion, an it s up to us, I s pose, to stand it. That 
 or get off the earth." 
 
 "Who invints th fashions?" and here the Wop 
 appealed to the deep experience of old Jimmy. 
 
 "Th French." 
 
 Old Jimmy his pension had just been paid 
 motioned to the waiter to again take the orders all 
 round. 
 
 "Th French. They re the laddy-bucks that 
 shoves em from shore. Say Fashion! an bing! 
 th French is on th job, givin orders." 
 
 "Thim Frinch re th great la-a-ads," commented 
 the Wop, admiringly. "There s a felly on y this 
 mornin tellin me they can cook shnails so s they re 
 almosht good to eat." 
 
 "Tell that bug to guess ag in, Wop," said Mollie 
 Squint. "Snails is never good to eat. As far as 
 them French are concerned, however, I go wit old 
 Jimmy. They re a hot proposition." 
 
 Jack Sirocco had been walking up and down, his 
 manner full of uneasiness. 
 
 "What s wrong, Jack?" at last asked old Jimmy, 
 who had observed that proprietor s anxiety. 
 
 Sirocco explained that divers gimlet-eyed gentle 
 men, who he believed were emissaries of an anti- 
 vice society, had been in the place for hours. 
 
 "They only now screwed out," continued Si 
 rocco. Then, dolefully : "It d be about my luck, 
 
 172
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 just as I m beginnin to get a little piece of change 
 for myself, to have some of them virchoo-toutin 
 ginks hand me a wallop. I wonder w at good it 
 does em to be always try in to knock th block off 
 somebody. I ain t got nothin ag inst virchoo. Vir- 
 choo s all right in its place. But so is vice." 
 
 Old Jimmy s philosophy began manoeuvring for 
 the high ground. 
 
 "This vice and virtue thing makes me tired," he 
 said; "there s too much of it. Also, there s plenty 
 to be said both ways. Th big trouble wit them 
 anti-vice dubs is that they re all th time connin 
 themselves. They feel moral when it s merely 
 dyspepsia ; they think they re virchous when they re 
 only sick. In th end, too, virchoo always falls 
 down. Virchoo never puts a real crimp in vice yet. 
 Virchoo s a sprinter; an for one hundred yards 
 it makes vice look like a crab. But vice is a stayer, 
 an in th Marathon of events it romps in winner. 
 Virchoo likes a rockin -chair; vice puts in most of 
 its time on its feet. Virchoo belongs to th Union ; 
 it s for th eight hour day, with holidays an Sat 
 urday afternoons off. Vice is always willin to 
 break th wage schedule, work overtime or do any- 
 thin else to oblige. Virchoo wants two months in 
 th country every summer; vice never asks for a 
 vacation since th world begins." 
 
 The Wop loudly cheered old Jimmy s views. 
 Sirocco, however, continued gloomy. 
 
 173
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 "For," said the latter with a sigh, "I can feel 
 it that them anti-vice guys has put th high-sign 
 on me. They ll never rest now until they ve got me 
 number." 
 
 Pretty Agnes, on comin in, had taken a corner 
 table by herself. She heard, but did not join in 
 the talk. She even left untouched the glass of beer, 
 which, at a word from old Jimmy, a waiter had 
 placed before her. Silent and sad, with an expres 
 sion which spoke of trouble present or trouble on 
 its way, she sat staring into smoky space. 
 
 "Wat s wrong wit her?" whispered Slimmy, 
 who, high-strung and sensitive, could be worked 
 upon by another s troubles. 
 
 "Why don t youse ask her ?" said Big Kitty. 
 
 Slimmy shook a doubtful head. "She ain t got 
 no use for me," he explained, "since that trouble 
 wit Indian Louie." 
 
 "She sure couldn t expect you an th Grabber," 
 remarked Anna Gold, quite scandalized at the 
 thought of such unfairness, "to lay dead, while 
 Louie does you out of all that dough!" 
 
 "It s th rent," said Jew Yetta. She had been 
 canvassing Pretty Agnes out of the corners of her 
 eyes. "I know that look from me own experience. 
 She can t come across for the flat, an some bum 
 of an agent has handed her a notice." 
 
 "There s nothin in that," declared Mollie Squint. 
 "She could touch me for th rent, an she s hep 
 
 174
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 to it." Then, in reproof of the questioning looks 
 of Anna Gold: "Sure; both me an Agnes was 
 stuck on Indian Louie, but w at of that? Louie s 
 gone; an besides, I never blames her. It s me 
 who s th butt-in; Agnes sees Louie first." 
 
 "Youse re wrong, Yetta," spoke up the Nailer, 
 confidently. "Agnes ain t worryin about cush. 
 There ain t a better producer anywhere than Sam 
 my Hart. No one ever sees Sammy wit out a roll." 
 
 The Nailer lounged across to Pretty Agnes; 
 Mollie Squint, whose heart was kindly, followed 
 him. 
 
 "W y don t youse lap up your suds?" queried the 
 Xailer, pointing to the beer. Without waiting for 
 a return, he continued, "Where s Sammy?" 
 
 "Oh, I don t know," returned Pretty Agnes, her 
 manner half desperate. "Nailer, I m simply fret 
 ted batty!" 
 
 "Wat s gone crooked, dear?" asked Mollie 
 Squint, soothingly. "Youse ain t been puttin on 
 th mitts wit Sammy?" 
 
 "No," replied Pretty Agnes, the tears beginning 
 to flow ; "me an Sammy s all right. On y he won t 
 listen!" Then suddenly pointing with her finger, 
 she exclaimed; "There! It s him I m worryin 
 about !" 
 
 The Nailer and Mollie Squint glanced in the 
 direction indicated by Pretty Agnes. The Ghost 
 had just come in and was sidling into a chair. It 
 
 175
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 must be admitted that there was much in his ap 
 pearance to dislike. His lips were loose, his eyes 
 half closed and sleepy, while his chin was catlike, 
 retreating, unbased. In figure he was undersized, 
 slope-shouldered, slouching. When he spoke, his 
 voice drawled, and the mumbled words fell half- 
 formed from the slack angles of his mouth. He 
 was an eel a human eel slippery, slimy, hard to 
 locate, harder still to hold. To find him you would 
 have to draw off all the water in the pond, and 
 then poke about in the ooze. 
 
 "It s him that s frettin me," repeated Pretty 
 Agnes. "He s got me wild!" 
 
 The Nailer donned an expression, cynical and 
 incredulous. 
 
 "Wat s this?" said he. "W y Agnes, youse ain t 
 soft on that mutt, be youse? Say, youse must be 
 gettin balmy!" 
 
 "It ain t that," returned Pretty Agnes, indig 
 nantly. "Do youse think I d fall for such a 
 chromo? I d be bughouse!" 
 
 "Bughouse wouldn t half tell it!" exclaimed 
 Mollie Squint fervently. "Him?" nodding to 
 wards the Ghost. "W y he s woise n a wet dog!" 
 
 "Well," returned the puzzled Nailer, who with 
 little imagination, owned still less of sentimental 
 breadth, "if youse ain t stuck on him, how s he 
 managin to fret youse? Show me, an I ll take a 
 punch at his lamp." 
 
 176
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 "Punchin wouldn t do no good," replied Pretty 
 Agnes, resignedly. "This is how it stands. Sam 
 my an Big Head s gettin ready to do a schlam 
 job. They ve let th Ghost join out wit em, an 
 I know he s goin to give em up." 
 
 The Nailer looked grave. 
 
 "Unless youse ve got somethin on him, Agnes." 
 he remonstrated, "you oughtn t to make a squawk 
 like that. How do youse know he s goin to 
 rap?" 
 
 "Cause he always raps," she cried fiercely. 
 "Where s Mashier? Where s Marky Price? 
 Where s Skinny Goodstein? Up th river! every 
 mother s son of em! An all his pals, once; every 
 one! He s filled in w r it th best boys that ever 
 cracked a bin. An every one of em s doin their 
 bits, while he s here drinkin beer. I tell youse th 
 Ghost s a snitch! Youse can see Copper written 
 on his face." 
 
 "If I t ought so," growled the Nailer, an evil 
 shine in his beady eyes, "I d croak him right here." 
 Then, as offering a solution: "If youse re so sure 
 he s a stool, w y don t youse tail him an see if he 
 makes a meet wit any bulls?" 
 
 "Tail nothin !" scoffed Pretty Agnes, bitterly; 
 "me mind s made up. All I ll do is wait. If Sam 
 my falls, it ll be th Ghost s last rap. I know a 
 party who s crazy gone on me. For two weeks 
 I ve been handin him th ice pitcher. All I has to 
 
 177
 
 do is soften up a little, an he ll cook th Ghost 
 th minute I says th woid." 
 
 Pretty Agnes, as though the sight of the Ghost 
 were too much for her feelings, left the place. The 
 Ghost himself, appeared uneasy, and didn t re 
 main long. 
 
 The Nailer turned soberly to Mollie Squint. 
 "Do youse t ink," said he, "there s anythin in that 
 crack of Agnes?" 
 
 "Search me !" returned Mollie Squint, conserv 
 atively. "I ain t sayin a woid." 
 
 "It s funny about youse skoits," remarked the 
 Nailer, his manner an imitation of old Jimmy s. 
 "Here s Agnes talkin of havin th Ghost trimmed 
 in case he tips off Sammy to th dicks, an yet when 
 Slimmy an th Grabber puts Indian Louie over th 
 jump, neither Agnes nor you ever so much as 
 yelps !" 
 
 "You don t understand," said Mollie Squint, tol 
 erantly. "Sammy s nice to Agnes. Louie? Th 
 best he ever hands us is to sting us for our rolls, 
 an then go blow em on that blonde. There s a 
 big difference, Nailer, if youse could only see it." 
 
 "Well," replied the Nailer, who boasted a heart 
 untouched, "all I can say is youse dolls are too 
 many for me ! You ve got me wingin ." 
 
 Midnight ! 
 
 The theatre of operations was a cigar store, in 
 Canal Street near the Bowery. The Ghost was 
 
 178
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 on the outside. The safe was a back number; to 
 think of soup would have been paying it a compli 
 ment. After an hour s work with a can-opener, 
 Sammy and Big Head declared themselves within 
 ten minutes of the money. All that remained 
 was to batter in the inner-lining- of the box. 
 
 Big Head cocked a sudden and suspicious ear. 
 
 "What s that ?" he whispered. 
 
 Sammy had just reversed the can-opener, for an 
 attack upon that sheet-iron lining. He paused m 
 mid-swing, and listened. 
 
 "It s a pinch," he cried, crashing down the heavy 
 iron tool with a cataract of curses. "It s a pinch, 
 an th Ghost is in on it. Agnes had him right!" 
 
 It was a pinch sure enough. Even as Sammy 
 spoke, Rocheford and Wertheimer of the Central 
 Office were covering them with their pistols. 
 
 "Hands up!" came from Wertheimer. 
 
 "You ve got us bang right!" sighed Big 
 Head. 
 
 Outside they found Cohen, also of the Central 
 Office, with the ruffles on the Ghost. 
 
 "That s only a throw-off," sneered Sammy, 
 pointing to the bracelets. 
 
 The Ghost began to whine. The loose lips be 
 came looser than ever, the drooping lids drooped 
 lower still. 
 
 "W y, Sammy," he remonstrated weepingly, 
 "youse don t t ink I d go an give youse up!" 
 
 179
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 "That s all right," retorted Sammy, with sullen 
 emphasis. "Youse ll get yours, Ghost." 
 
 Had the Ghost been wise he would have re 
 mained in the Tombs; it was his best chance. But 
 the Ghost was. not wise. Within the week he was 
 walking the streets, and trying to explain a free 
 dom which so sharply contrasted with the caged 
 condition of Big Head and Sammy Hart. Gang 
 land turned its back on him; his explanations were 
 not received. And, sluggish and thick as he was, 
 Gangland made him feel it. 
 
 It was black night in University Place. The 
 Ghost was gumshoeing his way towards the Bridge 
 Saloon. A taxicab came slowly crabbing along the 
 curb. It stopped; a quick figure slipped out and, 
 muzzle on the very spot, put a bullet through the 
 base of the Ghost s brain. 
 
 The quick figure leaped back into the cab. The 
 door slammed, and the cab dashed off into the dark 
 ness at racing speed. 
 
 In that splinter of time required to start the 
 cab you might have seen had you been near 
 enough tw r o white small hands clutch with a kind 
 of rapturous acceptance at the quick figure, as it 
 sprang into the cab, and heard the eager voice of 
 a woman saying 
 
 "Promise for promise, and word for word! 
 Who wouldn t give soul and body for th death of 
 a snitch? for a snake that will bite no more?" 
 
 180
 
 IX. 
 
 LITTLE BOW KUM 
 
 Since then no Chinaman will go into the room. I 
 had this from Loui Fook, himself an eminent mem 
 ber of the On Leon Tong and a leading merchant 
 of Chinatown. Loui Fook didn t pretend to know 
 of his own knowledge, but spoke by hearsay. He 
 said that the room was haunted. No one would live 
 there, being too wise, although the owner had low 
 ered the rent from twenty dollars a month to ten. 
 Ten monthly dollars should be no inducement to 
 live in a place where, at odd, not to say untoward 
 hours, you hear sounds of scuffling and wing-beat 
 ing, such as is made by a chicken when its head is 
 chopped off. Also, little Bow Kum s blood still 
 stains the floor in a broad red patch, and refuses to 
 give way to soap and water. The wife of the 
 Italian janitor who cannot afford to be supersti 
 tious, and bemoans a room unrented has scrubbed 
 half through the boards in unavailing efforts to 
 wash away the dull red splotch. 
 
 Detective Raphael of the Central Office heard of 
 the ghost. He thought it would make for the moral 
 uplift of Chinatown to explode so foolish a tale. 
 
 181
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 Yong Dok begged Raphael not to visit the haunted 
 room where the blood of little Bow Kum spoke in 
 dumb, dull crimson from the floor. It would set 
 the ghosts to talking. 
 
 "Then come with me, and act as interpreter," 
 quoth Raphael, and he threw Yong Dok over his 
 heavy shoulder and began to climb the stairs. 
 
 Yong Dok fainted, and lay as limp as a wet bath 
 tow r el. Loui Fook said that Yong Dok would 
 die if taken to the haunted room, so Raphael for 
 bore and set him doA /n. In an hour Yong Dok had 
 measurably recovered, but Tchin Foo insists that he 
 hasn t been the same man since. 
 
 Low Fong, Low Tching and Chu Wah, three 
 hatchet men belonging to the Four Brothers, were 
 charged with the murder. But the coroner let Chu 
 Wah go, and the special sessions jury disagreed 
 as to Low Fong and Low Tching; and so one way 
 and another they were all set free. 
 
 It is difficult to uncover evidence against a China 
 man. They never talk, and their faces are as void 
 of expression as the wrong side of a tombstone. 
 In only one way does a Chinaman betray emotion. 
 When guilty, and pressed upon by danger, a pulse 
 beats on the under side of his arm, just above the 
 elbow. This is among the golden secrets known 
 to what Central Office men do duty along Pell, 
 Mott and Doyers streets, but for obvious reasons 
 it cannot be used in court. 
 
 182
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 Although the white devils law failed, the Chi 
 nese law was not so powerless. Because of that 
 murder, eight Four Brothers and five On Leon 
 Tongs have been shot dead. Also, slippered feet 
 have stolen into the sleeping rooms of offensive 
 ones, as they dreamed of China the Celestial far 
 away beyond the sunset, and unseen bird-claw fing 
 ers have turned on the white devils gas. In this 
 way a dozen more have died. They have awakened 
 in Chinatown to the merits of the white devils gas 
 as a method of assassination. It bids fair to take 
 the place of the automatic gun, just as the latter 
 shoved aside the old-time barbarous hatchet. 
 
 Little Bow Kum had reached her nineteenth 
 year when she was killed. Her husband, Tchin 
 Len, was worth $50,000. He was more than twice 
 as old as little Bow Kum, and is still in Mott Street 
 waiting for her spirit to return and strangle her 
 destroyers. This will one day come to pass, and 
 he is waiting for that day. Tchin Len has another 
 wife in Canton, but he does not go back to her, 
 preferring to live in Chinatown with the memory 
 of his little lost Bow Kum. 
 
 Little Bow Kum was born in the Canton dis 
 trict, China. Her father s name was Wong Hi. 
 Her mother s name doesn t matter, because mothers 
 do not amount to much in China. As she lay in 
 her mother s lap, a chubby, wheat-hued baby, they 
 
 183
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 named her Bow Kum, which means Sweet Flower, 
 for they knew she would be very beautiful. 
 
 When little Bow Kum was five years old, Wong 
 Hi, her father, sold her for $300. Wong Hi was 
 poor, and $300 is a Canton fortune. Also, the 
 sale had its moral side, since everyone knows that 
 children are meant to be a prop and support to their 
 parents. 
 
 Little Bow Kum was bought and sold, as was 
 well understood by both Wong Hi, the father, and 
 the man who chinked down his hard three hun 
 dred silver dollars as the price, with the purpose 
 of rearing her to a profession which, while not 
 without honor among Orientals, is frowned upon 
 by the white devils, and never named by them in 
 best society. Much pains were bestowed upon her 
 education; for her owner held that in the trade 
 which at the age of fifteen she was to take up, she 
 should be able to paint, embroider, quote Confucius, 
 recite verses, and in all things be a mirror of the 
 graces. Thus she would be more valuable, being 
 more attractive. 
 
 Little Bow Kum accepted her fate and made no 
 protest, feeling no impulse so to do. She knew that 
 she had been sold, and knew her destiny; but she 
 felt no shock, was stricken by no desire to escape. 
 What had happened and would happen, had been 
 for hundreds and thousands of years the life story 
 of a great feminine fraction of her people. Where- 
 
 184
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 fore, the thought was at home in her blood; her 
 nature bowed to and embraced it. 
 
 Of course, from the white devils view-point the 
 fate designed for little Bow Kum was as the sub 
 limation of the immoral. But you must remember 
 that morality is always a question of geography 
 and sometimes a question of race. Climates, tem 
 peratures, also play their part. 
 
 Then, too, there is that element of support. In 
 the tropics, where life is lazy, easy, and one may 
 pick a dinner from every tree, man is polygamous. 
 In the ice locked arctics, where one spears his din 
 ner out of the cold, reluctant sea, and goes days 
 and days without it, man is polyandrous, and one 
 wife has many husbands. In the temperate zone, 
 where life is neither soft nor hard and yet folk 
 work to live, man is monogamous, and one wife to 
 one husband is the only good form. 
 
 Great is latitude! 
 
 Take the business of steeping the senses in 
 drinks or drugs. That eternal quantity of latitude 
 still worms its way into the equation. In the arc 
 tic zone they drink raw alcohol, in the north tem 
 perate whiskey, in the south temperate wine, while 
 in the tropics they give up drinking and take to 
 opium, hasheesh and cocaine. 
 
 Little Bow Kum watched her fifteenth year ap 
 proach that year when she would take up her 
 profession without shame, scandal or alarm. 
 
 185
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 Had you tried to show her the horrors of her situ 
 ation, she wouldn t have understood. She was 
 beautiful beyond beauty. This she knew very 
 well, and was pleased to have her charms con 
 fessed. Her owner told her she was a lamp of 
 love, and that he would not sell her under $3,000. 
 This of itself was the prettiest of compliments, 
 since he had never before asked more than $2,000 
 for a girl. Koi Ton, two years older than herself, 
 had brought just $2,000; and Koi Ton was ac 
 knowledged to be a vision from heaven. And so 
 when Bow Kum learned that her price was to be 
 $3,000, a glow overspread her a glow which 
 comes to beauty when it feels itself supreme. 
 
 Little Bow Kum was four feet tall, and weighed 
 only seventy pounds. Her color was the color 
 of old ivory that is, if you can imagine old ivory 
 with the flush and blush of life. She had rose- 
 red lips, onyx eyes, and hair as black as a crow s 
 wing. One day her owner went mad with opium. 
 As he sat and looked at her, and her star-like 
 beauty grew upon him, he struck her down with 
 a bamboo staff. This frightened him; for he saw 
 that if he kept her he would kill her because of her 
 loveliness. So, knowing himself and fearing her 
 beauty, he sent little Bow Kum to San Francisco, 
 and never laid eyes on her again. 
 
 Having ripened into her fifteenth year, and the 
 value of girls being up in San Francisco, little 
 
 186
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 Bow Kum brought the price $3,000 which her 
 owner had fixed for her. She kissed the hand of 
 Low Hee Tong, her new owner; and, having been 
 adorned to the last limit of Chinese coquetry, went 
 with him to a temple, dedicated to some Mongolian 
 Venus, which he maintained in Ross Alley. Here 
 little Bow Kum lived for nearly four years. 
 
 Low Hee Tong, the Ross Alley owner of little 
 Bow Kum, got into trouble with the police. Some 
 thing he did or failed to do probably the latter 
 vastly disturbed them. With that, waxing moral, 
 they decided that Low Hee Tong s Temple of Venus 
 in Ross Alley .was an eyesore, and must be wiped 
 out. 
 
 And so they pulled it. 
 
 Little Bow Kum so small, so much the rose- 
 flower which her name implied aroused the con 
 cern of the judge. He gave her to a Christian 
 mission, which years before had pitched its tent 
 in Frisco s Chinatown with a hope of saving Mon 
 gol souls, which hope had failed. Thereafter little 
 Bow Kum lived at the mission, and not in Ross 
 Alley, and was chaste according to the ice-bound 
 ideals of the white devils. 
 
 The mission was ruled over by a middle-aged 
 matron with a Highland name. This good woman 
 was beginning to wonder what she should do with 
 little Bow Kum, when that almond-eyed floweret 
 came preferring a request. Little Bow Kum, while 
 
 187
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 dwelling in Ross Alley, had met Tchin Len and 
 thought him nice. Tchin Len owned a truck-farm 
 near Stockton, and was rich. Would the Highland 
 matron, in charge of the mission, write a letter to 
 Tchin Len, near Stockton, and ask that bewitching 
 truck-gardener to come down and see little Bow 
 Kum? 
 
 "Because," explained little Bow Kum, in her 
 peculiar English, "I likee Tchin Len to mally me." 
 
 The Highland matron considered. A husband 
 in the case of little Bow Kum would supply a long- 
 felt want. Also, no harm, even if no good, could 
 flow from Tchin Len s visit, since she, the High 
 land matron, sternly purposed being present while 
 Tchin Leri and little Bow Kum conferred. 
 
 The matron wrote the letter, and Tchin Len 
 came down to San Francisco. He and little Bow 
 Kum talked quietly in a language which the man 
 aging matron did not understand. But she knew 
 the signs; and therefore when, at the close of the 
 conversation, they explained that they had decided 
 upon a wedding, she was not astonished. She ^ave 
 them her blessing, about which they cared nothing, 
 and they pledged each other their faith after the 
 Chinese manner which is curious, but unimpor 
 tant here about which they cared much. 
 
 Tchin Len went back to his Stockton truck gar 
 den, to put his house in order against the wifely 
 advent of little Bow Kum. It is not of record that 
 
 188
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 Tchin Len said anything about his Canton wife. 
 The chances are that he didn t. A Chinaman is 
 no great hand to mention his domestic affairs to 
 anybody. Moreover, a wife more or less means 
 nothing to him. It is precisely the sort of thing 
 he would forget; or, remembering, make no refer 
 ence to, lest you vote him a bore. What looks like 
 concealment is often only politeness, and good- 
 breeding sometimes wears the face of fraud. 
 
 It was settled that Tchin Len should marry little 
 Bow Kum, and the latter, aided and abetted by the 
 watchful mission matron, waited for the day. 
 Affairs had reached this stage when the unex 
 pected came rapping at the door. Low Hee Tong, 
 who paid $3,000 for little Bow Kum and claimed 
 to own her, had been keeping an eye on his delicate 
 chattel. She might be living at the mission, but he 
 no less bore her upon the sky-line of his calcula 
 tions. Likewise he knew about the wedding mak 
 ing ready with Tchin Len. He didn t object. He 
 simply went to Tchin Len and asked for $3,000. 
 It was little enough, he said; especially when one 
 considered that excluding all others he would 
 convey to Tchin Len in perpetuity every right in and 
 to little Bow Kum, who was so beautiful that she 
 was hated by the moon. 
 
 Tchin Len said the price was low enough ; that is, 
 if Low Hee Tong possessed any interest in little 
 Bow Kum to convey, which he doubted. Tchin 
 
 189
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 Len explained that he would talk thing s over with 
 the mission matron of the Highland name, and later 
 let Low Hee Tong know. 
 
 Low Hee Tong said that this arrangement was 
 agreeable, so long as it was understood that he 
 would kill both Tchin Len and little Bow Kum in 
 case he didn t get the money. 
 
 Tchin Len, after telling little Bow Kum, laid the 
 business before the mission matron with the High 
 land name. Naturally, she was shocked. She 
 said that she was amazed at the effrontery of Low 
 Hee Tong! Under the white devils law he couldn t 
 possess and therefore couldn t pretend to any title 
 in little Bow Kum. Tchin Len would be wild to 
 pay him $3,000. Low Hee Tong was lucky to be 
 alive! only the mission matron didn t put it in 
 precisely these words. If Tchin Len had $3,000 
 which he didn t need, he might better contribute it 
 to the mission which had sheltered his little Bow 
 Kum. It would be criminal to lavish it upon a 
 yellow Pagan, who threatened to shed blood. 
 
 Tchin Len heard this with pigtailed phlegm and 
 politeness, and promised to think about it. He said 
 that it would give him no joy to endow Low Hee 
 Tong with $3,000; he was willing that much 
 should be understood. 
 
 Little Bow Kum was placidly present at the dis 
 cussion. When it ended she placidly reminded 
 Tchin Len that he knew what she knew, namely, 
 
 190
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 that he in all probability, and she in all certainty, 
 would be killed if Low Hee Tong s claim were 
 refused. Tchin Len sighed and confessed that 
 this was true. For all that, influenced by the 
 mission matron with the Highland name, he was 
 loth to give up the $3,000. Little Bow Kum bent 
 her flower-like head. Tchin Len s will was her 
 law, though as the penalty of such sweet submis 
 sion death, bitter death, should be her portion. 
 
 Tchin Len and the mission matron held several 
 talks ; and Tchin Len and Low Hee Tong held sev 
 eral talks. But the latter did not get the $3,000. 
 Still he threatened and hoped on. It was beyond 
 his Chinese comprehension that Tchin Len could 
 be either so dishonest or so dull as not to pay him 
 that money. Tchin Len was rich, and no child. 
 Yes ; he would pay. And Low Hee Tong, confi 
 dent of his position, made ready his opium lay 
 out for a good smoke. 
 
 The mission matron and Tchin Len hit upon a 
 plan. Tchin Len would privily marry little Bow 
 Kum that must precede all else. Upon that point 
 of wedding bells, the mission matron was as move 
 less as Gibraltar. The knot tied, Tchin Len should 
 sell out his Stockton truck-farm and move to New 
 York. Then he was to send money, and the mis 
 sion matron was to outfit little Bow Kum and ship 
 her East. With the wretched Low Hee Tong in 
 San Francisco, and Tchin Len and little Bow Kum 
 
 191
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 in far New York, an intervening stretch of three 
 thousand five hundred miles might be expected to 
 keep the peace. 
 
 Tchin Len and little Bow Kum were married. A 
 month later, Tchin Len left for New York with 
 $50,000 under his bridal blouse. He settled down 
 in Mott Street, dispatched New York exchange 
 for $800 to the mission matron, who put little 
 Bow Kum aboard the Overland Express at Oak 
 land, together with three trunks and a ticket. Lit 
 tle Bow Kum arrived in due and proper time, and 
 Tchin Len who met her in Jersey City after 
 saluting her in the Chinese fashion, which is cold 
 and lacks enthusiasm, bore her away to Seventeen 
 Mott, where he had prepared for her a nest. 
 
 There are three septs among Chinamen. These 
 are the On Leon Tong, the Hip Sing Tong and 
 the Four Brothers. The two first are associations; 
 the last is a fraternity. You can join the Hip Sing 
 Tong or the On Leon Tong. Your sole chance of 
 becoming a Four Brother lies in being born into the 
 tribe. 
 
 Loui Fook told me these things late one night 
 in the Port Arthur restaurant, where the red lamps 
 glow and there is an all-pervading smell of pre 
 served ginger, and added that the Four Brothers 
 was very ancient. Its sources were lost in the 
 dimmest vistas of Chinese antiquity, said Loui 
 Fook. 
 
 192
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 "One thousand years old ?" I asked. 
 
 "Much older." 
 
 "Five thousand?" 
 
 "Much older." 
 
 "Ten thousand?" 
 
 "Maybe!" 
 
 From which I inferred that the Four Brothers 
 had beheld the dawn and death of many centuries. 
 
 Every member of the Four Brothers is to be 
 known by his name. When you cut the slippered 
 trail of a Chinaman whose name begins with Low 
 or Chu or Tching or Quong, that Chinaman is a 
 Four Brothers. A Chinaman s first name is his 
 family name. In this respect he runs counter to 
 the habit of the white devils; just as he does in 
 the matter of shirts, which the white devil tucks 
 in and the Chinaman does not. Wherefore, the 
 names of Low, Chu, Tching and Quong, every 
 where the evidence of the Four Brothers, are fam 
 ily names. 
 
 Loui Fook gave me the origin of the Four 
 Brothers he himself is an On Leon Tong. Many 
 thousands of years ago a Chinaman was travelling. 
 Dusty, weary, he sat down by a well. His name 
 was Low. Another travel-stained Chinaman joined 
 him. They talked, and liked each other much. 
 The second traveler s name was Chu. Then a third 
 sat down, and the three talked and liked each other 
 much. His name was Tching. Lastly, came a 
 
 193
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 fourth Chinaman, and the weary dust lay deep upon 
 his sandals. His name was Quong. He was 
 equally talked to by the others, and by them equally 
 well liked. They the four decided, as they 
 parted, that forever and forever they and their 
 descendants should be as brothers. 
 
 Wherefore the Four Brothers. 
 
 Low Hee Tong was a member of the Four 
 Brothers a descendant of the earliest Chinaman 
 at that well, back in the world s morning. When 
 he found that Tchin Len had married little Bow 
 Kum and stolen her away to New York, his opium 
 turned bitter and he lost his peace of mind. Low 
 Hee Tong wrote a Chinese letter, giving the story 
 of his injuries, and sent it via the white devils 
 mails to Low Hee Jit, chief of the Four Brothers. 
 
 Low Hee Jit laid the case before Lee Tcin Kum, 
 chief of the On Leon Tong. The wise men of the 
 On Leon Tong appointed a hearing. Low Hee Jit 
 came with the wise men of the Four Brothers to 
 the company rooms of the On Leon Tong. Tchin 
 Len and little Bow Kum were there. The question 
 was, should the On Leon Tong command Tchin 
 Len to pay Low Hee Tong $3,000 the price of 
 little Bow Kum? 
 
 Lee Tcin Kum and the wise men of the On Leon 
 Tong, after long debate, said that Tchin Len should 
 pay Low Hee Tong nothing. And they argued 
 after this wise. The white devils law had taken 
 
 194
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 hold of little Bow Kum, and destroyed Low Hee 
 Tong s title. She was no longer his property. She 
 might marry whom she would, and the bridegroom 
 owe Low Hee Tong nothing. 
 
 This was in the On Leon Tong s Company rooms 
 in Mott Street. 
 
 Low Hee Jit and the wise men of the Four 
 Brothers opposed this. Particularly they declined 
 the white devils laws as of controlling pith and 
 moment. Why should a Chinaman heed the white 
 devils laws? The white devils were the barbarous 
 inferiors of the Chinese. The latter as a race had 
 long ago arrived. For untold ages they had been 
 dwelling upon the highest peaks of all possible 
 human advancement. The white devils, centuries 
 behind, were still blundering about among the foot 
 hills far below. It was an insult, between China 
 man and Chinaman, for Lee Tcin Kum and the 
 wise men of the On Leon Tong to quote the white 
 devils laws, or assume to yield them respect. 
 
 With this the council broke up. 
 
 War was declared by the Four Brothers against 
 the On Leon Tong, and the dead-walls of China 
 town were plastered with the declaration. Since 
 the white devils could not read Chinese, they knew 
 nothing of all this. But the On Leon Tong knew, 
 and the Four Brothers knew, and both sides began 
 bringing in their hatchet-men. 
 
 When a Chinaman is bent on killing, he hires an 
 195
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 assassin. This is not cowardice, but convenience. 
 The assassin never lives in the town where the kill 
 ing is to occur. He is always imported. This is to 
 make detection difficult. The Four Brothers and the 
 On Leon Tong brought in their hatchet-men from 
 Chicago, from Boston, from Pittsburg, from Phila 
 delphia. 
 
 Some impression of the extent of this conscrip 
 tion might be gathered from the following : When 
 last New Year the On Leon Tong gave a public 
 dinner at the Port Arthur, thirty hatchet-men were 
 on the roof and eighty in the street. This was to 
 head off any attempt the Four Brothers might make 
 to blow that banquet up. I received the above from 
 an esteemed friend of mine, who was a guest at the 
 dinner, but left when told what profuse arrange 
 ments had been made to insure his skin. 
 
 Tchin Len and little Bow Kum kept up the fires 
 of their love at Seventeen Mott. They took their 
 daily chop suey and sharkfin, not to mention their 
 bird s-nest soup, across the way at Twenty-two with 
 their friends, Sam Lee and Yong Dok. 
 
 It was a showery, August afternoon. Tchin Len 
 had been all day at his store, and little Bow Kum 
 was sitting alone in their room. Dismal as was 
 the day outside, the room showed pleasant and 
 bright. There were needlework screens, hangings 
 of brocade and silk, vases of porcelain, statuettes 
 in jade. The room was rich a scene of color and 
 Chinese luxury. 
 
 196
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 Little Bow Kum was the room s best ornament 
 with her jade bracelets, brocade jacket, silken 
 trousers, golden girdle, and sandaled feet as small 
 as the feet of a child of six. It would be twenty 
 minutes before the Chinese dinner hour, when she 
 was to join Tchin Len across the street, and she 
 drew out pen and ink and paper that she might 
 practice the white devils way of writing; and all 
 with the thought of some day sending a letter of 
 love and gratitude to the mission matron with the 
 Highland name. 
 
 So engrossed was little Bow Kum that she ob 
 served nothing of the soft opening of the door, 
 or the dark savage face which peered through. 
 The murderer crept upon her as noiselessly as a 
 shadow. There was a hawk-like swoop. About 
 the slender throat closed a grip of steel. The fin 
 gers were long, slim, strong. She could not cry 
 out. The dull glimmer of a Chinese knife it was 
 later picked up in the hall, a-drip with blood 
 flashed before her frightened eyes. She made a 
 convulsive clutch, and the blade was drawn horribly 
 through her baby fingers. 
 
 Over across, not one hundred feet away, sat 
 Tchin Len and his two friends in the eating room 
 of Twenty-two. It was a special day, and they 
 would have chicken and rice. This made them 
 impatient for the advent of little Bow Kum. She 
 was already ten minutes behind the hour. His. 
 
 197
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 friends rallied Tchin Len about little Bow Kum, 
 and evolved a Chinese joke to the effect that he was 
 a slave to her beauty and had made a foot-rest of 
 his heart for her little feet. Twenty minutes went 
 by, and his friends had grown too hungry to jest. 
 
 Tchin Len went over to Seventeen, to bring lit 
 tle Bow Kum. As he pushed open the door, he saw 
 the little silken brocaded form, like a child asleep, 
 lying on the floor. Tchin Len did not understand ; 
 he thought little Bow Kum was playing with him. 
 
 Poor little Bow Kum. 
 
 The lean fingers had torn the slender throat. 
 Her baby hand was cut half in two, where the knife 
 had been snatched away. The long blade had been 
 driven many times through and through the little 
 body. A final slash, hari-kari fashion and all 
 across, had been the awful climax. 
 
 His friends found Tchin Len, seated on the floor, 
 with little Bow Kum in his arms. Grief was 
 neither in his eyes nor in his mouth, for his mind, 
 like his heart, had been made empty. 
 
 Tchin Len waits for the vengeance of little Bow 
 Kum to fall upon her murderers. Some say that 
 Tchin Len was a fool for not paying Low Hee Tong 
 the $3,000. Some call him dishonest. All agree 
 that the cross-fire of killings, which has raged and 
 still rages because of it, can do little Bow Kum 
 no good. 
 
 198
 
 X. 
 
 THE COOKING OF CRAZY BUTCH 
 
 This is not so much to chronicle the bumping 
 off of Crazy Butch, as to open a half -gate of jus 
 tice in the maligned instance of the Darby Kid. 
 There is subdued excitement in and about the Cen 
 tral Office. There is more excitement, crossed with 
 a color of bitterness, in and about the Chatham 
 Club. The Central Office, working out a tip, be 
 lieves it has cut the trail of Harry the Soldier, who, 
 with Dopey Benny, is wanted for the killing of 
 Crazy Butch. The thought which so acrimoni 
 ously agitates the Chatham Club is "Who rapped?" 
 with the finger of jealous suspicion pointing sourly 
 at the Darby Kid. 
 
 That you be not misled in an important particu 
 lar, it is well perhaps to explain that the Darby 
 Kid is a girl a radiant girl and in her line as a 
 booster, a girl of gold. She deeply loved Crazy 
 Butch, having first loved Harry the Soldier. If 
 she owned a fault, it was that in matters of the 
 heart she resembled the heroine of the flat boat 
 man s muse. 
 
 199
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 There was a womern in our town 
 
 In our town did dwell. 
 She loved her husband dear-i-lee 
 An another man twict as well. 
 
 But that is not saying she would act as stool- 
 pigeon. To charge that the Darby Kid turned 
 copper, and wised up the Central Office dicks con 
 cerning the whereabouts of Harry the Soldier, is 
 a serious thing. The imputation is a grave one. 
 Even the meanest ought not to be disgraced as a 
 snitch in the eyes of all Gangland, lightly and upon 
 insufficient evidence. There were others besides 
 the Darby Kid who knew how to locate Harry the 
 Soldier. Might not one of these have given a right 
 steer to the bulls? Not that the Darby Kid can 
 be pictured as altogether blameless. She indubi 
 tably did a foolish thing. Having received that 
 letter, she should never have talked about it. Such 
 communications cannot be kept too secret. Some 
 wretched talebearer must have been lounging about 
 the Chatham Club. Why not? The Chatham 
 Club can no more guarantee the character of its 
 patrons than can the Waldorf-Astoria. 
 
 The evening was a recent one. It was also dull. 
 There wasn t an overflow of customers, hardly 
 enough in waiting on them, to take the stiffness 
 out of Nigger Mike s knees. 
 
 It was nine of the clock, and those two insepar 
 ables, the Irish Wop and old Jimmy, sat in their 
 
 200
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 usual chairs. The Wop spoke complainingly of the 
 poolroom trade, which was even duller than trade at 
 the Chatham Club. 
 
 "Wat wit killin New York racin ," said the 
 Wop dismally, "an w at wit raidin a guy s joint 
 every toime some av them pa-a-pers makes a crack, 
 it s got th poolrooms on th bum. For meself I m 
 thinkin av closin . Every day I m open puts me 
 fifty dollars on th nut. An Jimmy, I ve about 
 med up me moind to put th shutters up." 
 
 "Mebby you re in wrong with th organization." 
 
 "Tammany? Th more you shtand in wit Tam 
 many, th ha-a-arder you get slugged." 
 
 Old Jimmy signalled to Nigger Mike for beer. 
 
 "Over to th Little Hungary last night," remarked 
 old Jimmy casually, "them swell politicians has a 
 dinner. I was there." 
 
 The last came off a little proudly. 
 
 "They tell me," said the Wop with a depreca 
 tory shrug, "that Cha-a-arley Murphy was there, 
 too, an that Se-r-rgeant Cram had to go along 
 to heel an handle him. I can remimber whin chuck 
 steak an garlic is about Cha-a-arley s speed. Now, 
 whin he s bushtin em open as Chief av Tammany 
 Hall, it s an indless chain av champagne an tur pin 
 an canvashback, with patty-de-foy-grass as a 
 chaser." 
 
 Old Jimmy shook a severe yet lofty head. "If 
 some guy tells you, Wop, that Charley needs any- 
 
 201
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 body in his corner at a dinner that guy s stringin 
 you. Charley can see his way through from nap 
 kins to toothpicks, as well as old Chauncey Depew. 
 There s a lot of duffers goin round knockin 
 Charlie. They re sore just because he s gettin 
 along, see? They ll tell you how if you butt him 
 up ag inst a dinner table, he ll about give you an 
 imitation of a blind dog in a meat-shop how he ll 
 try to eat peas with a knife an let em roll down 
 his sleeve an all that. So far as them hoboes 
 knockin Charley goes, it s to his credit. You don t 
 want to forget, Wop, they never knock a dead one." 
 
 "In th ould gas house days," enquired the Wop, 
 "wasn t Cha-a-arley a conducthor on wan av th 
 crosstown ca-a-ars?" 
 
 "He was! an a good one too. That s where he 
 got his start. He quit em when they introduced 
 bell punches; an I don t blame him! Them big 
 companies is all alike. Which of em ll stand for it 
 to give a workin man a chance ?" 
 
 "Did thim la-a-ads lasht night make spaches?" 
 
 "Speeches? Nothin but. Trusts is to be th 
 issue this next pres dential campaign." 
 
 "Now about thim trushts? I ve been wantin 
 to ashk yez th long time. I ve been hearin av 
 trushts for tin years, an Mary save me! if I d 
 know wan if it was to come an live next dure." 
 
 "Well, Wop," returned old Jimmy engigmat- 
 ically, "a trust is anything you don t like only so 
 
 202
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 it s a corp ration. So long as it stands in with you 
 an you like it, it s all right, see ? But once it takes 
 to handin you th lemon, it s a trust." 
 
 "Speakin av th pris dency, it looks loike this fat 
 felly Taft s out to get it in th neck." 
 
 "Surest ever! Th trusts is sore on him; an th 
 people is sore on him. He s a frost at both ends of 
 th alley." 
 
 "Wat crabbed him?" 
 
 "Too small in th hat-band, too big in th belt. 
 Them republicans better chuck Taft in th discard 
 an take up Teddy. There s a live one! There s 
 th sturdy plow-boy of politics who d land em 
 winner !" 
 
 The Nailer came strolling in and pulled up a 
 chair. 
 
 "Roosevelt, Jimmy," said he, "couldn t make th 
 run. Don t he start th argument himself, th time 
 he s elected, sayin it s his second term an he ll 
 never go out for th White House goods again?" 
 
 "Shure he did," coincided the Wop. "An* 
 r-r-right there he give himsilf th gate. You re 
 right, Nailer; he s barred." 
 
 "Teddy oughtn t to have got off that bluff about 
 not runnin ag in," observed old Jimmy thought 
 fully. "He sees it himself now. Th next day 
 after he makes his crack, a friend of mine, who s 
 down to th White House, asks him about it; Is it 
 for the bleachers, says my friend, or does it go? 
 
 203
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 " Oh, it goes ! says Teddy. 
 
 " Then, says my friend, you ll pardon me, but 
 I don t think it was up to you to say it. It may 
 wind up by puttin everybody an everything in 
 Dutch. No sport can know what he ll want to do, 
 or what he ought to do, four years ahead. Bein 
 pres dent now, with four years to draw to, you 
 can no more tell whether or no you ll want to re 
 peat than you can tell what you ll want for dinner 
 while you re eatin lunch. Once I knew a guy 
 who s always ready to swear off whiskey, when he s 
 half full. Used to chase round to th priest, on his 
 own hunch, to sign th pledge, every time he gets 
 a bun. Bein soaked, he feels like he ll never want 
 another drink. After he d gone without whiskey a 
 couple of days, however, he d wake up to it that 
 he s been too bigoted. He d feel that he s taken too 
 narrow a view of th liquor question, an commence 
 to see things in their true colors. That s what 
 my friend told him. And now that Teddy s show- 
 in signs, I ve wondered whether he recalls them 
 warnin words." 
 
 "W at ll th demmycrats do?" asked the Nailer. 
 "Run Willyum Jennin s?" 
 
 "They will," retorted the Wop scornfully, "if 
 they want to get th hoot. Three toimes has this 
 guy Bryan run an always f r th end book. D yez 
 moind, Jimmy, how afther th Denver Convention 
 lie cha-a-ases down to th depot to shake ha-a-ands 
 
 204
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 wit Cha-a-arley Murphy? There s no class to 
 that! Would Washin ton have done it? Would 
 Jefferson ?" 
 
 "How was he hoited be shakin* hands wit 
 Murphy?" 
 
 The Nailer s tones were almost defiant. He had 
 been brought up with a profound impression of the 
 grandeur of Tammany Hall. 
 
 "How was he hur-r-rted? D yez call it th cun- 
 nin play f r him to be at th depot, hand stretched 
 out, an yellin Mitt me, Cha-a-arley, mitt me?" 
 Man aloive, d yez think th country wants that 
 koind av a ska-a-ate in th White House ?" 
 
 The acrid emphasis of the Wop was so over 
 whelming that it swept the Nailer off his feet. 
 
 The Wop resumed : 
 
 "Wan thing, that depot racket wasn t th way 
 to carry New York. Th way to bring home th 
 darby in th Empire Shtate is to go to th flure wit 
 Tammany at th ringin av th gong. How was it 
 Cleveland used to win? Was it be makin a pet av 
 Croker, or sendin th organization flowers? An 
 yez don t have to be told what happened to Cleve 
 land. An Tammany, moind yez, tryin to thump his 
 proshpecks on th nut ivery fut av th way! If 
 Willyum Jinnin s had been th wise fowl, he d have 
 took his hunch fr m th career av Cleveland, an 
 rough-housed Tammany whiniver an wheriver 
 found. If he d only knocked Tammany long 
 
 205
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 enough an ha-a-ard enough, he d have had an an 
 chor-nurse on th result." 
 
 "This sounds like treason, Wop," said old Jim 
 my in tones of mock reproach. "Croker was boss 
 in th Cleveland days. You ll hardly say that 
 Qiarlie ain t a better chief than Croker?" 
 
 "Jimmy, there s as much difference bechune ould 
 man Croker an Cha-a-arley Murphy as bechune a 
 buffalo bull an a billy-goat. To make Murphy chief 
 was loike settin a boy to carryin hod. While yez 
 couldn t say f r shure whether he d fall fr m th 
 laddher or simply sit down wit th hod, it s a cinch 
 he d niver get th bricks to th scaffold. Murphy s 
 too busy countin th buttons on his Prince Albert, 
 an balancin th gold eye-glasshes on th ridge av 
 his nose, to lave him anny toime f r vict ry." 
 
 "While youse guys," observed the Nailer, with a 
 great air of knowing something, "is indulgin in 
 your spiels about Murphy, don t it ever strike youse 
 that he s out to make Gaynor pres dent?" 
 
 "Gaynor?" repeated old Jimmy, in high offence. 
 "Do you think Charlie s balmy? If it ever gets so 
 that folks of th Gaynor size is looked on as big 
 enough for th presidency, I for one shall retire to 
 th booby house an devote th remainder of an ill- 
 spent life to cuttin paper dolls. An yet, Nailer, 
 I oughtn t to wonder at youse either for namin 
 him. There s a Demmycrat Club mutt speaks to me 
 about that very thing at th Little Hungary dinner. 
 
 206
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 Gaynor is a college graduate, says the Demmycrat 
 Clubber. Is he? says I. Well then he ought to 
 chase around to that college an make em give him 
 back his money. They swindled him. Look at th 
 friends he has ! says th Clubber. I ve been admir- 
 in em/ I says. What with one thing an another, 
 them he s appointed to office has stole everything 
 but th back fence. But didn t Croker, in his time, 
 hook him up with Tammany Hall? says th Club 
 ber ; that ought to show you ! Croker did, says I ; 
 it s an old Croker trick. Croker was forever get- 
 tin th Gaynors an th Shepherds an th Astor- 
 Chanlers an th Cord Meyers an all them high-fly- 
 in guys into Tammany. He does it for th same 
 reason they puts a geranium in a tenement house 
 window. An w at may that be? asks the Club 
 ber. Th geranium s intended, says I, to engage 
 th eye of th Health Inspector, an distract his at 
 tention from th drain. 
 
 The Darby Kid, a bright dancing light in her 
 eyes and all a-flutter, rushed in. The Nailer crossed 
 over to a table at which sat Mollie Squint. The 
 Darby Kid joined them. 
 
 "W at do youse think?" cried the Darby Kid. 
 "I m comin out of me flat when th postman slips 
 me a letter from Harry th Soldier." 
 
 "Where is he?" asked Mollie Squint. 
 
 "That s th funny part. He s in th Eyetalian 
 Army, an headed for Africa. That s a fine lay- 
 
 207
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 out, I don t think! An he says I m th only goil 
 he ever loves, an asts me to join him ! Ain t he got 
 his nerve?" 
 
 "W y? You ain t mad because he croaks 
 Butch?" 
 
 "No. But me for Africa! the ideer!" 
 
 "About Dopey Benny?" said the Nailer. 
 
 "Harry says Benny got four spaces in Canada. 
 It s a bank trick tryin to blow a box in Montreal 
 or somethin ." 
 
 "Then you won t join Harry?" remarked Mollie 
 Squint. 
 
 "In Africa? When I do, I ll toin mission 
 worker." 
 
 The next day the Central Office knew all that 
 the Darby Kid knew as to Harry the Soldier. But 
 why say it was she who squealed ? The Nailer and 
 Mollie Squint were quite as well informed as her 
 self, having read Harry s letter. 
 
 To begin at the foundation and go to the eaves 
 which is the only right way to build either a house 
 or a story. Crazy Butch had reached his twenty- 
 eighth year, when he died and was laid to rest in 
 accordance with the ceremonial of his ancient 
 church. He was a child of the East Side, and his 
 vices out-topped his virtues upon a principle of six 
 teen to one. 
 
 The parents of Butch may be curtly dismissed as 
 unimportant. They gave him neither care nor 
 
 208
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 guidance, but left him to grow up, a moral strag 
 gler, in what tangled fashion he would. Never once 
 did they show him the moral way in which he should 
 go. Not that Butch would have taken it if they 
 had. 
 
 To Butch, as to Gangland in general, morality 
 was as so much lost motion. And, just as time is 
 money among honest folk, so was motion money 
 with Butch and his predatory kind. Old Jimmy 
 .correctly laid down the Gangland position, which 
 was Butch s position. Said old Jimmy: 
 
 "Morality is all to the excellent for geeks with 
 dough to burn an time to throw away. It s right 
 into the mitts of W ite Chokers, who gets paid for 
 bein good an hire out to be virchuous for so much 
 a year. But of what use is morality to a guy along 
 the Bowery? You could take a cartload of it to 
 Simpson s, an you couldn t get a dollar on it." 
 
 Not much was known of the childhood of Butch, 
 albeit his vacuous lack of book knowledge assisted" 
 the theory that little or less of it had been passed 
 in school. Nor was that childhood a lengthy one, 
 for fame began early to collect upon Butch s schem 
 ing brow. He was about the green and unripe age 
 of thirteen when he went abroad into the highways 
 and byways of the upper city and stole a dog of the 
 breed termed setter. This animal he named Rabbi, 
 and trained as a thief. 
 
 Rabbi, for many months, was Butch s meal 
 209
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 ticket. The method of their thievish procedure 
 was simple but effective. Butch Rabbi alertly at 
 his godless heels would stroll about the streets 
 looking for prey. When some woman drifted by, 
 equipped of a handbag of promise, Butch pointed 
 out the same to the rascal notice of Rabbi. After 
 which the discreet Butch withdrew, the rest of it 
 as he said being up to Rabbi. 
 
 Rabbi followed the woman, his abandoned eye on 
 the hand-bag. Watching his chance, Rabbi rushed 
 the woman and dexterously whisked the handbag 
 from out her horrified fingers. Before the woman 
 realized her loss, Rabbi had raced around a near 
 est corner and was lost to all pursuit. Fifteen min 
 utes later he would find Butch at Willett and Stan- 
 ton Streets, and turn over the touch. 
 
 Rabbi hated a policeman like a Christian. The 
 sight of one would send him into growling, snarling, 
 hiding. None the less, like all great characters, 
 Rabbi became known; and, in the end, through 
 some .fraud which was addressed to his softer side 
 and wherein a canine Delilah performed, he was 
 betrayed into the clutches of the law. 
 
 This mischance marked the close, as a hanger- 
 snatcher, of the invaluable Rabbi s career. Not 
 that the plain-clothes people who caught him affixed 
 a period to his doggish days. Even a plains-clothes 
 man isn t entirely hard. Rabbi s captors merely 
 
 210
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 found him a home in the Catskills, where he spent 
 his days in honor and his nights in sucking unsus 
 pected eggs. 
 
 When Rabbi was retired to private life, Butch, 
 in his bread-hunting, resolved to seek new paths. 
 Among the cruder crimes is house-breaking and 
 to it the amateur law-breaker most naturally turns. 
 Butch became a house-worker with special reference 
 to flats. 
 
 In the beginning, Butch worked in the day time, 
 or as they say in Gangland, "went out on skush." 
 Hating the sun, however, as all true criminals 
 must, he shifted to night jobs, and took his dingy 
 place in the ranks of viciousness as a schlamwcrker. 
 As such he turned off houses, flats and stores, tak 
 ing what Fate sent him. Occasionally he varied the 
 dull monotony of simple burglary by truck-hopping. 
 
 Man cannot live by burglary alone, and Butch 
 was not without his gregarious side. Seeking com 
 radeship, he united himself with the Eastman gang. 
 As a gangster he soon distinguished himself. He 
 fought like a berserk; and it was a sort of war- 
 frenzy, which overtook him in battle, that gave 
 him his honorable prefix. 
 
 Monk Eastman thought well of Butch. Not 
 even Ike the Blood stood nearer than did Butch to 
 the heart of that grim gang captain. Eastman s 
 weakness was pigeons. When he himself went 
 
 211
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 finally to Sing- Sing, he asked the court to permit 
 him another week in the Tombs, so that he might 
 find a father for his five hundred feathered pets. 
 
 In the days when Butch came to strengthen as 
 well as ornament his forces, Eastman kept a bird 
 store in Broome Street, under the New Irving Hall. 
 Eastman also rented bicycles. Those who thirsted 
 to stand well with him were sedulous to ride a 
 wheel. They rented these uneasy engines of East 
 man, with the view of drawing- to themselves that 
 leader s favor. Butch, himself, was early astride 
 a bicycle. One time and another he paid into East 
 man s hands the proceeds of many a skush or 
 schlain job; and all for the calf -developing privilege 
 of pedalling about the streets. 
 
 Butch conceived an idea w r hich peculiarly en 
 deared him to Eastman. In Forsyth Street was a 
 hall, and Butch renting the same organized an 
 association w r hich, in honorable advertisement of his 
 chief s trade of pigeons and bicycles, he called the 
 Squab- Wheelmen. Eastman himself stood god 
 father to this club, and at what times he reposed 
 himself from his bike and pigeon labors, played 
 pool in its rooms. 
 
 There occurred that which might have shaken 
 one less firmly established than Butch. As it was, 
 it but solidified him and did him good. The world 
 will remember the great gang battle, fought at 
 .Worth and Center Streets, between the Eastmans 
 
 212
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 and the Five Points. The merry-making was put 
 an end to by those spoil sports, the police, who, as 
 much without noble sympathies as chivalric in 
 stincts, drove the contending warriors from the field 
 at the point of their night sticks. 
 
 Brief as was the fray, numerous were the brave 
 deeds clone. On one side or the other, the Drop 
 per, the Nailer, Big Abrams, Ike the Blood, Slim- 
 my, Johnny Rice, Jackeen Dalton, Biff Ellison and 
 the Grabber distinguished themselves. As for 
 Butch, he was deep within the warlike thick of 
 things, and no one than he came more to the pop 
 ular front. 
 
 Sequential to that jousting, a thought came to 
 Butch. The Squab-Wheelmen were in nightly ex 
 pectation of an attack from the Five Pointers. By 
 way of testing their valor, and settle definitely, in 
 event of trouble, who would stick and who would 
 duck, Butch one midnight, came rushing up the 
 stairway, which led to the club rooms, blazing with 
 two pistols at once. Butch had prevailed upon five 
 or six others, of humor as jocose as his own, to 
 assist, and the explosive racket the party made in 
 the narrow stairway was all that heart could have 
 wished. It was comparable only to a Mott Street 
 Chinese New Year s, as celebrated in front of the 
 Port Arthur. 
 
 There were sixty members in the rooms of the 
 Squab-Wheelmen when Butch led up his feigned 
 
 213
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 attack, and it is discouraging- to relate that most if 
 not all of them fled. Little Kishky, sitting in a 
 window, was so overcome that he fell out back 
 wards, and broke his neck. Some of those who 
 fled, by way of covering their confusion, were in 
 clined to make a deal of the death of Little Kishky 
 and would have had it set to the discredit of Butch. 
 Gangland opinion, however, was against them. If 
 Little Kishky hadn t been a quitter, he would never 
 have fallen out. Butch was not only exonerated 
 but applauded. He had devised so declared Gang 
 land an ideal method of separating the sheep who 
 would fly from the goats who would stay and stand 
 fire. 
 
 Then, too, there was the laugh. 
 
 Gangland was quick to see the humorous side; 
 and since humanity is prone to decide as it laughs, 
 Gangland overwhelmingly declared in favor ot 
 Butch. 
 
 It was about this time that Butch found himself 
 in a jam. His schlam work had never been first 
 class. It was the want of finish to it which earned 
 him the name of Butch. The second night after 
 his stampede of the Squab-Wheelmen, his clumsi 
 ness in a Brooklyn flat woke up a woman, who woke 
 up the neighborhood. Whereupon, the neighbor 
 hood rushed in and sat upon the body of Butch, 
 until the police came to claim him. Subsequently, 
 a Kings County judge saw his way clear to send
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 Butch up the river for four weary years. And 
 did. 
 
 Butch was older and soberer when he returned. 
 Also, his world had changed. Eastman had been 
 put away, and Ritchie Fitzpatrick ruled in his 
 place. Butch cultivated discretion, where before he 
 had been hot and headlong, and no longer sought 
 that gang prominence which was formerly as the 
 breath to his nostrils. 
 
 Not that Butch altogether turned his back upon 
 his old-time associates. The local Froissarts tell 
 how he, himself, captained a score or so of choice 
 spirits among the Eastmans, against the Humpty 
 Jackson gang, beat them, took them prisoners and 
 plundered them. This brilliant action occurred in 
 that Fourteenth Street graveyard which was the 
 common hang-out of the Humpty Jacksons. Also, 
 Humpty Jackson commanded his partisans in per 
 son, and was captured and frisked with the rest. 
 Butch gained much glory and some money ; for the 
 Jacksons however it happened chanced to be 
 flush. 
 
 Butch, returning from Sing-Sing exile, did not 
 return to his schlam work. That trip up-the-river 
 had shaken him. He became a Fagin, and taught 
 boys of tender years to do his stealing for him. 
 
 Butch s mob of kids counted as many as twenty, 
 all trained in pocket-picking to a feather-edge. As 
 aiding their childish efforts, it was Butch s habit 
 
 215
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 to mount a bicycle, and proceed slowly down the 
 street, his fleet of kids going well abreast of him on 
 the walks. Acting 1 the part of some half-taught 
 amateur of the wheel, Butch would bump into a 
 man or a woman, preferably a woman. There 
 would be cries and a scuffle. The woman would 
 scold, Butch would expound and explain. Mean 
 while the wren-head public packed itself ten deep 
 about the center of excitement. 
 
 It was then that Butch s young adherents pushed 
 their shrewd way in. Little hands went flying, to 
 reap a very harvest of pokes. Butch began build 
 ing up a bank account. 
 
 As an excuse for living, and to keep his mob 
 together, Butch opened a pool parlor. This tem 
 ple of enjoyment was in a basement in Willett 
 Street near Stanton. The tariff was two-and-a- 
 half cents a cue, and what Charley Bateses and 
 Artful Dodgers worked for Butch were wont to 
 refresh themselves at the game. 
 
 Butch made money with both hands. He took 
 his share as a Fagin. Then, what fragmentary 
 remnants of their stealings he allowed his young 
 followers, was faithfully blown in by them across 
 his pool tables. 
 
 Imagination rules the world. Butch, having 
 imagination, extended himself. Already a Fagin, 
 Butch became a passer and bought stolen goods for 
 himself. Often, too, he acted as a mclina and 
 
 216
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 bought for others. Thus Butch had three strings 
 to his business bow. He was getting rich and at 
 the same time keeping out of the ringers of the 
 bulls. This caused him to be much looked up to 
 and envied, throughout the length and breadth of 
 Gangland. 
 
 Butch was thus prosperous and prospering when 
 it occurred to him to fall in love. Harry the Sol 
 dier was the Mark Antony of the Five Points, his 
 Cleopatra the Darby Kid. There existed divers 
 reasons for adoring the Darby Kid. There was 
 her lustrous eyes, her coral mouth, her rounded 
 cheek, her full figure, her gifts as a shop lifter. 
 As a graceful crown to these attractions, the Darby 
 Kid could pick a pocket with the best wire that ever 
 touched a leather. In no wise had she been named 
 the Darby Kid for nothing. Not even Mollie 
 Squint was her superior at getting the bundle of 
 a boob. They said, and with truth, that those 
 soft, deep, lustrous eyes could look a sucker over, 
 while yet that unconscious sucker was ten feet 
 away, and locate the keck wherein he carried his 
 roll. Is it astonishing then that the heart of Butch 
 went down on its willing knees to the Darby Kid ? 
 
 Another matter: Wasn t the Darby Kid the 
 chosen one of Harry the Soldier? Was not Harry 
 a Five Pointer? Had not Butch, elbow to elbow, 
 with his great chief, Eastman, fought the Five 
 Pointers in the battle at Worth and Center? It 
 
 217
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 was a triumph, indeed, to win the heart of the 
 Darby Kid. It was twice a triumph to steal that 
 heart away from Harry the Soldier. 
 
 The Darby Kid crossed over from Harry the 
 Soldier to Butch, and brought her love along. 
 Thereafter her smiles were for Butch, her caresses 
 for Butch, her touches for Butch. Harry the Sol 
 dier was left desolate. 
 
 Harry the Soldier was a gon of merit and de 
 served eminence. That he had been an inmate not 
 only of the House of Refuge but the Elmira Re 
 formatory, should show you that he was a past- 
 master at his art. His steady partner was Dopey 
 Benny. With one to relieve the other in the ex 
 acting duties of stinger, and a couple of good stalls 
 to put up an effective back, trust them, at fair 
 or circus or theatre break, to make leathers, props 
 and thimbles fly. 
 
 It was Gangland decision that for Butch to win 
 the Darby Kid away from Harry the Soldier, even 
 as Paris aforetime took the lovely Helen from her 
 Menelaus, touched not alone the honor of Harry 
 but the honor of the Five Points. Harry must 
 revenge himself. Still more must he revenge the 
 Five Points. It had become a case of Butch s life 
 or his. On no milder terms could Harry sustain 
 himself in Gangland first circles. His name else 
 would be despised anywhere and everywhere that 
 
 218
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 the fair and the brave were wont to come together 
 and unbuckle socially. 
 
 Butch, tall and broad and strong, smooth of face, 
 arched of nose, was a born hawk of battle. Harry 
 the Soldier, dark, short, of no muscular power, 
 was not the physical equal of Butch. Butch looked 
 forward with confidence to the upcome. 
 
 "An yet, Butch," sweetly warned the Darby Kid, 
 her arms about his neck, "you mustn t go to sleep 
 at the switch. Harry 11 nail you if youse do. It ll 
 be a gun-fight, an he s a dream wit a gatt." 
 
 "Never mind about that gatt thing! Do youse 
 think, dearie, I d let that Guinea cop a sneak on 
 me?" 
 
 It was a cool evening in September. A dozen 
 of Butch s young gons were knocking the balls 
 about his pool tables. Butch himself was behind 
 the bar. Outside in Willett Street a whistle 
 sounded. Butch picked up a pistol off the drip- 
 board, just in time to peg a shot at Harry the Sol 
 dier as that ill-used lover came through the front 
 door. Dopey Benny, Jonathan to the other s David, 
 was with Harry. Neither tried to shoot. Through 
 a hail of lead from Butch s pistol, the two ran out 
 the back door. No one killed ; no one wounded. 
 Butch had been shooting too high, as the bullet- 
 raked ceiling made plain. 
 
 Butch explained his wretched gun play by saying 
 
 219
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 that he was afraid of pinking some valued one 
 among his boy scouts. 
 
 "At that," he added, "it s just as well. Them 
 wops 11 never come back. Now when they see I m 
 organized they ll stay away. There ain t no sand 
 in them Sicilians. 
 
 Butch was wrong. Harry, with Dopey Benny, 
 was back the next night. This time there was no 
 whistle. Harry had sent forward a force of skir 
 mishers to do up those sentinels, with whom Butch 
 had picketed Willett Street. Butch s earliest inti 
 mation that there was something doing came when 
 a bullet from the gun of Harry broke his back. 
 Dopey Benny stood off the public, while Harry put 
 three more bullets into Butch. The final three were 
 superfluous, however, as was shown at the inquest 
 next day. 
 
 The Darby Kid was abroad upon her professional 
 duties as a gon-moll, when Harry hived Butch. Her 
 absence was regretted by her former lover. 
 
 "Because," said he, as he and Dopey Benny fled 
 down Stanton Street, I d like to have made the play 
 a double header, and downed the Kid along wit 
 Butch." 
 
 It was not so written, however. Double headers, 
 whatever the field of human effort, are the excep 
 tion and not the rule of life. 
 
 It was whispered that Harry the Soldier and 
 Dopey Benny remained three days in the Pell Street 
 
 220
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 room of Big Mike Abrams before their get-away. 
 They might have been at the bottom of the lower 
 bay, for all the Central Office knew. Butch was 
 buried, and the Darby Kid wept over his grave. 
 After which she cheered up, and came back smiling. 
 There is no good in grief. Besides, it s egotistical, 
 and trenches upon conceit. 
 
 The Central Office declares that, equipped of the 
 right papers, it will bring Harry the Soldier back 
 from Africa. Also, it will go after Dopey Benny 
 in Kanuckland, when his time is out. The chair 
 says the Central Office shall yet have both. 
 
 Old Jimmy doesn t think there s a chance, while 
 the jaundiced Wop openly scoffs. Neither believes 
 in the police. Meanwhile dark suspicions hover 
 cloudily over the Darby Kid. Did she rap? She 
 says not, and offers to pawn her soul. 
 
 "Why should I?" asks the Darby Kid. "Of 
 course I d sooner it was Butch copped Harry. But 
 it went the other way; an why should I holier? 
 Would beefin bring Butch back?"
 
 XI. 
 
 BIG MIKE ABRAMS 
 
 This was after Nigger Mike had gone into exile 
 in cold and sorrowful Toronto, and while Tony 
 Kelly did the moist honors at Number Twelve 
 Pell. Nigger Mike, you will remember, hurried to 
 his ruin on the combined currents of enthusiasm 
 and many drinks, had registered a score or two 
 of times; for he meditated casting full fifty votes 
 at the coming election, in his own proper person, 
 and said so to his friends. 
 
 As Mike registered those numerous times, the 
 snap-shot hirelings of certain annoying reformers 
 were busy popping him with their cameras. His 
 friends informed him of this, and counselled going 
 slow. But Mike was beyond counsel, and knew little 
 or less of cameras never having had his picture 
 taken save officially, and by the rules of Bertillon. 
 In the face of those who would have saved him, he 
 continued to stagger in and out upon that multifari 
 ous registration, inviting destruction. The purists 
 took the pictures to the District Attorney, their hire 
 lings told their tales, and Mike perforce went into 
 that sad Toronto exile. He is back now, however,
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 safe, sober, clothed and in his right mind ; but that is 
 another story. 
 
 The day had been a sweltering July day for all of 
 Chinatown. Now that night had come, the narrow 
 ness of Pell and Doyers and Mott Streets was 
 choked with Chinamen, sitting along the curb, loll 
 ing in doorways, or slowly drifting up and down, 
 making the most of the cool of the evening. 
 
 Over across from Number Twelve a sudden row 
 broke out. There were smashings and crashings, 
 loopholed, as it were, with shrill Mongolian shrieks. 
 The guests about Tony s tables glanced up with 
 dull, half-interested eyes. 
 
 "It s Big Mike Abrams tearin th packin out of 
 th laundry across th street," said Tony. 
 
 Tony was at the front door when the war broke 
 forth, and had come aft to explain. Otherwise 
 those about his tables might have gone personally 
 forth, seeking a solution of those yellings and 
 smashings and crashings for themselves, and the 
 flow of profitable beer been thereby interrupted. 
 At Tony s explanation his guests sat back in their 
 chairs, and ordered further beer. Which shows 
 that Tony had a knowledge of his business. 
 
 "About them socialists," resumed Sop Henry, 
 taking up the talk where it had broken off; "Big 
 Tom Foley tells me that they re gettin something 
 fierce. They cast more n thirty thousand votes 
 last Fall." 
 
 223
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 "Say," broke in the Nailer, "I can t understand 
 about a socialist. He must be on the level at that; 
 for one evenin , when they re holdin a meetin in 
 the Bowery, a fleet of gons goes through a dozen 
 of em, an , exceptin for one who s an editor, and 
 has pulled off a touch somewheres, there ain t street 
 car fare in all their kecks. That shows there s 
 nothin in it for em. Th editor has four bones on 
 him hardly enough for a round of drinks an 
 beef stews. Th mob blows it in at Flynn s joint, 
 down be th corner." 
 
 "I m like you, Nailer," agreed Sop Henry. 
 "Them socialists have certainly got me goin . I 
 can t get onto their coives at all." 
 
 "Lishten, then." This came from the Irish Wop, 
 who was nothing if not political. "Lishten to me. 
 Yez can go to shleep on it, I know all about a 
 socialist. There s ould Casey s son, Barney ould 
 Casey that med a killin in ashphalt. Well, since 
 his pah-pah got rich, young Casey s a socialist. On y 
 his name ain t Barney now, it s Berna-a-ard. 
 There s slathers av thim sons av rich min turnin 
 socialists. They ain t strong enough to git a fall 
 out av either av th big pa-a-arties, so they rush 
 off to th socialists, where be payin fer th shpot 
 light, they re allowed to break into th picture. 
 That s th way wit young Barney, ould Ashphalt 
 Casey s son. Wan evenin he dr-r-ives up to Lyon s
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 wit his pah-pah s broom, two bob-tailed horses 
 that spint most av their time on their hind legs, an 
 th Casey coat av arms on the broom dure, th 
 same bein a shtick av dynamite rampant, wit two 
 shovels reversed on a field av p tatoes. How ar-r-re 
 ye? he says. I want yez to jump in an come 
 wit me to th Crystal Palace. It s a socialist meet- 
 in / he says. Oh, it is ? says I ; an phwat s a so 
 cialist? Is it a game or a musical inshtrumint ? 
 Wit that he goes into p ticulars. Well, thinks I, 
 there s th ride, annyhow ; an I ain t had a carriage 
 ride since Eat- em-up-Jack packed in saints rest 
 him! So I goes out to th broom; an bechune th 
 restlessness av thim bob-tailed horses an me not 
 seein a carriage fer so long, I nearly br-r-roke me 
 two legs gettin in. However, I wint. An I sat 
 on th stage; an I lishtened to th wind-jammin ; 
 an not to go no further, a socialist is simply an an 
 archist who don t believe in bombs." 
 
 There arose laughter and loud congratulatory 
 sounds about the door. Next, broadly smiling, ut 
 terly complacent, Big Mike Abrams walked in. 
 
 "Did youse lobsters hear me handin it to th 
 monkeys?" he asked, and his manner was the man 
 ner of him who doubts not the endorsement of men. 
 "That chink, Low Foo, snakes two of me shirts. 
 I sends him five, an he on y sends back three. So 
 I caves in his block wit a flatiron. You ought to 
 
 225
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 pipe his joint! I leaves it lookin like a poolroom 
 that won t prodooce, after the wardman gets 
 through." 
 
 "An Low Foo?" queried Tony, who had shirts 
 of his own. 
 
 "Oh, a couple of monks carries him to his bunk 
 out back. It ll take somethin more n a shell of hop 
 to chase away his troubles!" Mike refreshed him 
 self with a glass of beer, which he called suds. 
 "Say," he continued with much fervor, "I wisht I 
 could get a job punchin monks at a dollar a monk !" 
 
 Mike Abrams, alias Big Mike, was a pillar of 
 Chinatown, and added distinctly to the life of that 
 quarter. He was nearly six feet tall, with should 
 ers as square as the foretopsail yard of a brig. His 
 nervous arms were long and slingy, his bony hands 
 the size of hams. Neither the Dropper nor yet Big 
 Myerson could swap blows with him, and his hug 
 if it came to rough-and-tumble was comparable 
 only to the hug of Mersher the Strong Arm, who 
 had out-hugged a bear for the drinks. 
 
 While he lived, Little Maxie greatly appreciated 
 Big Mike. Little Maxie is dead now. He ranked 
 in the eyes of Mulberry Street as the best tool that 
 ever nailed a leather. To be allowed to join out 
 with his mob was conclusive of one s cleverness as 
 a gon. For Maxie would have no bunglers, no 
 learners about him. 
 
 And, yet, as he himself said, Big Mike s value 
 
 226
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 lay not in any deftness of fingers, but in his stout, 
 unflinching heart, and a knock-down strength of 
 fist like unto the blow of a maul. 
 
 "As a stall he s worse n a dead one," Maxie had 
 said. "No one ever put up a worse back. But let a 
 sucker raise a roar, or some galoot of a country 
 sheriff start something that s where Mike comes 
 on. You know last summer, when I m folio win 
 Ringling s show? Stagger, Beansey an Mike s wit 
 me as bunchers. Over at Patterson we had a 
 rumble. I got a rube s ticker, a red one. He made 
 me; an wit that youse could hear th yell he lets 
 out of him in Newark. A dozen of them special 
 bulls which Ringling has on his staff makes a grab 
 at us. Youse should have lamped Mike! Th way 
 he laid out them circus dicks was like a tune of 
 music. It s done in a flash, an every last guy of us 
 makes his get-away. Hock your socks, it s Mike for 
 me every time ! I d sooner he filled in wit a mob of 
 mine than th best dip that ever pinched a poke." 
 
 Big Mike had been a fixed star in the Gangland 
 firmament for years. He knew he could slug, he 
 knew he could stay; and he made the most of these 
 virtues. When not working with Little Maxie, he 
 took short trips into the country with an occa 
 sional select band of yeggs, out to crack a P. O. or 
 a jug. At such times, Mike was the out-side man 
 ever a post of responsibility. The out-side man 
 watches while the others blow the box. In case 
 
 227
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 things take to looking queer or leary, he is to pass 
 the whistle of warning to his pals. Should an offi 
 cer show unexpectedly up, he must stand him off 
 at the muzzle of his gatt, and if crowded, shoot and 
 shoot to kill. He is to stand fast by his partners, 
 busy with wedges, fuse and soup inside, and 
 under no circumstances to desert them. Mike was 
 that one of ten thousand, who had the nerve and 
 could be relied upon to do and be these several iron 
 things. Wherefore, he lived not without honor 
 in the land, and never was there a fleet of yeggs or 
 a mob of gons, but received him into its midst with 
 joy and open hearts. 
 
 Mike made a deal of money. Not that it stuck to 
 him ; for he was born with his hands open and spent 
 it as fast as he made it. Also, he drank deeply and 
 freely, and moreover hit the pipe. Nor could he, 
 in the latter particular, be called a pleasure smoker 
 nor a Saturday nighter. Mike had the habit. 
 
 At one time Mike ran an opium den at Coney 
 Island, and again on the second floor of Number 
 Twelve Pell. But the police who had no sure way 
 of gauging the profits of opium demanded so 
 much for the privilege that Mike was forced to 
 close. 
 
 "Them bulls wanted all I made an more," com 
 plained Mike, recounting his wrongs to Beansey. 
 "I had a 5o-pipe joint that time in Pell, an from 
 the size of the rake-off the captain s wardman asks, 
 
 228
 
 TfiTE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 you d have thought that every pipe s a roulette 
 wheel." 
 
 "Couldn t you do nothin wit em?" asked Bean- 
 sey, sympathetically. 
 
 "Not a t ing. I shows em that number-one hop 
 is $87.50 a can, an yen-chee or seconds not less n 
 $32. Nothin doin ! It s either come across wit 
 five hundred bones th foist of every month, or 
 quit." 
 
 Mike sighed over his fair prospects, blighted by 
 the ignorant avarice of the police. 
 
 "Wat was youse chargin a smoke?" inquired 
 Beansey. 
 
 "Two bits a shell. Of course, that s for yen- 
 chee. I couldn t give em number-one for two bits. 
 After all, w at I cares most for is me cats two 
 long-haired Persians." 
 
 "Cats?" repeated Beansey, suspiciously. "W at be 
 youse handin me?" 
 
 Beansey, by the way, knew nothing of opium. 
 
 "W at am I handin youse?" said Mike. "I m 
 handin you th goods. Cats get th habit same as 
 people. My cats would plant be some party who s 
 cookin a pill, an sniff th hop an get as happy as 
 anybody. Take em off the pipe, an it s th same as 
 if they re Christians. Dogs, too. Let em once get 
 th habit, an then take em away from a pipe joint, 
 an they has pains in their stummicks, an twists an 
 yowls till you think they re goin mad. When th* 
 
 229
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 cops shut down on me, I has to give me cats to th 
 monk who s runnin th opium dump on th top 
 floor. Suret ing! They d have croaked if I hadn t. 
 They re on y half happy, though; for while they 
 gets their hop they misses me. Them toms an me 
 has had many a good smoke." 
 
 Folks often wondered at the intimacy between 
 Mike and Little Maxie not that it has anything to 
 do with this story. Little Maxie his name on the 
 Central Office books was Maxie Fyne, alias Maxie 
 English, alias Little Maxie, alias Sharapatheck 
 was the opposite of Big Mike. He was small; he 
 was weak; he didn t drink; he dicm t hit the pipe. 
 Also, at all times, and in cold blood, he was a pro 
 fessional thief. His wife, whom he called "My 
 Kytie" for Little Maxie was from Houndsditch, 
 and now and then his accent showed it was as 
 good a thief as he, but on a different lay. Her 
 specialty was robbing women. She worked alone, 
 as all good gon-molls do, and because of her sure 
 excellencies was known as the Golden Hand. 
 
 Little Maxie and his Golden Hand, otherwise his 
 Kytie her name was Kate had a clean little house 
 near Washington Square on the south. They owned 
 a piano and a telephone the latter was purely de 
 fensive and their two children went to school, 
 and sat book to book with the children of honest 
 men and women. 
 
 The little quiet home, with its piano and defensive 
 230
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 telephone, is gone now. Little Maxie died and his 
 Golden Hand married again; for there s no false 
 sentiment in Gangland. If a husband s dead he s 
 dead, and there s nothing made by mourning. Like 
 wise, what s most wanted in any husband is that 
 he should be a live one. 
 
 Little Maxie died in a rather curious way. Some 
 say he was drowned by his pals, Big Mike among 
 them. The story runs that there was a quarrel over 
 splitting up a touch, and the mob charged Lit 
 tle Maxie with holding out. Be that as it may, the 
 certainty is that Little Maxie and his mob, being 
 in Peekskill, got exceeding drunk all but Little 
 Maxie and went out in a boat. Being out, Little 
 Maxie went overboard abruptly, and never came up. 
 Neither did anybody go after him. The mob re 
 turned to town to weep crocodile tears, some 
 said into their beer, as they told and re-told their 
 loss, and in due time Little Maxie s body drifted 
 ashore and was buried. That was the end. Had it 
 been some trust-thief of a millionaire, there would 
 have been an investigation. But Little Maxie was 
 only a pick-pocket. 
 
 Big Mike, like all strong characters, had his 
 weakness. His weakness was punching Chinamen; 
 fairly speaking, it grew to be his fad. It wasn t 
 necessary that a Chinaman do anything; it was 
 enough that he came within reach. Mike would 
 knock him cold. In a single saunter through Pell 
 
 231
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 Street, he had been known to leave as many as four 
 senseless Chinamen behind him, fruits of his fist. 
 
 "For," said Mike, in cheerful exposition of the 
 motive which underlay that performance, "I do so 
 like to beat .them monks about! I d sooner slam 
 one of em ag inst th wall than smoke th pipe." 
 
 One time and another Mike punched two-thirds 
 of all the pig-tailed heads in Chinatown. Common 
 ly he confined himself to punching, though once or 
 twice he went a step beyond. Lee Dok he nearly 
 brained with a stool. But Lee Dok had been insult 
 ingly slow in getting out of Mike s way. 
 
 Mike was proud of his name and place as the 
 Terror of Chinatown. Whether he walked in Mott 
 or Pell or Doyers Street, every Chinaman who 
 saw him coming went inside and locked his door. 
 
 Those who didn t see him and so go inside and 
 lock their doors and they were few he promptly 
 soaked. And if to see a Chinaman run was as in 
 cense to Mike s nose, to soak one became nothing 
 less than a sweet morsel under his tongue. The 
 wonder was that Mike didn t get shot or knifed, 
 which miracle went not undiscussed at such centers 
 as Tony s, Barney Flynn s, Jimmy Kelly s and the 
 Chatham Club. But so it was; the pig-tailed popu 
 lation of Chinatown parted before Mike s rush like 
 so much water. 
 
 One only had been known to resist Sassy Sam. 
 who with a dwarf s body possessed a giant s soul. 
 
 232
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 Sassy Sam was a hatchet-man of dread eminence, 
 belonging to the Hip Sing Tong. Equipped of a 
 Chinese sword, of singular yet murderous appear 
 ance, he chased Mike the length of Pell Street. 
 Mike out-ran Sassy Sam, which was just as well. 
 It took three shells of hop to calm Mike s per* 
 turbed spirit ; for he confessed to a congenital hor-> 
 ror of steel. 
 
 "That s straight," said Mike, as with shaking 
 fingers he filled his peanut-oil lamp, and made read} 
 to cook himself a pill, "I never could stand for a 
 chive. An say" he shuddered "that monk har 
 one longer n your arm." 
 
 Sassy Sam and his snickersnee, however, did not 
 cure Mike of his weakness for punching the Mon 
 golian head. Nothing short of death could have 
 done that. 
 
 Some six months prior to his caving in the skull 
 of Low Foo, because of those shirts improperly 
 missing, Mike did that which led to consequences. 
 Prompted by an overplus of sweet, heady Chinese 
 rum, or perhaps it was the heroic example of Sassy 
 Sam, Ling Tchen, being surprised by Mike in Pell 
 Street, did not pig-tail flying clatter inside and 
 lock his door. More and worse, he faced Mike, 
 faced him, coughed contumeliously and spat upon 
 the cobbles. To merely soak Ling Tchen would have 
 been no adequate retort Ling Tchen who thus 
 studied to shame him. Wherefore Mike killed him 
 
 233
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 with a clasp knife, and even went so far as to 
 cut off the dead Tchen s head. The law might have 
 taken notice of this killing, but some forethought 
 ful friend had had wit enough to tuck a gun be 
 neath the dead Tchen s blouse, and thus it became 
 at once and obviously a case of self-defence. 
 
 There was a loose screw in the killing of Ling 
 Tchen. The loose screw dwelt not in the manner 
 of that killing, which had been not only thorough 
 but artistic. Indeed, cutting off Ling Tchen s head 
 as a finale was nothing short of a stroke of genius. 
 The loose screw was that Ling Tchen belonged to 
 the Hip Sing Tong ; and the Hip Sing Tongs lived 
 in Pell Street, where Mike himself abode. To be 
 sure, since Ling Tchen did the provoking, Mike had 
 had no choice. Still, it might have come off bet 
 ter had Ling Tchen been an On Leon Tong. An 
 On Leon Tong belongs in Mott Street and doesn t 
 dare poke his wheat-hued nose into Pell Street, 
 where the Four Brothers and the Hip Sing Tongs 
 are at home. 
 
 Mike s room was in the rear, on the second floor 
 of Number Twelve. It pleased and soothed him, 
 he said, as he smoked a pill, to hear the muffled 
 revelry below in Tony s. He had just come from 
 his room upon that shirt occasion which resulted so 
 disastrously for Low Fee. 
 
 Mike was among friends in Tony s. Having 
 told in full how he did up Low Foo, and smashed
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 that shirt thief s laundry, Mike drank two glasses 
 of beer, and said that he thought now he d go up 
 stairs and have a smoke. 
 
 "There must be somethin in lickin a chink," ex 
 pounded Mike, "that makes a guy hanker for th 
 hop." 
 
 "It s early yet ; better stick round," urged Tony, 
 politely. "There is some high-rollers from New 
 port up here on a yacht, an crazy to see Chinatown 
 in th summer when th blankets is off. Th dicks 
 w at s got em in tow, gives me th tip that they ll 
 come lungin in here about ten. They re over in 
 Mott Street now, takin a peek at the joss house 
 an drinkin tea in the Port Arthur." 
 
 "I don t want to meet em," declared Mike. 
 "Them stiffs makes me sick. If youse d promise to 
 lock th doors, Tony, an put em all in th air for 
 what they ve got on em, I might stay." 
 
 "That d be a wise play, I don t think," remarked 
 the Dropper, who had just come in. "Tony d last 
 about as long as a dollar pointin stuss. Puttin a 
 chink on th bum is easy, an a guy can get away 
 wit it; but lay a finger on a Fift Avenoo Willie- 
 boy, or look cockeyed at a spark-fawney on th 
 finger of one of them dames, an a judge ll fall over 
 himself to hand youse twenty years." 
 
 "Right youse be, Dropper!" said the sophisti 
 cated Tony. 
 
 Mike climbed the creaking stairway to his room. 
 235
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 Below, in Tony s, the beer, the gossip, the music, 
 the singing and the dancing went on. Pretty Agnes 
 sang a new song, and was applauded. That is, she 
 was applauded by all save Mollie Squint, who up 
 lifted her nose and said that "it wasn t so much." 
 
 Mollie Squint was invited to sing, but refused. 
 
 About ten o clock came the Newport contingent, 
 fresh from quaffing tea and burning joss sticks. 
 They were led by a she-captain of the Four Hun 
 dred, who shall go here as Mrs. Vee. Mrs. Vee, 
 young, pretty, be-jeweled, was in top spirits. For 
 she had just been divorced from her husband, and 
 they put brandy into the Port Arthur tea if you 
 tell them to. 
 
 Tony did the honors for Number Twelve. He 
 and Mrs. Vee, surrounded by a fluttering flock of 
 purple doves, all from aristocratic cotes, became as 
 thick as thieves. The Dropper, who was not want 
 ing in good looks and could spiel like a dancing 
 master, went twice around the room with Mrs. Vee 
 just for a lark, you know to a tune scraped 
 from Tony s fiddles and thumped from that publi 
 can s piano. After which, Mrs. Vee and her flutter 
 of followers, Willieboys and all, went their purple 
 way. 
 
 Tony, with never flagging courtesy, escorted them 
 to the door. What he beheld filled his somewhat 
 sluggish soul with wonder. Pell Street was 
 thronged with Chinamen. They were sitting or 
 
 236
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 standing, all silent, faces void of meaning. The 
 situation, too, was strange in this. A Chinaman 
 could have told you that they were all of the Hip 
 Sing Tong, and not a Four Brothers among them. 
 He wouldn t of course, for a Chinaman tells a 
 white devil nothing. Pell, by the way, was as much 
 the home street of the Four Brothers as of the Hip 
 Sing Tong. 
 
 Tony expressed his astonishment at the pig- 
 tailed press which thronged the thoroughfare. 
 
 "This is how it is," vouchsafed the explanatory 
 Tony to Mrs. Vee and her purple fluttering doves. 
 "Big Mike s just after standin Low Foo s wash- 
 shop on its nut, an these monks are sizin up th 
 wreck. When anything happens to a monk his 
 tong makes good, see?" 
 
 Tony might not have said this had he recalled 
 that Low Foo was a Four Brothers, and understood 
 that no one not a Hip Sing Tong was in the crowd. 
 Tony, however, recalled nothing, understood noth 
 ing; for he couldn t tell one Chinaman from an 
 other. 
 
 "How interesting!" cooed Mrs. Vee, in response 
 to Tony s elucidation; and with that her flock of 
 purple doves, in fluttering agreement, cooed, "How 
 interesting!" 
 
 "Did youse lamp th ice on them dames?" asked 
 Sop Henry, when the slumming Mrs. Vee and her 
 suite were out of ear-shot. 
 
 237
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 Sop had an eye for diamonds. 
 
 "That bunch ain t got a thing but money! * ob 
 served the Wop, his eyes glittering enviously. "I 
 wisht I had half their cush." 
 
 "Money ain t th whole box of tricks." 
 
 This deep declaration emanated from old Jimmy. 
 
 Old Jimmy s home was a rear room on Second 
 Street near the Bowery, which overlooked a grave 
 yard hidden in the heart of the block. There, when 
 not restoring himself at Tony s or Sirocco s or 
 Lyon s, old Jimmy smoked a vile tobacco known as 
 Sailors Choice, in a vile clay pipe as black as sin, 
 and meditated. Having nothing to do but think, he 
 evolved in time into a philosopher, and it became 
 his habit to unload chunks of wisdom on whomso 
 ever seemed to stand in need. Also, since he was 
 warlike and carried a knife, and because anyone in 
 hard luck could touch him for a dollar, he was lis 
 tened to politely in what society he favored with his 
 countenance. 
 
 "Money ain t th whole box of tricks," old Jimmy 
 repeated, severely, wagging a grizzled head at the 
 Wop, "an only you re Irish an ignorant you 
 wouldn t have to be told so." 
 
 "Jimmy, you re nutty," returned the Wop. 
 
 "Never mind me bein nutty," retorted old Jim 
 my, dogmatically. "I know all about th rich." 
 Then, in forgetfulness of his pension and the lib 
 eral source of it, he continued : "A rich man is 
 
 238
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 so much like a fat hog that he s seldom any good 
 until he s dead." 
 
 Old Jimmy called for beer ; wisdom is always dry. 
 
 "Say?" observed the Dropper, airily, "do youse 
 guys know that I m thinkin I ll just about cop off 
 some dame with millions of dough, an marry her." 
 
 "Would she have youse ?" inquired Mollie Squint, 
 with the flicker of a sneer. 
 
 "It s easy money," returned the Dropper; "all 
 I has to do is put out me sign, see? Them rich 
 frails would fall for me in a hully second." 
 
 "You crooks can t think of a thing but money," 
 snorted old Jimmy. "Marry a rich dame ! A guy 
 might as well get a job as valet or butler or foot 
 man somewhere an let it go at that. Do you 
 mutts know what love is? Th one married chance 
 of happiness is love. An to love, folks must be 
 poor. Then they have to depend upon each other; 
 and it s only when people depend upon each other 
 they love each other." 
 
 "Jimmy," quoth the Dropper, with mock sad 
 ness. "I can see your finish. You ll land in Bloom- 
 ingdale, playin wit a string of spools." 
 
 "Did you ever," demanded old Jimmy, disre 
 garding the irreverent Dropper, "see some strapping 
 young party, up against the skyline on an iron build 
 ing, workin away wit one of them rivetin guns? 
 Well, somewhere between th two rivers there s a 
 girl he s married to, who s doin a two-step round a 
 
 239
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 cook stove, fryin steak an onions for him, an 
 keepin an eye out that their kids don t do a high 
 dive off th fire-escape. Them two people are th 
 happiest in th world. Such boneheads as you can t 
 appreciate it, but they are. Give em a million 
 dollars an you ll spoil it. They d get a divorce; 
 you d put that household on th toboggan. If this 
 Mister Vee, now, had been poor an drove a truck 
 instead of bein rich an drivin a 6-horse coach, an* 
 if Mrs. Vee had been poor an done a catch-as-catch- 
 can with th family washtub instead of havin 
 money to burn an hirein a laundress, she d never 
 have bucked th divorce game, but lived happy ever 
 after." 
 
 "But, Jimmy," interposed Tony, "I ve seen poor 
 folks scrap." 
 
 "Sure," assented Jimmy ; "all married folks scrap 
 a little. But them s only love spats, when they re 
 poor. Th wife begins em. She thinks she ll just 
 about try hubby out, an see can he go some. Th 
 only risk is him bein weak enough to let her win. 
 She don t want to win; victory would only em 
 barrass her. What she s after is a protector; an if 
 hubby lets her put him on th floor for th count, she 
 don t know where she s at. She s dead sure she s 
 no good; an if he s a quitter she s left all in th 
 air. Havin floored him, she thinks to herself, This 
 thing protect me? Why, I can lick him myself! 
 
 240
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 After that, hubby might better keep close tabs on 
 little Bright-eyes, or some mornin he ll call the 
 family roll an she won t answer. Take a boy an 
 a girl, both young, both square, both poor so 
 they ll need each ether an , so he s got her shaded 
 a little should it come to th gloves, two bugs in a 
 rug won t have nothin on them." 
 
 Old Jimmy up-ended his glass, as one who had 
 settled grave matters, while the Dropper and the 
 Wop shook contemplative heads. 
 
 "An yet," said the Wop, after a pause, "goin 
 back to them rich babies who was here, I still say 
 I wisht I had their bundle." 
 
 "It s four for one," returned old Jimmy, his phi 
 losophy again forging to the fore it s four for 
 one, Wop, you d have a dead bad time. What street 
 shows th most empty houses? Ain t it Fift Ave- 
 noo ? Why be they empty ? Because the ginks who 
 lived in em didn t have a good time in em. If 
 they had they d have stuck. A guy don t go places, 
 he leaves places. He don t go to Europe, he leaves 
 New York." 
 
 Old Jimmy turned to Tony. 
 
 "Fill up th crockery. I m talkin way over th 
 heads of these bums." 
 
 "Ain t he a wonder?" whispered Pretty Agnes to 
 the Nailer. 
 
 "I should say as much," responded the admir-
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 ing Nailer. "He ought to be sellin gold bricks. 
 He s talked th Dropper an th Wop into a hard 
 knot." 
 
 The Dropper was not to be quelled, and insisted 
 that Jimmy was conversing through his sou wester. 
 
 "I don t think so," broke in Jew Yetta ; "I strings 
 wit Jimmy. Take a tumble to yourself, Dropper. 
 If you was to marry one of them money dames, 
 you d have to go into high society. An then what ? 
 W y, you d look like a pig on a front porch." 
 
 "Don t youse bet on it," declared the Dropper 
 loftily. "There s nothin in that high society stuff. 
 A smart guy like me could learn his way t rough 
 in a week." 
 
 "Could he?" said the Nailer, and his tones were 
 tones of derision. 
 
 "That s w at I says!" replied the Dropper. Then, 
 heatedly : "W y, do you geeks think I ve never been 
 north of Fourteenth Street? Youse make me tired, 
 Nailer. While you was up-th -river, for toinin 
 off that loft in Chambers Street, don t I go to a 
 shindy at th Demmycrat Club in honor of Sen tor 
 Depew? There was loidies there th real thing, 
 too. An wasn t I another time at th Charlie Mur 
 phy dinner? Talk of high society! if that ain t 
 high society, what is?" 
 
 Having squelched the Nailer, the Dropper pro 
 ceeded more moderately. 
 
 "I remember th scare that s t run into me at the
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 Depew racket. I ve been put up ag inst some hot 
 propositions, but if ever I m faded it s then when, 
 for th foist time, I lamps a full-blown dame in 
 evenin dress. On th dead, I felt like yellin 
 Police! " 
 
 "Phwat was it scared yez, Dropper?" asked the 
 Wop. 
 
 "It ain t that I m so scared as rattled. There s 
 too much free-board to them evenin dresses." 
 
 "An the Charlie Murphy banquet," said Pretty 
 Agnes, wistfully. "Didn t yez get cold feet?" 
 
 "Naw, I don t git cold feet. I admits I falls 
 down, I don t try to sidestep that; but it wasn t 
 my fault. Do it over again, an I d go t rough wit 
 bells on." 
 
 "How did youse fall down?" 
 
 "It s be accident; I takes th wrong steer, that s 
 all. I makes it a point, knowin I m none too wise, 
 to plant meself when we pulls up to the feed oppo 
 site to a gilded old bunk, who looked like ready 
 money. Do as he does, Dropper I says to meself, 
 an you re winner in a walk! So, when he plays 
 a fork, I plays a fork ; if he boards a chive, I boards 
 a chive; from soup to birds I m steerin be his wake. 
 Then all of a sudden I cops a shock. We ve just 
 made some roast squabs look like five cents worth 
 of lard in a paper bag, an slopped out a bunch of 
 fizz to wash em down, when what does that old 
 Rube do but up an sink his hooks in a bowl of 
 
 243
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 water. Honest, I like to ve fell in a fit! There 
 I d been feelin as cunning as a pet fox, an me on 
 a dead one from th jump !" 
 
 "Did any of them smart Alecks give youse th" 
 laugh ?" asked the Nailer. 
 
 "Give me th laugh," repeated the Dropper, dis 
 gustedly. "I d have smashed whoever die] in th* 
 eye." 
 
 While beer and conversation were flowing in 
 Number Twelve, a sophisticated eye would have 
 noted divers outside matters which might or might 
 not have had a meaning. On the heels of Big 
 Mike s laundry deeds of desolation and destruction 
 at Low Foo s, not a Chinaman was visible in Pell 
 Street. It was the same when Mike came out of 
 Tony s and climbed the stairs to his room. Mike 
 safely retired from the field, a handful of Four 
 Brothers all of them Lows and of the immediate 
 clan of Low Foo showed up, and took a slant- 
 eyed squint at what ruin had been wrought. They 
 spoke not above a murmur, but as nearly as a white 
 devil might gather a meaning, they were of the 
 view that no monsoon could have more thoroughly 
 scrap-heaped the belongings of Low Foo. 
 
 Other Chinamen began to gather, scores upon 
 scores. These were Hip Sing Tongs, and they 
 paid not the slightest heed to Low Foo s laundry, 
 or what was left of it. What Four Brothers were 
 abroad did not mingle with the Hip Sing Tongs, 
 
 244
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 although the two tribes lived in friendship. The 
 Four Brothers quietly withdrew, each to his own 
 den, and left the Hip Sing Tongs in possession of 
 the street. 
 
 Being in possession, the Hip Sing Tongs did 
 nothing beyond roost on the curb, or squat in door 
 ways, or stand idly about. Now and then one 
 smoked a cigarette. 
 
 About ii. 20 o clock, a Chinaman entered Pell 
 Street from the Bowery. Every one of the Hip 
 Sing Tongs looked at him ; none of them spoke 
 to him. Only, a place was made for him in the 
 darkness of the darkest doorway. Had some brisk 
 Central Office intelligence been there and consulted 
 its watch, it might have occurred to such intelli 
 gence that had the newcomer arrived from Philadel 
 phia over the B. & O. by latest train, he assuming 
 him to have taken the ferry with proper dispatch 
 would have come poking into Pell Street at pre 
 cisely that hour. 
 
 Trinity struck midnight. 
 
 The bells sounded dim and far away. It was 
 as though it were the ghost of some dead midnight 
 being struck. At the sound, and as if he heard in 
 it a signal, the mysterious Chinaman came out of 
 the double darkness of the doorway in which he had 
 been waiting, and crossed to the stairway that led 
 up to the room of Mike. Not a whisper came from 
 the waiting Hip Sing Tongs, who watched him
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 with that blend of apathy and eagerness observable 
 only in the Oriental. No one went with the mys 
 terious Chinaman. Nor did the stairs creak as 
 with Big Mike beneath his velvet shoes. 
 
 Five minutes passed. 
 
 The mysterious one emerged from Mike s stair 
 way as silently as he had entered it. He tossed a 
 claw-like hand palm outward, toward the waiting, 
 watching Hip Sing Tongs, and then went slippering 
 towards the Bowery. Had that brisk Central Office 
 intelligence been there to see, it might have re 
 flected, recalling a time table, that by taking the 
 Cortlandt Street ferry, the mysterious one would be 
 in time for the 12.30 train to Philadelphia over the 
 Pennsylvania. 
 
 Before the mysterious one had reached the Bow 
 ery, those scores of waiting, watching Hip Sing 
 Tongs had vanished, and Pell Street was as empty 
 as the promise of a politician. 
 
 "Now," whispered Ching Lee to Sam Kum, who 
 kept the chop suey shop, as they turned to go 
 "now he meet Ling Tchen, mebby so !" 
 
 One o clock. 
 
 Tony began to think about locking his front door. 
 This, out of respect for the law. Not that beer and 
 revelry were to cease in Number Twelve, but be 
 cause such was Tony s understanding with the pre 
 cinct skipper. Some reformer might come snooping 
 
 246
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 else, and lodge complaint against that skipper with 
 the Commissioner of Police. 
 
 Just as Tony, on bidding- "Good-bye!" to Mrs. 
 Vee and her purple fluttering flock, had been im 
 pressed by the crowded condition of Pell Street, 
 so now, when he made ready to lock up, was he 
 impressed by that causeway s profound emptiness. 
 
 "Say," he cried to his guests in the rear, "you 
 stews come here ! This is funny ; there ain t a chink 
 in sight!" 
 
 "D youse think th bulls are gettin ready for a 
 raid ?" asked Sop Henry. Sop, with the Nailer and 
 the Wop, had joined Tony in the door. "Perhaps 
 there s somethin doin over at th Elizabeth Street 
 station, an the wardman s passed th monks th 
 tip." 
 
 "Nothin in that," responded Tony, confidently. 
 "Wouldn t I be put wise, too?" 
 
 Marvelling much, Tony fastened his door, and 
 joined old Jimmy, Pretty Agnes and the others in 
 the rear room. When he got there, he found old 
 Jimmy sniffing with suspicious nose, and swearing 
 he smelled gas. 
 
 "One of your pipes is leakin , Tony," said Jimmy, 
 "leakin for fair, too, or I m a Dago !" 
 
 Tony, in refutation, called attention to a patent 
 truth. He used electric light, not gas. 
 
 "But they use gas upstairs," he added. Then, 
 247
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 hal f -anxiously ; "It can t be some hop-head has 
 blown out the gas?" 
 
 The thought was enough to start the Dropper, 
 ever full of enterprise. 
 
 "Let s have a look," said he. "Nailer you an th 
 Wop come wit me." 
 
 Tony again opened the front door, and the Drop 
 per, followed by the Wop and the Nailer, filed into 
 the stairway that led to the floor above. They 
 made noise enough, blundering and stumbling in 
 the sudden hurry of spirit which had gripped them. 
 As they reached the landing near Mike s door, the 
 odor of gas was even more pronounced than in 
 Tony s rear room. 
 
 The hall was blind black with the thick darkness 
 that filled it." 
 
 "How about this?" queried the Dropper. "I 
 thought a gas jet was always boinin in th hall." 
 
 The Dropper, growing fearful, hung back. With 
 that, the Wop pushed forward and took the lead. 
 Only for a moment. Giving a cry, he sprang back 
 with such sudden force that he sent the Dropper 
 headlong down the stairs. 
 
 "Th Virgin save us!" exclaimed the Wop, "but 
 I touched somethin soft!" 
 
 "What s th row?" demanded Tony, coming to 
 the foot of the stairs. 
 
 At the Dropper s request, Tony brought a can- 
 
 248
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YQRK 
 
 die, used by him in excursions to those crypts where 
 in he kept his whiskey. 
 
 In a moment all was plain. That something soft 
 which had so told upon the Wop was a rubber tube. 
 There was a gas jet in the hall. One end of the 
 rubber tube had been fastened over the gas jet, 
 and the other stuffed into the keyhole of Mike s 
 door. Trap arranged, the gas had been set flowing 
 full blast. 
 
 "Well, what do youse think of that?" exclaimed 
 Tony, who understood at a glance. 
 
 With one s\vift move, Tony turned off the gas 
 and tore away the rubber tube. There was no talk 
 of keys. He placed his powerful shoulder against 
 the door, and sent it crashing. The out-rush of 
 gas drove them, choking and gasping, into the open 
 air. 
 
 "Take it from me," said the Dropper, as soon as 
 he could get his breath, "they ve croaked Mike." 
 
 "But the window," urged the Nailer; "mebbe 
 Mike has the window open!" 
 
 "Not a chance !" retorted the Dropper. "No one 
 has his window up while he hits th pipe. They 
 don t jibe, fresh air an dope." 
 
 The Dropper was right. Big Alike, stark and 
 still and yellow, lay dead in his bed the last place 
 his friends would have anticipated poisoned by 
 gas. 
 
 249
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 "Better notify th cops," advised Jimmy, the 
 practical. 
 
 "Who did it?" sobbed Pretty Agnes. "Mike 
 never handed it to himself." 
 
 "Who did it?" repeated the Dropper, bitterly. 
 "Th chinks did it. It s for Low Foo s laundry." 
 
 "You re down wrong, Dropper, said old Jimmy. 
 " It s that Ling Tchen trick. I knew them Hip 
 Sings would get Mike." 
 
 250
 
 XII. 
 
 THE GOING OF BIFF ELLISON 
 
 The jury returned a verdict of guilty. There 
 upon the judge, fixing- Ellison with hard and 
 thoughtful eye, gave him "from eight to twenty 
 years." When a man gets "from eight to twenty 
 years" he is worth writing about. He would be 
 worth writing about, even though it had been for 
 such crimes of the commonplace as poke-getting 
 at a ferry or sticking up a drunken sailor. And 
 Ellison was found guilty of manslaughter. 
 
 Razor Riley would have been sentenced along 
 with Ellison, only he had conveniently died. When 
 the Gophers gather themselves together, they give 
 various versions of Razor Riley s taking off. Some 
 say he perished of pneumonia. Others lay it to a 
 bullet in his careless mouth. In any case, he was 
 dead, and therefore couldn t, in the nature of things, 
 accompany Ellison to Sing Sing. 
 
 Razor was a little one-hundred-and-ten-pound 
 man, with weak muscles and a heart of fire. He 
 had, razorwise, cut and slashed his way into much 
 favorable mention, when that pneumonia or bullet 
 whichever it was stopped short his career. 
 
 251
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 While the width of the city apart, he and Ellison 
 were ever friends. They drank together, fought to 
 gether, and held their foes as they held their money, 
 in common. 
 
 When the jury said "Guilty," it rilled Ellison 
 with resentful amazement. His angry wonder grew 
 as the judge coldly mentioned that "from eight to- 
 twenty years." He couldn t understand! The poli 
 ticians had promised to save him. It was only 
 upon such assurance that he had concluded to re 
 turn. Safe in Baltimore, he could have safely con 
 tinued in Baltimore. Lured by false lights, misled 
 by spurious promises, he had come back to get 
 "from eight to twenty years!" Cray and Savage 
 rounded him up. All his life a cop-fighter, he would 
 have given those Central Office stars a battle, had 
 he realized what was in store for him and how like 
 a rope of sand were the promises of politicians! 
 
 My own introduction to Ellison and Razor Riley 
 was in the Jefferson Market court. That was sev 
 eral years ago. The day was the eighteenth of 
 March, and Magistrate Corrigan had invited me to 
 a seat on the bench. Ellison and Razor were ar 
 raigned for disorderly conduct. They had pushed 
 in the door of a Sixth Avenue bird and animal 
 store, kept by an agitated Italian, and in the lan 
 guage of the officer who made the collar, "didn t do 
 a thing to it." 
 
 "They are guilty, your honor," said their lawyer, 
 252
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 manner deprecatory and full of conciliation, with 
 a view to softening the magisterial heart "they 
 are guilty. And yet there is this in their defense. 
 They had been celebrating Saint Patrick s Day, 
 over-celebrating it, perhaps, your honor, and they 
 didn t know what they were about. That s the 
 mere truth, your honor. Befuddled by too much 
 and too fervently celebrating the glorious day, they 
 really didn t know what they were about." 
 
 The lawyer waved a virtuous hand, as one who 
 submitted affairs to the mercy of an enlightened 
 court. 
 
 Magistrate Corrigan was about to impose sen 
 tence, when the agitated Italian broke forth. 
 
 "Don t I get-a my chance, judge?" he called out. 
 
 "Certainly," returned Magistrate Corrigan, 
 "what is it you want to say ?" 
 
 "Judge, that-a guy" pointing the finger of re 
 buttal at the lawyer "he say theese mans don t 
 know what-a they do. One lie ! They know what-a 
 they do all right. I show you, judge. They 
 smash-a th canaries, they knock-a th blocks off-a 
 th monks, they tear-a th tails out of th macaws, 
 but" here his voice rose to a screech "they 
 nevair touch-a th bear." 
 
 Magistrate Corrigan glanced at the policeman. 
 
 The latter explained that, while Ellison and 
 Razor had spread wreck and havoc among the 
 monkeys and macaws, they had avoiciec 1 e v en a re- 
 
 253
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 motest entanglement with a huge cinnamon bear, 
 chained in the center of the room. They had pru 
 dently plowed round the bear. 
 
 "Twenty-five and costs!" said Magistrate Corri- 
 gan, a smile touching the corners of his mouth. 
 Then, raising a repressive palm towards the law 
 yer, who betrayed symptoms of further oratory: 
 "Not a word. Your people get off very lightly. 
 Upon the point you urge that these men didn t know 
 what they were about, the testimony of our Italian 
 friend is highly convincing." 
 
 When a gentleman goes to Sing Sing for longer 
 than five years, it is Gangland good manners to 
 speak of him in the past tense. Thus, then, shall I 
 speak of Ellison. His name, properly laid down, 
 was James Ellison. As, iron on wrists, a deputy at 
 his elbow, he stepped aboard the train, he gave his 
 age as thirty-nine. 
 
 His monaker of Biff came to him in the most 
 natural way in the world. Gangland is ever ready 
 to bestow a title. Therefore, when a recalcitrant 
 customer of Fat Flynn s, having quaffed that pub 
 lican s beer and then refused to pay for it, was 
 floored as flat as a flounder by a round blow from 
 Ellison s fist, Gangland, commemorating the event, 
 renamed him Biff. 
 
 Ellison was in his angular, awkward twenties 
 when he made his initial appearance along the Bow 
 ery. He came from Maryland, no one knew why 
 
 254
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 and a youthful greenness would have got him 
 laughed at, had it not been for a look in his eye 
 which suggested that while he might be green he 
 might be game. 
 
 Having little education and no trade Ellison met 
 existence by hiring out as bar-keeper to Fat Flynn, 
 who kept a grog shop of singular vilencss at 34 
 Bond. Its beer glasses were vulgarly large, its 
 frequenters of the rough-neck school. But it was 
 either work in Flynn s or carry a hod, and Ellison, 
 who was not fanatically fond of hard labor, and 
 preferred to seek his bread along lines of least re 
 sistance, instantly and instinctively resolved on the 
 side of Flynn s. 
 
 Gangland is much more given to boxing gloves 
 than books, and the conversation at Flynn s, as it 
 drifted across the bar to Ellison busy drawing 
 beer was more calculated to help his hands than 
 help his head. Now and then, to be sure, there 
 would come one who, like Slimmy, had acquired 
 a stir education, that is, a knowledge of books such 
 as may be picked up in prison; but for the most 
 those whom Ellison met, in the frothy course of 
 business, were not the ones to feed his higher 
 nature or elevate his soul. It was a society where 
 the strong man was the best man, and only fist-right 
 prevailed. 
 
 Ellison was young, husky, with length of reach 
 and plenty of hitting power, and, as the interests of 
 
 255
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 Flynn demanded, he bowed to his environment and 
 beat up many a man. There were those abroad in 
 Bond Street whom he could not have conquered. 
 But, commonly sober and possessed besides of in 
 born gifts as a matchmaker, he had no trouble in 
 avoiding these. The folks whom he hooked up 
 with were of the genus cinch, species pushover, 
 and proceeding carefully he built up in time a 
 standing for valor throughout all the broad regions 
 lying between Fourteenth Street and City Hall 
 Park. 
 
 Let it be said that Ellison had courage. It was 
 his prudence which taught him to hold aloof from 
 the tough ones. Now and then, when a tough one 
 did insist on war, Ellison never failed to bear him 
 self with spirit. Only he preferred to win easily, 
 with little exertion and no injury to his nose and 
 eyes. For Ellison, proud of his appearance, was 
 by Gangland s crude standards the glass of fashion 
 and the mould of form, and flourished the idol of 
 the ladies. Also, a swollen nose or a discolored 
 eye is of no avail in winning hearts. 
 
 Every dispenser of beer is by way of being a 
 power in politics. Some soar higher, some with 
 weaker wing that is a question of genius. One 
 sells beer and makes himself chief of Tammany 
 Hall. Another rises on the tides of beer to a dis 
 trict leadership. Still others and it is here that 
 
 256
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 Ellison comes in find their lower beery level as 
 Tammany s shoulder-hitting aides. 
 
 In the last role, Ellison was of value to Tam 
 many Hall. Wherefore, whenever he fell into the 
 fingers of the police generally for assault the 
 machine cast over him the pinion of its prompt 
 protection. As the strong-arm pet of the organiza 
 tion, he punched and slugged, knocked down and 
 dragged out, and did all these in safety. Some soft- 
 whispering politician was sure to show a magistrate 
 all ears that the equities were on the side of 
 Ellison, and what black eyes or broken noses had 
 been distributed went where they truly belonged and 
 would do the most Tammany good. 
 
 In his double role of beer dispenser and under- 
 thug of politics, Ellison stood high in Gangland 
 opinion. From Flynn s in Bond Street he went 
 to Pickerelle s in Chrystie Street. Then he became 
 the presiding influence at a dive of more than usual 
 disrepute kept by one Landt, which had flung open 
 its dingy doors in Forsyth Street near Houston. 
 
 Ellison" took an impressive upward step at this 
 time. That is, he nearly killed a policeman. Nicely 
 timing matters so that the officer was looking the 
 other way, he broke a bottle over the blue-coat s 
 head. The blue-coat fell senseless to the floor. Once 
 down and helpless, Ellison hoofed him after the 
 rules of Gangland, which teach that only fools are 
 
 257
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 fair, until the hoofed one was a pick-up for an 
 ambulance. 
 
 The officer spent two weeks in a hospital cot, 
 Ellison two hours in a station house cell. The poli 
 ticians closed the officer s mouth, and opened Elli 
 son s cell. The officer got well after a while, and 
 he and Ellison grew to be good friends. The poli 
 ticians said that there was nothing in it for either 
 the officer or Ellison to remain at loggerheads. No 
 man may write himself "politician" who does not 
 combine the strength to prosecute a war, with the 
 wisdom -to conclude a peace. Hence, at the com 
 mand of the politicians, Ellison and the smitten 
 officer struck hands, and pooled their differences. 
 
 Ellison, smooth-faced, high-featured, well- 
 dressed, a Gangland cavalier, never married. Or if 
 he did he failed to mention it. He was not a moll- 
 buzzer; no one could accuse him of taking money 
 from a woman. He lived by the ballot and the 
 bung-starter. In addition once a year he gave a 
 racket, under the auspices of what he called the 
 "Biff Ellison Association," and as his fame in 
 creased his profits from ?. single racket were known 
 to reach $2,000. 
 
 At one time Ellison challenged fortune as part 
 proprietor of Paresis Hall, which sink of sin, as 
 though for contrast, had been established within 
 the very shadow of Cooper Union. Terminating his 
 
 258
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 connection with Paresis Hall, he lived a life of lei 
 sure between Chick Tricker s Park Row "store" 
 and Nigger Mike s at Number Twelve Pell. 
 
 Occasionally he so far unbuckled as to escort 
 some lady to or from Sharkey s in Fourteenth 
 Street. Not as a lobbygow ; not for any ill-odored 
 fee of fifty cents. But as a gentleman might, and 
 out of sheer politeness. The law, as enforced from 
 Mulberry Street, was prone to take a narrow view 
 of ladies who roamed alone the midnight streets. 
 The gallant Ellison was pleasantly willing to save 
 night-bound dames of his acquaintance from this 
 annoyance. That was all. 
 
 Who has not heard of the celebrated Paul Kelly? 
 Once upon a time, a good woman reading a news 
 paper saw reference to Paul Kelly in some interest 
 ing connection. She began to burn with curiosity; 
 she wanted to meet Paul Kelly, and said so to her 
 husband. Since her husband had been brought up 
 to obey her in all things, he made no objection. 
 
 Guided by a pathfinder from the Central Office, 
 the gentleman went forth to find Paul Kelly, his 
 wife on his arm. They entered Lyon s restaurant 
 in the Bowery ; the place was crowded. Room was 
 made for them at a table by squeezing in three 
 chairs. The lady looked about her. Across, stale 
 and fat and gone to seed, sat an ex-eminent of the 
 prize ring. At his elbow was a stocky person, 
 
 259
 
 with a visage full of wormwood and a chrysanthe 
 mum ear. He of the ear was given to misguided 
 volubilities, more apt to startle than delight. 
 
 The woman who wanted to see Paul Kelly looked 
 at the champion gone to sulky seed, listened to the 
 misguided conversationist with the chrysanthemum 
 ear, and wished she hadn t come. She might have 
 been driven from the field, had it not been for a 
 small, dark personage, with black eyes and sallow 
 cheeks, who sat next her on the left. His voice 
 was low and not alarming; his manner bland but 
 final. And he took quiet and quieting charge of the 
 other two. 
 
 The dark, sallow little man led those two others 
 in the wordy way they should go. When the talk 
 of him of the unsatisfactory ear approached the 
 Elizabethan so closely as to inspire terror, he put 
 him softly yet sufficiently back in his hole. Also, 
 when not thus employed, in holding down the con 
 versational lid, he talked French to one man, Italian 
 to another, English to all. Purringly polite, 
 Chesterfield might have studied him with advan 
 tage. 
 
 The woman who wanted to see Paul Kelly was 
 so taken with the little dark man s easy mastery 
 of the situation, that she forgot the object of the 
 expedition. When she was again in the street, 
 and had drawn a deep, clear breath or two of long 
 relief, she expressed astonishment that one possessed 
 
 260
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 of so much grace and fineness, so full of cultured 
 elegancies, should be discovered in such coarse 
 surroundings. 
 
 "Surely, he doesn t belong there," she said. "Who 
 is he?" 
 
 "Who is he?" repeated the Central Office dele 
 gate in a discouraged tone. "I thought your hubby 
 wised you up. That s Paul Kelly." 
 
 Paul Kelly owned the New Brighton in Great 
 Jones Street. One evening, as the orchestra was 
 tuning its fiddles for the final raise, a sudden but 
 exhaustive bombardment then and there broke 
 loose. In the hot midst of it, some cool hand turned 
 off the lights. They were never again turned on. 
 The guests departed through window and by way 
 of door, and did not come back. It was the end 
 of the New Brighton. 
 
 Gangland, which can talk betimes, can also keep 
 a secret. Coax, cozen, cross-question as you will, 
 you cannot worm from it the secret of that New 
 Brighton bombardment. Ask, and every one is 
 silent. There is a silence which is empty, there is 
 a silence which is full. Those who will not tell 
 why the New Brighton was shot up that night are 
 silent with the silence which is full. 
 
 As usual, the Central Office is not without its 
 theories. The Central Office is often without the 
 criminal, but never without the explanation. One 
 Mulberry Street whisper declared that it was a 
 
 261
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 war over a woman, without saying which woman. 
 Another whisper insisted that money lay at the roots 
 of the business, without saying what money. Still 
 another ran to the effect that it was one of those 
 hit-or-miss mix-ups, in their sort extemporaneous, 
 in their up-come inexplicable, the distinguishing 
 mark of which is an utter lack of either rhyme or 
 reason. 
 
 One officer with whom I talked pointed to Elli 
 son and Harrington as the principals. Paul Kelly, 
 he said, was drawn kito it as incident to his pro 
 prietorship of the New Brighton, while the redoubt 
 able Razor became part of the picture only through 
 his friendship for Ellison. Another officer, contra 
 dicting, argued that there had been a feud of long 
 standing between Razor and Paul Kelly; that Elli 
 son was there in Razor s behalf, and Harrington 
 got killed because he butted in. Both officers agreed 
 that the rumpus had nothing to do with Eat- em-up- 
 Jack s run in with Chick Tricker, then sundry 
 months astern, or the later lead-pipe wiping out of 
 Jack. 
 
 The story of the taking off of Eat- em-up-Jack 
 has already been told. The New Brighton missed 
 Jack. He whom Paul Kelly brought to fill his 
 place no more than just rattled about in it. The 
 new sheriff did not possess Jack s nice knowledge of 
 dance hall etiquette, and his blackjack lacked de 
 cision. Some even think that had Jack been there 
 
 262
 
 that night, what follows might never have occurred 
 at all. As said one who held this view : 
 
 "If Eat- em-up-Jack had been holdin down th 
 floor, th New Brighton wouldn t have looked so 
 easy to Biff an Razor, an they might have passed 
 it up." 
 
 The dancing floor of the New Brighton was 
 crowded with Gangland chivalry and fashion. Out 
 in the bar, where waiters came rushing bearing 
 trays of empty glasses to presently rushingly retire 
 loaded to the beery guards, sat Paul Kelly and a se 
 lect bevy. The talk was of business mixed with poli 
 tics, for a campaign was being waged. 
 
 "After election," said Paul, "I m going to close 
 up this joint. I ve got enough; I m going to pack 
 in." 
 
 "What s th row?" asked Slimmy, who had drawn 
 up a chair. 
 
 "There s too much talking," returned Paul. 
 "Only the other day a bull was telling me that I m 
 credited with being the first guy along the Bowery 
 to carry a gun." 
 
 "He s crazy," broke in Harrington, who with the 
 lovely Goldie Cora had joined the group. "There 
 were cannisters by the ton along the Bowery before 
 ever you was pupped." 
 
 The Irish Wop, whose mind ran altogether upon 
 politics, glanced up from a paper. 
 
 "Spakin av th campaign," said he, "how comes 
 263
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 it things is so quiet? No one givin th banks a 
 bawlin out, no one soakin th railroads, no one 
 handin th hot wallops to th trusts ! Phwat s gone 
 wrong wit em? I ve found but wan man jusht 
 wan bein th skate who s writin in th pa-a-aper 
 here," and the Wop held up the paper as Exhibit 
 A "who acts loike he has somethin to hand out. 
 Lishten : After buck-dancin a bit, he ups and calls 
 Willyum Jinnins Bryan th modern Brutus, says 
 Caesarism is abroad, an that Willyum Jinnins is 
 th only laddybuck who can put it on th bum." 
 "It s one of them hot-air students," said Har 
 rington. 
 
 "But about this Brutus-Caesar thing? Are they 
 wit th organization?" 
 
 "It s what a swell mouth-piece like Bourke Cock- 
 ran calls a figger of speech ," interjected Slimmy, 
 ever happy to be heard concerning the ancients. 
 "Qesar an Brutus were a couple of long-ago Da 
 goes. Accordin to th dope they lived an croaked 
 two thousand years ago." 
 
 "Only a pair av old wops, was they! An dead 
 an gone at that! Sure I thought be th way this 
 writin gezebo carried on about em they was right 
 here on th job, cuttin ice. An they re nothin 
 more n a brace av old dead Guineas after all !" 
 
 The Wop mused a moment over the unprofitable 
 meanness of the discovery. Then his curiosity be 
 gan to brighten up a trifle. 
 
 264
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 "How did yez come to be so hep to em, 
 Slimmy?" 
 
 "Be studyin how else? An then there s Coun 
 sellor Noonan. You ought to hear him when he 
 gets to goin about Brutus and Caesar an th rest of 
 th Roman fleet. To hear Noonan you d think he 
 had been one of their pals." 
 
 "Th Counsellor s from Latrim," said the Wop; 
 "I m a Mayo man meself. An say, thim Latrim 
 la-a-ads are th born liars. Still, as long as the 
 Counsellor s talkin about phwat happened two thou 
 sand years ago, yez can chance a bet on him. It s 
 only when he s repo-o-rtin th evints av yisterday 
 he ll try to hand yez a lemon." 
 
 "I wisht I was as wise as youse, Slimmy," said 
 Goldie Cora, wistfully rubbing her delicate nose. 
 "It must be dead swell to know about Caesar an 
 th rest of them dubs." 
 
 "If they was to show up now," hazarded the 
 Wop, "thim ould fellies ud feel like farmers." 
 
 "Oh, I don t know," observed Slimmy : "they 
 was lyin , cheatin , swindlin , snitchin , double-cross- 
 in an givin each other th rinkey-clink in th old 
 days same as now. This Caesar, though, must have 
 been a stiff proposition. He certainly woke up 
 young! When he s only nineteen, he toins out one 
 mornin , yawns, puts on his everyday toga, rambles 
 down town, an makes a hurrah touch for five mil 
 lion of dollars. Think of it! five million! an 
 
 265
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 him not twenty! He certainly was a producer 
 Caesar was!" 
 
 "Well, I should yell," assented Harrington. 
 
 "An then phwat?" asked the Wop. 
 
 "This what," said Slimmy. "Havin got his v/ad 
 together, Caesar starts in to light up Rome, an in 
 vites the push to cut in. When he s got em prop 
 erly keyed up, he goes into the forum an says, 
 Am I it? An the gang yells, You re it !" 
 
 "Caesar could go some," commented Goldie Cora, 
 admiringly. 
 
 "Rome s a republic then," Slimmy went on, "an* 
 Caesar has himself elected the main squeeze. He 
 declares for a wide-open town; his war cry is No 
 water ! No gas ! No police ! 
 
 "Say, he was a live one !" broke in Harrington ; 
 "he was Rome s Big Tim !" 
 
 "Listen!" commanded Goldie Cora, shaking her 
 yellow head at Harrington. "Go on, Slimmy." 
 
 "About this time Brutus commences to show in 
 th runnin . Brutus is th head of th Citizens Un 
 ion, an him an his fellow mugwumps put in their 
 time bluffin an four-flushin round about reform. 
 They had everybody buffaloed, except Caesar. Bru 
 tus is for closin th saloons, puttin th smother on 
 horse, racin , an wants every Roman kid who plays 
 baseball Sunday pinched." 
 
 "He gives me a pain !" complained Goldie 
 Cora. 
 
 263
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 "An mind you, all th time Brutus is graftin 
 with both hooks. He s in on the Aqueduct ; he man 
 ages a forty per cent, hold out on the Appian way ; 
 an what long green he has loose he loans to 
 needy skates in Spain at pawn shop rates, an 
 when they don t kick in he uses the legions to 
 collect. Brutus is down four ways from the jack 
 on everything in sight. Nothin s calculated to em 
 barrass him but a pair of mittens." 
 
 "An at that," remarked Harrington, who had a 
 practical knowledge of politics, "him an his mug 
 wump bunch didn t have nothin on th New York 
 reformers. Do youse guys remember when the 
 city bought th ferries? There was " 
 
 "I d sooner hear Slimmy," said Goldie Cora. 
 
 "Me too," agreed the Wop. 
 
 Slimmy looked flattered. "Well, then," he con 
 tinued, "all this time Caesar is the big screech, an it 
 makes Brutus so sore he gets to be a bug. So he 
 starts to talkin . This Csesar guy/ says Brutus, 
 won t do. 
 
 " Right you be, says Cassius, who s always been 
 a kicker. That s what I ve been tellin you lobsters 
 from th jump. 
 
 "With this an old souse named Casca sits up, an 
 says he ain t seen nothin wrong about Csesar. 
 
 " Oh, roll over ! says Cassius. Why even th 
 newsboys are on. You know Caesar s wardman 
 that fresh baby, Mark Antony ? It s ribbed up right 
 
 267
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 now that at th Lupercal he s to hand Caesar a 
 crown. 
 
 "Casca an th other bone-heads turns to Brutus. 
 
 " Yes/ says Brutus, answerin their looks ; Cas- 
 sius has got good information. He s givin youse 
 th correct steer. 
 
 "An did Csesar cop off the crown ?" asked Goldie 
 Cora, eagerly. 
 
 Slimmy shook his head. 
 
 "Th Lupercal comes round," said he, "an Mark 
 Antony is there with bells on. He makes a funny 
 crack or two about a crown, but nothin goes. Th 
 wind-up is that Brutus, Cassius, Casca, an th rest 
 of th Citizens Union, gang 1 Caesar later in th 
 forum, go at him with their chives, an cut an 
 slash till his hide won t hold his principles." 
 
 "An wasn t there," demanded the Wop, with 
 heat, "so much as wan strong-arm la-a-ad up at 
 Caesar s end av th alley, wit th nerve to git even ?" 
 
 "Never fear!" returned Slimmy, reassuringly; 
 "th day they plant Caesar, Mark Antony goes in to 
 make th funeral spiel. He s th Roman Senator 
 Grady, Mark Antony is, an he burns em up. 
 Brutus an his bunch get th tip up at their club 
 house, an take it on th run. With that, Caesar s 
 gang gets to goin , an they stand Rome on its nut 
 from the Capitoline Hill to . the Tarpeian Rock. 
 Brutus an the other mugwumps gets it where th 
 baby wore th beads, an there ain t been a Seth 
 
 268
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 Low or a Fulton Cutting along th Tiber from that 
 day to this. Oh, they ve got us left standin side 
 ways, them Guineas have, in some things." 
 
 About the time Slimmy began his lucid setting 
 forth of Brutus, Caesar and their political differ 
 ences, Ellison and Razor, down at Nigger Mike s in 
 Pell Street, were laying their heads together. A 
 bottle of whiskey stood between them, for they re 
 quired inspiration. There were forty people in the 
 room, some dancing, some drinking, some talking. 
 But no one came near Ellison and Razor, for their 
 manner showed that they did not wish to be dis 
 turbed. As the Nailer observed, "They had a hen 
 on," and when gentlemen have a hen on they prefer 
 being quiet. 
 
 "I ve no use for Paul Kelly," whispered Razor in 
 response to some remark of Ellison s. "You bet 
 he knows enough not to show his snout along 
 Eighth Avenue. He d get it good if he did." 
 
 "My notion," said Ellison, "is to turn th trick 
 right now." 
 
 "Justth two of us?" 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 "He d have his guerillas; youse have got to fig 
 ure on that." 
 
 "They wouldn t stand th gaff. It s the differ 
 ence between guys who knows what they wants, and 
 guys who don t. Once we started, they d tear th 
 side out nf the Brighton in the get-away." 
 
 269
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 "All right," said Razor, bringing down his hand ; 
 "I m wit you." 
 
 "Just a moment," and Ellison motioned Razor 
 back into his chair. "If Paul s dancin , we must 
 stall him into th bar. I don t want to hoit any of 
 them skirts." 
 
 It was the delightful habit of Slimmy, on the tail 
 of one of his lectures, to order beer for his hearers. 
 That s why he was listened to with so much in 
 terest. Were every lecturer to adopt Slimmy s 
 plan, he would never fail of an audience. Also, 
 his fame would grow. 
 
 Slimmy, having finished with Caesar and the 
 others, had just signed up to the waiter to go his 
 merry rounds, when Ellison and Razor slipped in 
 from the street. Their hands were on their guns, 
 their eyes on Kelly. 
 
 Harrington saw it coming. 
 
 "Your gatt, Paul, your gatt !" he shouted. 
 
 The rule in Gangland is to let every man kill 
 his own snakes. Harrington s conduct crowded 
 hard upon the gross. It so disgusted Razor that, 
 to show Harrington what he thought of it, he half 
 turned and laced a bullet through his brain. 
 
 "Now you ve got something of your own to oc 
 cupy your mind," quoth Razor. 
 
 Ellison was too old a practitioner to be drawn 
 aside by the Harrington episode. He devoted him 
 self unswervingly to Paul Kelly. Ellison s first 
 
 270
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 bullet cut a hole through Kelly s coat and did no 
 further harm. The lights were switched out at 
 this crisis, and what shooting followed came off in 
 the dark. There was plenty of it. The air seemed 
 sown as thickly full of little yellow spits of flame 
 as an August swamp of fireflies. Even so, it didn t 
 last. It was as short lived as a July squall a^ sea. 
 There was one thunder and lightning mcment, dur 
 ing which the pistols flashed and roared, and then 
 stillness and utter silence ! 
 
 It was fairish pistol practice when you consider 
 conditions. Paul Kelly had three bullets in him 
 when four weeks later he asked the coppers to come 
 and get him. He had been up in Harlem some 
 where lying low. And you are not to forget Har 
 rington. There were other casualties, also, which 
 the police and politicians worked hand in hand to 
 cover up. 
 
 Five minutes went by after the shooting; ten 
 minutes ! no one was in a hurry. At last a police 
 man arrived. He might have come sooner, but the 
 New Brighton was a citadel of politics. Would you 
 have had him lose his shield ? 
 
 The policeman felt his official way into the bar 
 room : empty as a drum, dark as the inside of a 
 cow! 
 
 He struck a match. By its pale and little light he 
 made out the dead Harrington on the floor. Not a 
 living soul, not even Goldie Cora! 
 
 271
 
 THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 
 
 Goldie Cora? 
 
 Said that practical damsel, when the matter was 
 put up to her by Big Kitty, who being sentimental 
 called Goldie Cora a quitter for leaving her dead 
 love lying in his blood, "What good could I do? If 
 I d stuck I d have got pinched ; an then me in th 
 Tombs I d have stood a swell chance, I don t 
 chink, of bein at Bill s funeral." 
 
 THE END. 
 
 272
 
 University of California Library 
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