iiiij 
 
 OWEN Kl LDARE 
 
 I ii 
 
 In! 
 
 1
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA 
 AT LOS ANGELES 
 
 THE GIFT OF 
 
 MAY TREAT MORRISON 
 
 IN MEMORY OF 
 
 ALEXANDER F MORRISON
 
 /V\
 
 The 
 Good of the Wicked 
 
 and 
 
 The Party Sketches 
 
 h 
 
 OWEN KILDARE 
 i\ 
 
 Author of "My Mamie Rose," etc. 
 
 NEW YORK 
 THE BAKER & TAYLOR CO. 
 
 33-37 EAST i7TH STREET, UNION SQUARE NORTH
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1904 
 BY OWEN KILDARE 
 
 All right! rtstrved 
 
 Published August, 1904 
 
 The Greenwich Press, New. York, U. S. A.
 
 PS 
 35* 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 A few words to explain the appear 
 ance of this little volume may not be 
 inappropriate. 
 
 In the last chapter of my first book, 
 My Mamie Rose, I gave a brief out 
 line of my short career as a journalist. 
 The reception of the book was surpris- 
 mgly generous and a wealth of letters 
 came from all parts of the country, 
 bringing words of sympathy and en 
 couragement. Among them were quite 
 a few inquiring after other work which 
 I might have done during my three 
 years as a writer. 
 
 It was difficult to give definite an 
 swers to these inquiries, as my work 
 had appeared in the columns of various 
 publications, with which I had been 
 
 432951
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 connected at different times. But the 
 demand was sufficient to incline me to 
 collect at least some of my shorter 
 sketches and present them in book 
 form. So, these sketches of The 
 Party appeared in the Evening World 
 during the summer of 1902. They are 
 based on truth and their purpose is to 
 demonstrate that beneath the rough 
 manner and language of my people of 
 the tenements emotions and sentiments 
 common to all humankind are pulsing. 
 
 To account for the absence of the 
 "slang," which is often offered and ac 
 cepted as the Simon-pure Bowery 
 lingo, The Party sketches are preceded 
 by The Responsibility for Slang, an 
 editorial written by me for the Sunday 
 Press. 
 
 The Good of the Wicked, which 
 names this volume, is printed here for 
 the first time.
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 I offer no apologies for any short- 
 jmings you may find in the following 
 pages. That there is room for criti 
 cism I know full well. However, this 
 volume is not prepared for critics, but 
 for the friends, who have watched my 
 progress and who will find perhaps a 
 comparison here between the work of 
 the beginning and the work of the 
 present. As to future development, 
 my next book, Souls of the Humble l a 
 novel of the lesser people, to be pub 
 lished in September, will give the best 
 indication. 
 
 That you are about to read The 
 Good of the Wicked is proof that you 
 are my friend, and as a friend I want 
 to keep you, because there is no greater 
 blessing than friendship. 
 
 OWEN KILDARE. 
 May, 1904.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 THE GOOD OF THE WICKED n 
 
 THE RESPONSIBILITY OF SLANG 45 
 
 THE PARTY SKETCHES" 
 
 I. The Hanging Garden 55 
 
 II. The Simile of the Roses 60 
 
 III. The Awe of Nature 64 
 
 IV. Into the Dust 69 
 
 V. A S. P. C. A. Volunteer 75 
 
 VI. A Soiree Musicale 79 
 
 VII. The Mother-in-law 84 
 
 VIII. Variations on the Descent of 
 
 Man 90 
 
 IX. Along Our U. S. Rhine 94 
 
 X. Down to Coney 99 
 
 XI. An Object Lesson 104 
 
 XII. On the Road to Swelldom.... 108 
 XIII. The Bearer of the Olive 
 
 Branch 112 
 
 XIV. A Bargain Day 117 
 
 XV. Correspondence 122 
 
 LITTLE STORIES FROM OUR STREETS : 
 
 I. Canal Street and the Bowery. 131 
 II. Cooper Square 135 
 
 III. Twenty-fifth Street 138 
 
 IV. Catharine Street 143
 
 THE GOOD OF THE 
 WICKED
 
 THE GOOD OF THE WICKED. 
 
 S 
 
 C (0 /""^ AY, Dominick, you re all to 
 the good! There ain t a 
 hotel in the city where 
 they could beat this feed." 
 
 "I m glad you like it, Charlie. But 
 if I were you I d leave a little room for 
 the piece of resistance, as they call it 
 uptown. Wait till you taste the bird 
 before you burst." 
 
 This little pleasantry was uttered by 
 Dominick Levitt, who, at the head of 
 the festive board, played the part of 
 host to perfection. 
 
 It was a freak of our irrepressible 
 human nature which had decreed this 
 meeting of kindred spirits on this 
 Christmas eve. 
 
 As long as one could remember 
 Dominick Levitt had run The Royal.
 
 12 THE GOOD 
 
 First a sailors hang-out of the worst 
 type, it had kept pace with the progress 
 of the titties dnd had developed into a 
 "sporting house," remarkable for the 
 absence of sport and sporting men. In 
 view of the fact that certain factions 
 have seen fit to apostrophize The Royal 
 from their narrow standpoints, we will 
 do best to know the place through an 
 unbiased description of it, delivered by 
 the proprietor during a recent judicial 
 proceeding. 
 
 "The Royal is as safe a place for 
 anybody to go into as any o them 
 places uptown. If people in our neigh 
 borhood had more money to spend, and 
 if there was as many easies as up 
 town, there would be the same electric 
 lights and other fixings that can hide a 
 whole lot on the outside. And as to 
 the piano in the back room ? Uptown 
 they got operas and plays which we 
 ain t got. So I put in that agony-box
 
 OF THE WICKED 13 
 
 that they could have a little music or 
 singing with their glass o beer." 
 
 Asked if his patrons did not belong 
 to the criminal or disreputable classes, 
 Levitt became justly indignant. 
 
 "I ain t got no right to ask anybody 
 that comes into my place what their 
 business is. Whilst they re in my place 
 they got to behave themselves and 
 they know it. And I defy anybody to 
 say they ever lost a dollar in The 
 Royal, which is as decent a family re 
 sort as any." 
 
 Only a carping hair-splitter would 
 have found flaws in the above state 
 ment. It was technically correct. 
 Downtown temperaments are less sub 
 dued than those of uptown. So, at the 
 very first outbreak of choleric argu 
 ments, the offenders were always 
 speedily removed from The Royal. Its 
 probity was equally convincing. It is 
 still told with recollective shudders
 
 14 THE GOOD 
 
 how Levitt, surprising "Tippy" Mason 
 in the act of "lifting a super" from an 
 inebriated patron of The Royal, sub 
 jected the light-fingered gent to a 
 "deal," which kept him in the hospital 
 for months. 
 
 Levitt could not be expected to be 
 the guardian of the people who hung 
 about his place. If they chose to make 
 the acquaintance there of some one, 
 who, some hours afterwards, and in a 
 strange locality, would find himself 
 dazed, sick and thoroughly cleaned 
 out, was he to blame for it ? 
 
 Still, there were those who insisted 
 on calling The Royal a "dive." 
 
 Business, in spite of official and in 
 official interference, had been very 
 satisfactory during the past year and 
 Dominick Levitt determined to cele 
 brate his increased prosperity in suit 
 able, if not unprecedented manner. It 
 had come to his ears that Frank
 
 OF THE WICKED 1 5 
 
 Stevens, who operated a similar 
 "family resort," had given a "blow 
 out," as reward for their services, to 
 the "regulars," who were instrumental 
 in making the "easies" spend their 
 money. Levitt, also, had a staff of 
 regulars and was man enough to admit 
 that without them his nightly receipts 
 would suffer a perceptible decrease. 
 Again, the thought that Frank Stevens 
 could outdo him in anything was un 
 bearable to Levitt. 
 
 Therefore it was determined to cele 
 brate. 
 
 Here Levitt s train of thought ran 
 foul of a snag. Celebrate what ? 
 
 This matter could not be decided off 
 hand and during the major part of the 
 night, while engaged in seeing that 
 "he was getting all that was coming to 
 him," Levitt pondered how to fit the 
 case to an occasion. Such meditation 
 was sure to bring results and, seem-
 
 1 6 THE GOOD 
 
 ingly apropos of nothing, Levitt sud 
 denly startled his bartenders with the 
 vehemence of his inspiration. 
 
 "I have it! Christmas eve! Give 
 them the finest "lay-out" ever, and in 
 the back room ! Close the whole back 
 room, excepting for them, and don t 
 care how much money I lose ! Like to 
 see Frank Stevens beat that ! Eh ?" 
 
 The disconnected sentences were ut 
 tered to the accompaniment of banging 
 fists. 
 
 Dominick Levitt was a man of ac 
 tion. Although it was over a week un 
 til Christmas, he began that very night 
 the most important part of the prep 
 arations, the selection of the guests. 
 Seating himself on his high stool at 
 the end of the bar, a vantage point 
 affording view of front and back 
 rooms, he inspected the crowd to pick 
 those to be favored.
 
 OF THE WICKED 17 
 
 Of course, Charlie Fenton, the man 
 ager of The Royal and the proprietor s 
 factotum, was first. "Reb" Sherlock, 
 ex-confederate, and now faro dealer, 
 because of his genteel looks and be 
 havior, was next chosen. Then, men 
 tal selection was made of "Italian" Joe, 
 "Dutch" Oscar, and "Sheeney" Ike, 
 a cosmopolitan trio of shoe-string 
 gamblers ; "Second-story "Connors and 
 "Flim-flam" Myers, two gentlemen de 
 pending on their wits for support ; and 
 "Plug" Duffy, a dimly glittering star 
 of the fistic firmament. 
 
 "That s eight, and ought to be 
 enough for a nice little party," mur 
 mured Levitt, counting his male guests. 
 "Now for the girls." 
 
 I am grieved at having to record 
 that Levitt found the selecting of his 
 female guests a more difficult task. It 
 was an exceedingly intricate proceed 
 ing to weigh their merits and demerits.
 
 1 8 THE GOOD. 
 
 There was Sadie Clayton, almost 
 chosen and then rejected, because it 
 was simply impossible for her to take 
 a few drinks without becoming a noisy 
 breaker of the peace. Rosie Delaney, 
 admitted to be good company, was re 
 jected on account of her argumentative 
 inclinations when in mellowed condi 
 tion. "Dotty" Lyons, another jolly 
 girl, was repudiated on account of her 
 vocalism, which broke forth at the 
 most inopportune moments. But, 
 though it was tiresome work, Levitt 
 succeeded at last in culling from the 
 weeds the fair flowers to grace his 
 feast. 
 
 To extend the invitation to the 
 chosen was the next duty. 
 
 "Say, Reb, you ll do me a favor if 
 you come round here on Christmas 
 eve, about eight o clock, and have a 
 bite of something to eat with me and 
 a few friends," was the quintessence
 
 OF THE WICKED 19 
 
 of politeness with which the ex- 
 confederate soldier was approached. 
 From this Chesterfieldian pitch the 
 "invites" ran through minoring varia 
 tions to the summons to "Plug" Duffy, 
 the fighter, who was bidden to "show 
 up on Christmas eve, about eight p. M. 
 if you want a feed with all the trim 
 mings of the season." 
 
 In addition to being invited they 
 were cautioned to keep the thing quiet. 
 
 "Not that I care a continental 
 whether the others get jealous or 
 not," explained Levitt. "Only we 
 want to have a good time by ourselves 
 and I don t want to have to get up 
 every five minutes to throw some o 
 them out on their heads that want to 
 force themselves in where they ain t 
 wanted." 
 
 The appointed time was not long in 
 coming and it was freely admitted that 
 the event had been worth while wait-
 
 20 THE GOOD 
 
 ing for. They were completely dum- 
 founded on beholding the arrange 
 ments made in their honor. It was 
 evident that no expense had been 
 spared in perfecting every detail. But 
 what they did not know was that 
 Levitt had undergone cruel incon 
 venience and trying embarrassment to 
 make his treat a strictly correct affair. 
 
 To see how the swells do these 
 things, Levitt had visited several 
 flashy restaurants to study at closest 
 range the methods and particulars of 
 the art of dining. So, becomingly 
 attired in silk-trimmed dinner suit, 
 violet-tinted necktie and cluster of 
 diamonds in bosom of his shirt, Levitt 
 received his guests in the back room 
 of the dive. 
 
 The table in the center of the big, 
 bleak room fairly glittered with silver 
 and glassware. Even several enor 
 mous stands of flowers had been pro-
 
 OF THE WICKED 21 
 
 ided. Appreciation of the imposing 
 elaborateness was by no means silent, 
 and Dominick Levitt oozed pompous 
 self-satisfaction. 
 
 The arrivals were punctual and, 
 after assigning them to their seats, 
 Levitt took his place at the head of 
 the table to deliver a few appropriate 
 remarks. 
 
 The first thing in order is to wish 
 you all a Merry Christmas and hoping 
 you ll behave yourselves. It ain t for 
 me to be poking my nose into your 
 private affairs, but, I guess, most o 
 you people ain t had what you may 
 call a regular Christmas dinner in 
 some time. Anyway, I don t think 
 you ever had anything like this lay 
 out in your lives. The whole thing is 
 fixed up just the same as up in Del- 
 monico s or any o them places, and 
 I hope you won t tackle it the same as 
 if it was a beefstew in Cheap John s. 
 Now, let her go 1"
 
 22 THE GOOD 
 
 They had no further progressed 
 than the soup before Charlie Fenton 
 voiced the enthusiasm of the party 
 with the remark, which opens this 
 faithful chronicle of the blow-out at 
 The Royal. In fact, they fell to with 
 such ardor that Levitt found it neces 
 sary to remonstrate. 
 
 "If I was you people, I wouldn t eat 
 as if I wanted to choke myself. There 
 ain t none o the bunch got to catch 
 a train and swell folks always do a 
 lot o talking between the rounds, 
 which is the style and good for the 
 digestion." 
 
 "Right you are, Dominick," shouted 
 "Plug" Duffy, the fighter, "When I 
 got the decision over Toby McGloin, 
 a couple o swells blew me off to din 
 ner up at the Hoffman and " 
 
 "Oh, cut it out, cut it out, Plug," 
 interrupted "Hat-pin" Mary. "If you 
 ain t had a dinner since, it ain t our
 
 OF THE WICKED 23 
 
 fault. But we don t want to hear that 
 same old, ancient history." 
 
 "Ah, what d you know about it?" 
 growled the plug-ugly. "All I got to 
 do is to show me face on Broadway 
 and I can have the best there is in the 
 line of eating and drinking. I ain t 
 no mixed-ale fighter. If them referees 
 wasn t crooked, I d been a champeen 
 long ago." 
 
 "Say, Plug, for heaven s sake, wake 
 up," tantalized the girl. "When you re 
 in one o them pipe dreams you re see 
 ing things. I bet there was many a 
 Christmas when a hunk o corned beef 
 and cabbage would have been as wel 
 come as the flowers in May, tra-la." 
 
 The bunch was still laughing 
 at Plug Duffy s discomfiture when 
 "Merry" Colwell took up the defence 
 of the despised viand. 
 
 "I don t know what you people got 
 against corned beef and cabbage. Up
 
 24 THE GOOD 
 
 home, in well, where I come from, 
 it s a lucky day when we can get it. 
 Throughout the year it s salt pork, 
 and, if the crops are poor, it s salt pork 
 for Chirstmas, too." 
 
 "Reb" Carlisle anticipated Levitt by 
 breaking in on the reminiscences. 
 
 "Let me suggest that we bury our 
 pasts. I suppose we all have memories 
 that are awkward at times, but, there 
 is no use of crying over spilled milk. 
 We are here to enjoy ourselves and 
 not to deplore what can t be undone." 
 
 "That s it, Reb," concurred Levitt. 
 "This ain t the time or place for to 
 be digging up the bones in our grave 
 yards. Don t be kicking. It don t pay. 
 Take life as it comes. Here you got a 
 lay-out that can t be beat, with fillets, 
 and rottees, and pommess day terrees, 
 and all you got to do is to enjoy your 
 selves."
 
 OF THE WICKED 25 
 
 Gayety was restored and Levitt 
 could again officiate as arbiter of fash 
 ionable customs. He took care that 
 his guests were properly attended by 
 the specially engaged French waiters, 
 and just as careful that the guests 
 should commit no "bad breaks" in the 
 presence of the servitors. In a word, 
 Levitt, considering himself the only 
 one with the possible exception of 
 Reb Carlisle who had ever eaten a 
 "real swell" dinner in swell surround 
 ings, appointed himself dictator of the 
 occasion. 
 
 So, when the waiters left the room 
 with the debris of the last course, 
 Levitt mentioned a few foibles of so 
 ciety, hoping these hints would be un 
 derstood. 
 
 "May be you won t believe it, but 
 them people uptown never eat with 
 their knives at all. They "
 
 26 THE GOOD 
 
 "Ah, what are you giving us now," 
 doubted "Second-story" Connors. "Me 
 and me pal was going uptown the other 
 night on a little business, and we 
 passed the St. Dinny Hotel whilst 
 they were feeding inside and every 
 one o them had a knife in their fist. 
 Stop your kidding, Dominick. They 
 don t eat with their fingers." 
 
 "I don t mean that," interposed 
 Levitt. "I mean they only cut their 
 meat with their knives, but they don t 
 use them for to feed themselves. 
 Every bit they put into their mouths 
 they pick up with their forks and " 
 
 "Hully Gee," laughed "Fourth 
 Ward" Hattie. "No wonder it takes 
 them so long to get through with their 
 meals." 
 
 Levitt, quite unintentionally, had 
 given the dinner a humorous turn. To 
 eat like society, the diners began to 
 use their forks in accurate manner and
 
 OF THE WICKED 27 
 
 many mishaps, like dropping part of 
 the heaped victuals from the unwonted 
 vehicles, gave occasion for much mer 
 riment. 
 
 When the coffee and the liqueurs, 
 accompanied by cigars for the gents 
 and cigarettes for the ladies, were 
 served, the feeling of content was 
 manifested by the general, genial smile. 
 
 "Flim-flam" Myers interpreted the 
 prevailing sentiment. 
 
 "Say, give me a feed like this once a 
 week, and I d be willing to go hungry 
 the rest. Gee, may be this ain t living." 
 
 The postprandial smoke did not 
 conclude the festivities. As soon as 
 the dishes had been removed Levitt 
 gave a signal to the waiters, and again 
 rose for a few remarks. 
 
 "When I was getting up this little 
 affair I first thought I ll pay some o 
 them regular actors for to come and 
 entertain us. But seeing as we got all
 
 28 THE GOOD 
 
 kinds o talent right amongst ourselves 
 I went to work and got some o the 
 fizzy-wizzy instead, and hope you ll do 
 justice to it." 
 
 "None o that for me," screeched 
 "Diamond" Lizzie. "I know your 
 forty - cents - a - quart fizzy - wizzy, 
 Dominick. Beer and booze is good 
 enough for me." 
 
 "Now, be a good girl, Lizzie," en 
 treated Levitt. "This ain t no fake 
 stuff. You can all look at the stamp 
 on the cork and see that it s genooine 
 French shampain. I only sell the other 
 to the easies, but don t blow me 
 friends off to it." 
 
 Sure enough, it was the real thing, 
 "genooine French shampain," and with 
 the realization came the devouring. 
 Within an hour, the condition of the 
 "bunch" was a fearful thing to behold. 
 
 "Italian" Joe and "Scar-face" Mag 
 gie were howling what they called a
 
 OF THE WICKED 29 
 
 "love duet"; "Diamond" Lizzie tried 
 very strenuously to remove a few lamp 
 globes with her toes; "Plug" Duffy 
 was challenging the whole world to a 
 battle royal ; "Reb" Carlisle was recit 
 ing the battle of Winchester in install 
 ments ; Dominick Levitt was serenely 
 listening to the praises of his satrap, 
 Charlie Fenton; and the three shoe 
 string gamblers were playing a game 
 of freeze-out with crackers. The 
 others were engaged in similar pas 
 times. 
 
 Aside from the crowd and the noise, 
 near the door leading to the "family 
 entrance," sat "Hat-pin" Mary and 
 "Merry" Colwell. "Hat-pin" had 
 drawn the other girl away from the 
 table as soon as the roistering began. 
 
 "Say, Merry, them talking about 
 that corned beef and cabbage got you 
 all broke up, didn t it?" began Hat 
 pin. "I could see it the minute you
 
 30 THE GOOD 
 
 began to talk that you thought you 
 was home and say, where do you 
 come from, anyway ?" 
 
 Merry Colwell had guarded her his 
 tory with jealousy, and no one in the 
 dives knew anything of her antece 
 dents, but the genuine interest of her 
 present companion could not be denied. 
 
 "I m from up in the Berkshire 
 Hills." 
 
 "Where s that, and is it finer than 
 it is on the Bowery?" asked the old 
 stager, with childish sincerity. 
 
 "Is it ?" Merry s eyes blazed with in 
 dignation and offended pride. "Why, 
 it s like God s country up there, in the 
 hills, and everybody is good, and it s 
 my oh, it s much nicer." 
 
 The girl looked before her with 
 that fixed stare which tells of a 
 struggle within. It is oftenest seen 
 when the wells of tears are threaten 
 ing.
 
 OF THE WICKED 3! 
 
 The two women sat silent for a long 
 time, apparently watching the others, 
 in reality thinking, thinking, dreaming 
 of that which had become unattainable 
 to them. 
 
 The veteran spoke first. 
 
 "Say, Merry, that name o yours 
 don t fit you at all to-night. You don t 
 look a bit like it. How did you get 
 that funny handle anyway?" 
 
 "My name is Merriam, Merriam 
 Colwell, and they shortened it here by 
 accident, just the same as they did at 
 oh, don t ask me those questions." 
 
 The drawn look on the girl s face 
 was pitiful. 
 
 "Say," remarked Hat-pin, "that 
 homesickness must be something 
 fierce?" 
 
 "Don t you know how it is ?" 
 
 "Me?" the question made Hat-pin 
 roar with laughter. "Say, I don t 
 know how that word home spells,
 
 32 THE GOOD 
 
 leave alone know what it means. 
 What s it like?" 
 
 "Why, home is the place where you 
 were born, where your father and 
 mother lived before you, and live with 
 you, until you get married or " 
 
 "Go ahead with your story, Merry, 
 I understand you all right." 
 
 Merry looked gratefully at the 
 woman beside her. 
 
 "And it is the place where everybody 
 loves one another and where where 
 oh, I can t tell you, it s simply home." 
 
 Again they relapsed into silence. 
 But now Hat-pin did most of the 
 thinking and to some purpose. 
 
 "Listen, Merriam," she said, at last, 
 accompanying the use of the girl s 
 proper name by putting her arm 
 around the other s waist. "You ain t 
 cut out for this kind o life. Ml kill 
 you in less than no time. Not the 
 bumming round so much and the
 
 OF THE WICKED 33 
 
 booze, but the aching you got there, in 
 your heart, that s what ll do it. Whj 
 don t you go home ?" 
 
 The question came so unexpectedly 
 that Merry Colwell was nonplused for 
 the moment. 
 
 "I can t," she replied. 
 
 "Yes, you can," Hat-pin broke in 
 fiercely. "You can and you " 
 
 "Good evening, girls. Do you know 
 that this is Christmas eve?" A mis 
 sionary, in company with other work 
 ers from a nearby rescue mission, had 
 entered unnoticed. "Do take this leaf 
 let, and let me talk to you." 
 
 Hat-pin scowled at the interruption. 
 
 "Go about your business, lady. Go 
 ahead, and don t bother us." 
 
 "But you? Won t you let me talk 
 to you ? You re so young, and, surely, 
 you won t refuse to listen to the 
 Blessed Word?"
 
 34 THE GOOD 
 
 Disregarding Hat-pin s rebuff, the 
 missionary accosted Merry Colwell. 
 The girl s listless attitude made her 
 seem a probable convert. 
 
 The worker moved as if to sit down 
 beside Merry. Like a demon, Hat-pin 
 jumped from her chair and grabbed 
 the missionary by the shoulders. 
 
 "Go on, now ; go on ! Save some 
 o the others, if you can, and if they let 
 you, but there s nothing doing here. 
 We know where your mission is and 
 we can come there if we want to. Go 
 on." 
 
 The missionary went up the room. 
 
 Hat-pin turned to Merry. 
 
 "Now, you got to go home. Do you 
 hear?" 
 
 "Oh, what are you talking about? 
 I can t, Hat-pin, I can t," whimpered 
 the girl. "My mother is home and 
 why don t you go home yourself?"
 
 OF THE WICKED 35 
 
 "What, me? Me go home?" Hat 
 pin laughed. "Say, if I ever had a 
 mother it s more than I know. And 
 my home? My home is right here, 
 or any place where there s a chair or 
 a bed to sleep in. D you think I d be 
 sitting here if I had a home or a 
 mother? Not on your life. And as 
 for you, I don t know much, but I 
 know this much, that there ain t a 
 mother who would go back on her girl 
 on Christmas morning. You got to go 
 home, Merry." 
 
 "I don t see why you re making all 
 this fuss about me?" said the Colwell 
 girl petulantly. "I was round this 
 neighborhood last Christmas, and I 
 didn t feel this way. I guess it s the 
 wine that put these foolish thoughts 
 into my head. Besides, even if I 
 wanted to go home, I couldn t, because 
 I haven t got the money."
 
 36 THE GOOD 
 
 "If the fizzy-wizzy wine put them 
 ideas into your head it s the first good 
 thing that stuff ever did," argued Hat 
 pin. "If you didn t feel this way last 
 Christmas, it was because this was all 
 new to you. But that wears off quick. 
 As for the money for your ticket, I ll 
 have that in a minute." 
 
 Before Merry could stop her, Hat 
 pin rushed to Dominick Levitt. 
 
 How she did it, Merry could not tell, 
 but Levitt peeled off the outside layer 
 of a fat roll of bills and handed it to 
 the go-between. Ere Merry had fully 
 realized what had happened, Hat-pin 
 was back again. 
 
 "Now, here s your ticket, and now 
 get out as quick as you can." 
 
 The bill was pressed into Merry s 
 numb palm. 
 
 "But" 
 
 "No but now! Come on, and go 
 home, or I ll"
 
 OF THE WICKED 37 
 
 The threat was not finished. It was 
 unnecessary. Hat-pin had earned her 
 sobriquet by the promiscuous use of 
 that feminine weapon, and her temper 
 was known to be dangerous. 
 
 But was it really the menace which 
 made Merry Colwell yield ? 
 
 "Hat-pin, I think I will go home." 
 
 "Good girl." 
 
 It so happened that, at the same 
 time with the two girls, the missionary 
 reached the "family entrance" to pass 
 out after her fruitless visit. 
 
 Hat-pin saw her opportunity. 
 
 "Say, lady, will you take care o this 
 girl?" 
 
 The missionary stopped with puz 
 zled look. 
 
 "What do you wish me to do?" 
 
 Hat-pin stepped to the sweet-faced, 
 earnest woman and, holding Merry s 
 hand, whispered at great length. 
 
 432951
 
 38 THE GOOD 
 
 "I will gladly do what I can to see 
 this young girl safely home and what 
 is your name?" 
 
 "Hat-pin, just Hat-pin Mary." 
 
 "Won t you come along, Mary?" 
 pleaded the worker. "Come, let me 
 take you home, too, to your mother." 
 
 "I ain t got" 
 
 "Well, then, won t you come with 
 me ? Come, and you and I shall honor 
 the birthing day and prepare ourselves 
 for the near and better New Year. 
 Won t you come?" 
 
 "Honest, I d like to oblige you, see 
 ing that you re so kind to my friend 
 here, but, I guess, you ll have to ex 
 cuse me this time." 
 
 Hat-pin was stubborn and no per 
 suasion could move her. 
 
 "God bless you," said the missionary 
 in parting. 
 
 "So long, Merry," was Hat-pin s 
 farewell.
 
 OF THE WICKED 39 
 
 Bells and chimes sent into the air 
 above them the glorious message of 
 this Christmas day. Along the coun 
 try road, greeted by the welcoming 
 sun, a girl came, slowly and hesita 
 tingly, towards the old farm. Shame, 
 not fear, dragged her steps, for in the 
 door of the old homestead stood the 
 white-haired mother with outstretched 
 arms. 
 
 In a quiet, modest room in the city, 
 the missionary prayed, on her knees, 
 to the Lord. 
 
 "Dear, loving Father, give that the 
 girl may find this the day of truest 
 home-coming, and that she may never 
 stray again from the path, which You, 
 in Your wisdom, have set for her. 
 But, Father of Love and Mercy, give, 
 give me the strength that I may soften 
 the heart of the other, and bring to her 
 what she has never known love, your 
 love, oh, God !"
 
 4O THE GOOD 
 
 Hat-pin ? 
 
 At The Royal the revelers had de 
 parted. Only one remained. 
 
 In the darkest corner, huddled in a 
 chair, sat Hat-pin snoring.
 
 THE RESPONSIBILITY 
 
 FOR SLANG
 
 THE RESPONSIBILITY FOR 
 SLANG. 
 
 WE have a well-grown habit 
 of making conveniences 
 of certain localities. 
 Every city, town or hamlet has within 
 its limits a district, perhaps only one 
 small block, which has to shoulder, 
 deservedly and undeservedly, all sorts 
 of iniquities. 
 
 In our metropolis there is in every 
 borough a district which by press, 
 police and social student is constantly 
 pillorized as the home of and the 
 source whence all that is bad comes. 
 Some say that even in evil a rivalry 
 for supremacy is always going on, but 
 whether it is so or not is not to the 
 point in this instance, as the crown of 
 wickedness of all the boroughs has
 
 46 THE RESPONSIBILITY 
 
 long been placed on the long-suffering 
 and well-scarred brow of the Bowery. 
 
 This status of the Bowery is so 
 firmly accepted that it would require a 
 gifted champion to destroy the un 
 justified opinion. Writers who have 
 made the Bowery their mine of ma 
 terial prefer to have the present im 
 pression remain for purposes of their 
 own, and, instead of attempting to 
 eradicate it, emphasize it. 
 
 So many untrue things, in form of 
 learned report or literary caricature, 
 have been said about the Bowery that 
 the old thoroughfare has sunk to the 
 stage of dignified resignation and lets 
 the talk and scribbling go on without 
 an effort at defense. 
 
 Until a few years ago, when the 
 signs of the times became strongly 
 powerful, the Bowery had been the 
 clearing house of the human refuse of 
 the city. All classes, creeds and na-
 
 FOR SLANG. 47 
 
 tionalities had their representatives 
 here for temporary and permanent 
 stays and from all this concourse of 
 dialect and patois evolved itself some 
 thing which has since passed under the 
 name of Bowery slang. 
 
 It should not be forgotten that 
 hardly any of those who had a hand 
 in the manufacturing of this idiom 
 were there by choice. Illness, intem 
 perance or crooked inclinations had 
 reduced them to the most primitive 
 conditions, in which the getting of the 
 wherewithal for bed and minimum of 
 food were paramount. Can it be 
 imagined that men whose sleeping and 
 waking hours were surcharged with 
 the one worrying thought of how to 
 get the pittance for their needs, in 
 spite of their hindering obstacles, all 
 glaringly evident, would find the 
 necessary idle moments, the inspiring 
 leisure to invent the more or less
 
 48 THE RESPONSIBILITY 
 
 amusing terms of expression which 
 excite our risibilities when heard in 
 daily intercourse or on the stage? 
 
 Men who become abject slaves to 
 hopelessness and carelessness do not 
 only become careless as to appearance 
 and sanitary condition, but become also 
 careless in their mode of speech. It 
 is for this reason that the faults of 
 Bowery language are to be found in 
 grammar and enunciation. One whose 
 head aches with pain and whose stom 
 ach quakes with hunger is very apt to 
 trip up on the proper usage of "shall" 
 and "will." Later on, always exposed 
 to downward, not refining influences, 
 he will make occasional substitutions 
 of "them" for "those" and "these." 
 Finally the "th" will deteriorate to 
 "d." 
 
 That the unnecessary multiplication 
 of many negatives in one sentence is 
 not peculiar alone to the Bowery will
 
 FOR SLANG. 49 
 
 be conceded, but here, with the harsh 
 intonation and other grammatical de 
 ficiency, it becomes more pronounced. 
 I have before me a page which was 
 taken at random from one of a series 
 of "True Stories from the Under 
 World," written by a man whose repu 
 tation was a hundredfold increased by 
 his profound knowledge and under 
 standing of the scenes described by 
 him so accurately and graphically. 
 This page was read to and by a man 
 who since his fifth year he is now al 
 most forty has lived on the Bowery. 
 It was not unintelligible to him, the 
 general sense of this supposed con 
 versation between two men of his 
 sphere slowly came to him, but every 
 second sentence had to be re-read and 
 he frequently asked, "What s he mean 
 by that?" 
 
 Still the stories, and especially their 
 language, have been indorsed as cor-
 
 5O THE RESPONSIBILITY 
 
 rect by men famous here and abroad 
 (more particularly by the latter). 
 
 Expressions like "Hully gee!" 
 "Hey, cul !" are not entirely unheard, 
 but are handed down from the stage 
 and used by the facetious. 
 
 Recently I happened to witness the 
 performance of a team known far and 
 wide as the "typical Bowery boy and 
 girl" in a home of refined vaudeville. 
 The following was one not the most 
 elaborate of their "typical" expres 
 sions : "Say, Polly, if I sees that cove 
 putting up his snoot to them ruby 
 kissers o yourn again I ll soak him in 
 the slats till his teeth falls out like 
 a bunch o beans." 
 
 The making of that sort of slang 
 which, with all else, is piled on to the 
 shoulders of the Bowery, comes from 
 the bourne literary and dramatic, from 
 those who are original by being unin 
 telligible.
 
 FOR SLANG 51 
 
 The Boweryite excels in directness. 
 He will express himself briefly and 
 forcibly, but never so that the services 
 of a slang authority as interpreter 
 would be necessary. 
 
 The crimes committed in under 
 world are sufficiently many. There is 
 no need of this more recent offense of 
 slang being put at the door of the 
 Bowery. Let those who manufacture 
 it in the quiet of their literary studios 
 assume the responsibility for it.
 
 THE PARTY SKETCHES
 
 THE PARTY SKETCHES. 
 
 I. 
 THE HANGING GARDEN. 
 
 LISTEN! 
 I have no use for a fellow 
 who thinks his Party is no 
 more than something like a trolley car. 
 That all he s got to do is to take it on 
 a run and catch it, and that that s all 
 there s to it. 
 
 There isn t a day that I do not come 
 across something new in my Party. 
 
 And that s what I want. I want to 
 know and understand her all in all. 
 
 As for me, she has me sized up long 
 ago has come to the conclusion that 
 I am not the cream of perfection, but 
 that I about would just suit her. 
 
 Now, where she works they have a 
 lot of typewriters both machines and
 
 56 THE PARTY SKETCHES. 
 
 girls and some of them are very fond 
 of flowers the girls are. 
 
 The other day one of them took off 
 the window sill a little plant, all yellow 
 and dried up. 
 
 The Party, who is something like a 
 foreman or a boss in the shop, just 
 happened to come into the room as the 
 flower pot was to be thrown into the 
 refuse barrel. 
 
 Not saying anything to anybody, she 
 stepped over and rescued pot and 
 flower from their threatening fate. 
 
 The old lady and I were sitting in 
 the kitchen when The Party came 
 home with the thing wrapped up in 
 a paper. 
 
 I wouldn t have given two cents for 
 it. 
 
 Every leaf and twig was seared and 
 drooping. 
 
 Where the flower had once blos 
 somed there was nothing but a with 
 ered, vellowish ball.
 
 THE HANGING GARDEN. 57 
 
 But she is not much in the habit of 
 asking other people s advice after she 
 has her mind made up and gently 
 hoisting me out of my chair at the 
 window, she put the plant on the fire- 
 escape. 
 
 I might as well tell you that in the 
 lease of my Party s mansion nothing is 
 mentioned about the view. 
 
 And still, it is riot entirely without 
 picturesqueness. 
 
 For instance, I know the exact num 
 ber of shirts which make Mr. Clancy s 
 bosom on the floor below look 
 brighter far than the rainbow and 
 speak louder than Gabriel s trumpet. 
 
 And that is not the only family 
 secret which is aired on the line. 
 
 On days when the lines are bare, it 
 is not so interesting. Then the lines 
 seem like some weird system of tele 
 graph wires, running from window to 
 
 ndow, from house to house. Here
 
 58 THE PARTY SKETCHES. 
 
 one carries a bit of spare joy to a home 
 where sorrow is brooding; there an 
 other brings warning to a camp of the 
 flowing can. 
 
 Were I a poet I could find a song 
 there The Song of the Tenement 
 Lines. 
 
 But as it was I was kind of sore on 
 The Party for spoiling the vista with 
 that measly little plant. 
 
 I began to hate it and refrained 
 from looking at it. 
 
 It was long after, when I stuck my 
 head out of the w r indow to listen to 
 my favorite song, which a wandering 
 minstrel was singing in the yard, and 
 collided with that confounded flower 
 pot, and 
 
 Every leaf was green and fresh. 
 
 Instead of one withered blossom 
 there were flowers in full bloom, and 
 even the stem of the plant seemed erect 
 and proud of its purpose.
 
 THE HANGING GARDEN. 59 
 
 I didn t say a word, just watched, 
 and ere long The Party went to her 
 hanging garden. 
 
 I have seen pictures of flower girls, 
 but none of them was more dainty, 
 more tender than my dear little Party 
 in caring for her little flower. 
 
 Neither she nor I could tell a pine 
 tree from a rose bush. We do not 
 know the name of our flower. We re 
 from and of the city the east side, 
 at that; but whatever its name it had 
 its mission. 
 
 It has taught me much about my 
 Party. 
 
 It has given me a straight peep into 
 her heart of hearts, and it prophesies 
 that if she can change the withered, 
 warped flower into new and glorious 
 blossoming by her care and foresight, 
 she will surely change me, a tough old 
 weed, into at least something as useful 
 as cabbage.
 
 6O THE PARTY SKETCHES. 
 
 Now the whole fire escape is full of 
 flowers. 
 
 I don t know what they are, but I 
 got them just the same, and The Party 
 is happy. 
 
 II. 
 
 THE SIMILE OF THE ROSES. 
 
 Listen ! 
 
 Perhaps you will remember how 
 some time ago The Party started a 
 hanging garden on the fire escape. 
 
 Well, by now, from that one little 
 flower a whole lot of flowers have de 
 veloped into a miniature garden, tak 
 ing up every inch of the iron balcony, 
 and it keeps The Party busy taking 
 care of them. 
 
 The other night she asked me to 
 come to the house for supper, and 
 v/hile I was sitting at the window,
 
 THE SMILE OF THE ROSES. 6l 
 
 waiting for the meal to be ready, I no 
 ticed that the flowers after the stifling 
 hot day were almost begging for water. 
 
 I filled the sprinkling can, but before 
 I began to water them I set to work to 
 separate a few that seemed all tangled 
 up. 
 
 Especially, two roses were all stuck 
 together, and it seemed as if one, a 
 pale pink, was actually nestling under 
 the foliage of the other, a sturdy pur 
 ple. I parted them with care and then 
 let fall the life-giving spray. 
 
 Well, now, you know there is very 
 little imagination about me and that I 
 am very much matter of fact, but, I 
 don t know, those poor, sun-parched 
 flowers acted all the world like a lot 
 of unfortunate human beings, to whom 
 at the least expected moment a bless 
 ing from heaven is sent. 
 
 Not only was the difference noticea 
 ble in the fresher and healthier color
 
 62 THE PARTY SKETCHES. 
 
 of their blossoms and leaves, but, be 
 ing so close together, the fall of the 
 drops of water was accompanied by a 
 rustle among them, which, if one list 
 ened carefully, sounded like a softly 
 murmuring anthem of thanksgiving 
 and which left them erect, and not 
 drooping as before. 
 
 My task performed, I was escorted 
 by The Party to participate of her lat 
 est culinary endeavor ! 
 
 Supper over, The Party and I 
 stepped over to the window to look at 
 the flowers, to get a breath of air and 
 to look up to the starry sky. 
 
 A part of my work seemed to have 
 been undone. 
 
 The two roses, so carefully parted 
 by me, were, if anything, more closely 
 entwined than before. 
 
 My hands went out to repeat the 
 former operation, to separate them, 
 when The Party stopped me and said :
 
 THE SMILE OF THE ROSES. 63 
 
 "Look, don t you think they re very 
 much like us ? Let them alone, please." 
 
 I looked, and it s a fact, there was a 
 resemblance. 
 
 The smaller, the pink, one or two 
 crystal drops still hanging on her pet 
 als, seeming like tears, perhaps of joy 
 or sorrow, was again enshrouded by 
 the leaves of the other, the purple one, 
 who, now in the reborn majesty of his 
 strength and beauty, appeared to do 
 both, protect and love. 
 
 But while the pink had before been 
 abject and despondent, now her pale 
 flower was framed in the foliage of the 
 other, and looked up to him, and past 
 him, right into heaven. 
 
 "A courtship of the flowers," I whis 
 pered to The Party, who had stood 
 silently. 
 
 "Yes, and there are lots of things 
 human beings can learn from them 
 that ain t human."
 
 64 THE PARTY SKETCHES. 
 
 I knew there was an answer to this, 
 and ere long I found it. 
 
 III. 
 
 THE AWE OF NATURE. 
 
 Listen ! 
 
 A most well-intentioned man, after 
 reading about The Party s hanging 
 garden on the fire escape, sent me an 
 invitation for two to come to his 
 place in the country that we might get 
 better acquainted with flowers and 
 things that grow. 
 
 Well, it s the good old summer time. 
 The Party has long been a little white 
 slave without a real holiday. I, too, 
 was also a little played out from my 
 literary labors stop your laughing ! 
 and we thought a vacation would be 
 all right, all right. 
 
 "Let us fly to the country," I cried.
 
 THE AWE OF NATURE. 65 
 
 "No; better let us take a trolley," 
 suggested the practical Party. 
 
 So far, Coney Island and Fort 
 George had been about our limit, and 
 The Party got as excited as if we were 
 going to Europe. 
 
 It was a swell place all right, and we 
 were received like two members of the 
 "400," but there wasn t much country 
 about it all lawns, benches and stat 
 ues, and it looked almost like City Hall 
 Park, 
 
 I said so, and they told us that a very 
 short walk would bring us into fields 
 and woods where we could meander 
 to our hearts content. 
 
 We had only walked a little way 
 when we met a farmer who smiled, 
 nodded and gave us a cheery "Good 
 evening, folks." 
 
 "Do you know the jay?" asked The 
 Party with suspicion, and put me in 
 an embarrassing position.
 
 66 THE PARTY SKETCHES. 
 
 You know, before The Party dis 
 covered that there was still a little good 
 left in me I had never objected to meet 
 ing hayseeds who were on the Bowery 
 for a good time ; yet, I hardly think I 
 ever met this fellow before, or he 
 wouldn t have been so pleased to see 
 us. 
 
 A little further on we met another 
 one and he also salutes us with "Good 
 evening," and then we tumbled that 
 that was a way of the country, and we 
 thought it a nice custom, and The 
 Party intended to try it in New York, 
 which made me think she will have all 
 kinds of experiences. 
 
 But meandering tires and when we 
 came to something which, according 
 to our opinion, was a dell, we plunged 
 right down into the grass on the hill 
 side and got ready to enjoy our first 
 evening in the country.
 
 THE AWE OF NATURE. 67 
 
 I wish I were one of those fellows 
 who can draw pictures in words to tell 
 you of the beauty of the scene be 
 fore us. 
 
 From where we sat, way into the 
 distance, was a level ground of fields 
 and grass running to a range of hills, 
 which shut off the view like the back 
 drop on the stage, and which, at the 
 moment, were topped by a halo of 
 gold from the rays of the homing sun. 
 
 Not a sound, not a living being, if 
 you will except an occasional bird 
 swinging gracefully through the 
 balmy air homeward bound to his rest. 
 
 We sat for hours, never saying a 
 word just looking a hole into the 
 coming night until I put my hand on 
 hers and whispered : "Girl o mine." 
 
 She snuggled closer, I put my arm in 
 its proper place, and we forgot all 
 about supper.
 
 68 THE PARTY SKETCHES. 
 
 Just then, like the serpent in Para 
 dise, a train looking like a string of 
 toy cars whisked snorting and puffing 
 along the hills and shot right into them, 
 leaving streamers of white smoke be 
 hind. 
 
 It broke the spell, and we, aroused, 
 found the stillness, now accentuated 
 by many unknown noises and chirrups, 
 oppressive. 
 
 "Ain t it quiet? Let s make a break," 
 said The Party, and I, reading her 
 mind, most willing assented. 
 
 Misty vapors were now ascending 
 from the fields, and we more stumbled 
 than walked in the dim, hazy light of 
 moon and stars along the ghostly, 
 haunted road, hearing the breaking of 
 a twig or the flutter of a bird with fast- 
 beating hearts. 
 
 I don t know how It happened, but 
 we found ourselves at a little station,
 
 THE AWE OF NATURE. 69 
 
 heard that a train would soon be along 
 and, at last, were rolling home. 
 
 The Party was not herself until we 
 landed in West street. Then, sniffing 
 the air, she said with conviction : 
 
 "There s nothing like this little vil 
 lage after all. If I was to be out there 
 I d go crazy from the quiet. I guess 
 even the milkmen are too scared to 
 holler out there." 
 
 And then we had two plates of "beef 
 and," and I took The Party home. 
 
 TO C. S. B Many thanks for kind 
 invitation, which was highly appreci 
 ated, but let the above be the expla 
 nation for our French leave-taking. 
 
 IV. 
 
 INTO THE DUST. 
 
 Listen ! 
 
 There were two things about what I 
 am going to tell you which made it
 
 7O THE PARTY SKETCHES. 
 
 hard for me, and I wouldn t have done 
 it for anybody else excepting The 
 Party. 
 
 In the first place, you know how a 
 fellow hates to get sent on an errand or 
 to carry bundles, and especially when 
 it is flowers and for a funeral. 
 
 In the second place, you can say 
 what you like, but at least in our 
 neighborhood there is strong feeling 
 between the different nationalities, and 
 it s only around election time when 
 we re "all fellow-citizens" and make 
 believe we love each other like 
 brothers; and this case where The 
 Party sent me to was a dago funeral, 
 and a kid at that. 
 
 I don t know how she got acquainted 
 with the woman, but, anyway, on the 
 way to the shop she bought a wreath, 
 jollied me into buying a bunch, too, 
 and then I had to promise to carry it 
 over to Bacigalupi s myself. .
 
 INTO THE DUST. 7! 
 
 You know they die pretty often 
 down our way, and Bacigalupi s little 
 mortuary chapel, back of the office, is 
 never empty. The minute one silent 
 guest departs another is ready for the 
 place of honor. So I meant to just 
 leave the flowers and get away as 
 quick as I could from the mournful 
 crowd of different groups. 
 
 But Bacigalupi is about as decent an 
 Italian as one could wish to meet, and 
 when he asked me to step over and 
 look at the kid laid out I did not wish 
 to refuse. 
 
 Well, it was a yellowish little thing, 
 fearfully ugly even in its last festal 
 robe. Still it was the child beloved by 
 its parents, and Bacigalupi told me the 
 story. 
 
 A young Italian had courted a girl 
 who was as poor as himself. Their 
 courtship had been so absorbing that
 
 72 THE PARTY SKETCHES. 
 
 they had forgotten all about the prac 
 tical things. 
 
 There was a streak of the poet in 
 the fellow and a longing for romance 
 in the girl, and they had sat in Mul 
 berry Bend Park and had babbled 
 about the poets of their land, about 
 the emptiness behind them, the happi 
 ness before them. 
 
 Well, after they got hitched things 
 went bad from the start. There was 
 sickness, loss of work and general mis 
 ery, until even the guitar had to be 
 sold. 
 
 Next came the baby. Its coming 
 made both the parents forget their lot 
 for the time being. 
 
 He braced up once more, and even 
 the young mother about nineteen 
 began to look as of old. 
 
 The baby lasted just three months. 
 Then they had to come to Bacigalupi, 
 whose motto is : "Not one of my coun-
 
 INTO THE DUST. 73 
 
 trymen will go to the Nameless Acre if 
 I know of it." 
 
 That was the story, and just as it 
 was finished in came the two parents. 
 
 I heard afterward he had been a sol 
 dier in the Italian army. He walked 
 as straight as a die, making a fearful 
 bluff at being composed, while she, 
 with muffled face, was hanging at his 
 arm. 
 
 Well, they left them alone in the 
 chapel until one of the assistants came 
 to the boss and said : "Here comes the 
 next," and then went inside to do the 
 last of his work. 
 
 He came out shortly with the little 
 white box in his arms, the mother al 
 most hiding it with her embrace, the 
 husband coolly walking by her side 
 and counselling her to quiet herself. 
 
 I was watching him, because he had 
 me guessing, and I began to think he
 
 74 THE PARTY SKETCHES. 
 
 didn t care anything for the kid; but 
 just then the assistant got to the door, 
 and there was a sudden transforma 
 tion. 
 
 With a sound, a cross between a 
 moan and a scream, he sprang forward 
 and snatched the box to his breast. 
 Down on the floor he went, and though 
 I could not understand it I knew what 
 he was saying while he was laying his 
 face against that little white affair. 
 
 It s funny how we were all looking 
 into corners and everywhere excepting 
 at the father, until he sprang up and 
 came to shake hands with us. 
 
 Well, when I met The Party to re 
 port, I had come to the conclusion 
 that, dago or no dago, a father is a 
 father, and no matter how homely the 
 baby, it is his, and therefore the most 
 beautiful. 
 
 I got the Senator to get him a job.
 
 A S. P. C. A. VOLUNTEER. 75 
 
 V. 
 
 A S. P. C. A. VOLUNTEER. 
 
 Listen ! 
 
 There are many things which a 
 man cannot do without getting him 
 self into a barrel of trouble and which 
 a girl can do with all the ease of the 
 world. 
 
 The home of my little woman and 
 her old lady is as near to the skies as 
 you can get in a tenement house. 
 
 And there is no elevator, which is 
 fine exercise for those that need it. 
 
 It is only a few steps up to the roof, 
 and it is almost as good as being up to 
 Newport to sit up there at night and 
 catch the breeze. 
 
 I fixed up a hammock according to 
 a pattern I saw in a magazine, from 
 an old blanket, and The Party and I 
 make ourselves believe we are a
 
 76 THE PARTY SKETCHES. 
 
 spoony couple at some fashionable 
 country place, who talk that funny talk 
 you see in the illustrated papers. 
 
 But it is apparently very hard to 
 find anything in life which you can 
 enjoy without having something bitter 
 creep into it. 
 
 On a roof not far from ours or 
 hers, rather a man appeared the 
 other day with a lot of boxes and bas 
 kets and began to erect little shanties. 
 
 Naturally, we watched him, and had 
 not long to wait for a solution to our 
 puzzle. 
 
 He s a bird-fancier, and we watched 
 with delight the graceful flights of 
 several flocks of pigeons, released 
 from their boxes. 
 
 The Party was simply charmed with 
 the birds, and it was good to see her 
 enjoy their airy gambols. 
 
 The man would send them into the 
 air and then, by whistling and waving
 
 A S. P. C. A. VOLUNTEER. 77 
 
 a long stick with a rag on its end, 
 would keep them circling about in 
 ever-increasing curves. 
 
 The other day, while watching them, 
 a few of the birds strayed over to our 
 roof, and The Party was lucky enough 
 to catch one of them. 
 
 Talk about petting and caressing! 
 Why, that bird did not care to leave 
 at all, and I can t blame him a bit. 
 
 The man, thinking we wanted to 
 freeze on to his pigeon, hollered over, 
 but I told him in my quiet and con 
 vincing way that we would return the 
 bird when good and ready to do so. 
 
 I had to choose between his and The 
 Party s desire, and that is dead easy. 
 
 The Party, in the meantime, began 
 talking about the pigeons to the neigh 
 bors, and in that way found out the 
 real object of the pigeon industry. 
 
 "That scoundrel is training those in 
 nocent little birds to be killed to be
 
 78 THE PARTY SKETCHES. 
 
 shot by a lot of fellows who think it 
 great fun to be blazing away at poor 
 pigeons that have never done them any 
 harm and that they won t even eat, but 
 just kill for the pleasure of killing. 
 You got to stop that, do you hear ?" 
 
 "Oh, now, how can I stop that?" 
 
 "How can you stop that? And I 
 thought you was writing for the pa 
 pers! Well, if I was writing for the 
 papers and had my name in them, I d 
 stop it quick enough ! And I m going 
 to do it anyway ! I can t think of how 
 that little thing looked at me with its 
 soft, brown eyes the other day without 
 wishing to send that fellow to jail." 
 
 Well, there was some correspond 
 ence, and a stranger, sort of official. 
 looking, called at the house, and now 
 there are no more pigeons being edu 
 cated for death in our neighborhood. 
 
 The Party is wearing a badge and 
 calls herself an officer, and every tramp
 
 AN S. P. C. A. VOLUNTEER. 79 
 
 dog and cat in the district is taking up 
 a great deal of her attention. 
 
 "Those that have no friends need 
 them more than those that have," she 
 says. 
 
 This, no doubt, is not the most lucid 
 maxim, but, you know, I am not look 
 ing for philosophy in my Party and 
 am perfectly satisfied with her senti 
 ment, which is straight, wholesome 
 and always to the point. 
 
 VI. 
 
 A SOIREE MUSICALE. 
 
 Listen ! 
 
 It is fierce when a big, husky fellow 
 like me puts himself in danger of los 
 ing a well-earned reputation. 
 
 I have never been a saint, and The 
 Party says there s quite a difference 
 yet between me and an angel in spite 
 of all her trying to make me one, still
 
 8o~ THE PARTY SKETCHES. 
 
 I have never believed much in lying 
 and am considered a pretty square fel 
 low. 
 
 But lately I have lied enough to give 
 Ananias cards and spades and beat 
 him. 
 
 The other night The Party and I 
 went to a soiree musicale in Cherry 
 street, at Mrs. McBride s, three flights 
 up, in the rear. 
 
 The "musicale" was justified by 
 them having captured Jack McCord, 
 the champion accordion player, for the 
 occasion. 
 
 Now, as passionately fond of music 
 as I am, I have never been able to dis 
 cover any music in those wind- jam 
 ming things and have fairly dreaded 
 the sight of one. 
 
 But my prejudices were dispelled, 
 for McCord certainly could play the 
 instrument.
 
 A SOIREE MUSICALE. 8l 
 
 Ah! and when the quavers and 
 drones began to chant the song that 
 will never die as long as there s a 
 shamrock green "The Lakes of Kil- 
 larney" there was many a pipe taken 
 out of mouths now used for more me 
 lodious purposes, many an eye 
 crowned by a gray-haired head found 
 shamefaced refuge in the corner of 
 the shawl, and even we younger folk 
 felt that drop of blood which gives us 
 the claim run faster through our veins 
 and sing: "You, too; you, too." 
 
 The melody grew to be enchanting. 
 I grunted with the rest until my gaze 
 fell on The Party. 
 
 She was absolutely fascinated, 
 watching every move of the player, 
 while the tears were dewing her 
 cheeks. 
 
 Somehow, neither one of us spoke 
 much when I took her home.
 
 82 THE PARTY SKETCHES. 
 
 The following night I went up to 
 The Party s house and was startled by 
 the peculiar noises I heard before I 
 reached the door. 
 
 The Party was pumping away at an 
 accordion. 
 
 She was kind of ashamed at being 
 caught in the act and feared I would 
 chide her for her extravagance in pur 
 chasing that thing, but at that time 
 nothing was further from my mind, 
 because I saw she was happy. 
 
 Well, all that happened some time 
 ago, and I am praying every day now 
 that something might befall that wind- 
 box. 
 
 Every time I see it in its place of 
 honor on the mantelpiece, a whole 
 army of wicked thoughts marches into 
 my heart. 
 
 Of course, I didn t expect her to 
 master the instrument in a day I was 
 then and am now patiently waiting for
 
 A SOIREE MUSICALE. 83 
 
 the time when that shall come to pass 
 but I wish she wouldn t be so anx 
 ious to show me her progress in the 
 art of music or to ask me those em 
 barrassing questions. 
 
 Last night we had another seance 
 with that thing. 
 
 "What was that I played?" she 
 asked me after squeezing a few yards 
 of horror out of it. 
 
 "Oh, that was an imitation of a man 
 falling downstairs." I answered truth 
 fully, but not very diplomatically, and 
 then I had to lie for about ten uninter 
 rupted minutes before I succeeded in 
 chasing the frown from the dearest 
 little face. 
 
 Then the musical civil-service ex 
 amination began once more and I, not 
 wishing to be found wanting again, 
 was trying vainly to ascertain whether 
 it was a gallop, a ballad or two-step 
 that was supposed to be happening,
 
 84 THE TARTY SKETCHES. 
 
 when I was saved the answer by tre 
 mendous pounding on the walls and 
 floor above us. 
 
 "Oh, they like that and want you 
 to play that over again to give them 
 an encore," said I, seeing her question 
 ing glance. And now I really believe 
 I couldn t tell the truth if I wanted to. 
 
 I am haunted by fearful fears. 
 
 Supposing she should become fas 
 cinated by a trombone or bass fiddle, 
 what then? 
 
 Still, they say he or she who loves 
 music has much good in heart and 
 soul, and I know my little Party loves 
 music, even if she doesn t make it. 
 
 VII. 
 
 THE MOTHER-IN-LAW. 
 
 Listen ! 
 
 I kissed a girl the other day, and 
 right before The Party without get 
 ting her jealous.
 
 THE MOTHER-IN-LAW. 8$ 
 
 It was last Sunday, and right after 
 dinner. 
 
 The Party never lets the old lady 
 do any housework or cooking on Sun 
 days, but does it herself. 
 
 "No," she says to the old lady, 
 "goodness knows you re working hard 
 enough through the week to be having 
 a little rest on Sundays, and I guess I 
 can cook enough for us and the likes 
 of him." 
 
 The last part of the sentence hap 
 pens to refer to me. 
 
 When I first began to go up to the 
 house for Sundays I used to get an 
 apron tied around me, and had to help 
 setting the table, until one day, when 
 I had a whole lot of crockery in my 
 arms, I oh, but that s a song with a 
 different refrain. 
 
 Now I am told most impressively to 
 make myself as small as possible in 
 some corner until the dinner is ready.
 
 86 THE PARTY SKETCHES. 
 
 Well, last Sunday, after dinner, the 
 old lady went over to the window, and 
 I tried to squeeze myself into the 
 smallest compass, as always. 
 
 I sat there watching The Party 
 bustling with the dishes, and I like 
 it, because she is fine to look at when 
 she is busy in her deliberate way. Be 
 sides, it gets me thinking of the day 
 soon to come when I shall have to pay 
 the rent and butcher bills as my privi 
 lege for the charming spectacle. 
 
 When she got pretty near through 
 I was going to say something, but The 
 Party put a finger to her mouth and 
 pointed at the window. 
 
 There was mammy sound asleep. 
 
 I looked and I don t know I fell 
 in love with my future mother-in-law. 
 
 Folded in her lap were her honest, 
 brown, knotted hands; the arms, like 
 two avenues of righteousness, led up 
 to the silvery head.
 
 THE MOTHER-IN-LAW. 87 
 
 Under the white hair, with its sim 
 ple parting, shone the rosy, saintly 
 face, now brightened by the ray of a 
 smile. 
 
 Oh, yes, there were wrinkles, plenty 
 of them, but I liked to have them 
 there, because each one had its own 
 story, its own sweet song of a life full 
 of devotion, toil and contentment, and 
 each tiny wrinkle seemed a telescope 
 by which I could read that dear old 
 heart, which has never harbored 
 malice, but always love and self-sacri 
 fice. 
 
 Well you know, one can never ex 
 plain how these things happen but, 
 all of a sudden, I just went over and 
 gave mammy a smack which you could 
 hear in trie next room. 
 
 The Party can tell the sound of kiss 
 ing, and she rushed back with a frying 
 pan in her hand. 
 
 "Mammy, did you see what he done 
 to you while you were asleep?" she
 
 55 THE PARTY SKETCHES. 
 
 said, not knowing whether to laugh or 
 to be angry. 
 
 "Sure, I wasn t asleep at all, at all," 
 stoutly replied mammy. 
 
 "Of course she wasn t," I chimed 
 in; "she was only pretending so as to 
 have my manly lips " 
 
 It s a good thing The Party can 
 never hit anything she aims at. 
 
 Well, that s about all there is to it, 
 only this much more I want to say: 
 I can t understand why all this fuss 
 is being made about mothers-in-law. 
 
 I know one thing, and that is that 
 my mother-in-law will live with us 
 when I marry The Party or else The 
 Party stands good chances of being an 
 old maid. 
 
 You know, when a fellow has no 
 peg in his memory on which to hang 
 recollections of his own mother, and 
 only knows of her through the neigh 
 bors who had lived near her and who
 
 THE MOTHER-IN-LAW. 89 
 
 had been at her bedside when she gave 
 up her life in giving life to her son, he 
 thinks differently about the mothers of 
 others often even with bitter jealousy 
 or deep, silent longing. 
 
 And that is why I thank God for 
 having given me a second mother in 
 dear old mammy. 
 
 Besides, hasn t she brought up The 
 Party and made a fine, pure, whole 
 some girl of her? And would it be 
 right for me or any other man now, 
 in the evening of her life, to come to 
 her and say: "Well, I am going to 
 take your girl away from you, with 
 thanks for having her so well prepared 
 to be my wife," and then leave the old 
 lady all alone, all alone in heart-tear 
 ing solitude? 
 
 I don t think so, and I am sure, if 
 I can earn enough for The Party and 
 myself I can earn enough for the three 
 of us, which is no more than right and 
 my duty.
 
 9O THE PARTY SKETCHES. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 VARIATIONS ON THE DESCENTOF MAN. 
 
 Listen ! 
 
 Ever since I became a prominent 
 journalist it has been my endeavor to 
 elevate The Party s literary taste. 
 
 Not that I am dissatisfied with her 
 present education, for, indeed, I want 
 her just as she is; but I am looking 
 ahead to the time when she will pre 
 side over a little household and will be 
 obliged to be hostess to my many jour 
 nalistic friends. And then I wouldn t 
 like to have her be behind in the sub 
 jects those people like to talk about, 
 for her own sake. 
 
 So I took the "Descent of Man," by 
 Darwin, from my library (ahem) and 
 asked her to read it.
 
 VARIATIONS ON DESCENT OF MAN. 9 1 
 
 A few days after I asked her how 
 she liked it. 
 
 "Fine," she said then, but a week 
 later it was only: "Oh, so, so," and 
 soon after that I unearthed a fearful 
 fraud. 
 
 Supper over, we sat down to do a 
 little reading; I took the paper, and 
 The Party took old Darwin over to 
 the window. 
 
 I knew it was Darwin, because I 
 could tell by the paper covering over 
 the fancy binding. 
 
 The old lady called her. She left 
 the book on the window sill. I hap 
 pened to pick it up, and read on the 
 very top of the page: "Unhand me, 
 you cowardly villain!" It was that 
 thrilling novel, "Unfettered Fetters, or 
 Lady Marjorie s Secret." 
 
 Well, I glanced over it, and must 
 say I was struck by the originality of 
 it. Lady Marjorie, especially, was a
 
 92 THE PARTY SKETCHES. 
 
 remarkable creature. In one place it 
 was, "her hair almost touched the 
 ground" ; a few pages later, "her hair 
 stood on edge," which must have pro 
 duced a striking effect. 
 
 When The Party came back I deter 
 mined to tease her a bit, but, I don t 
 know, she can read me like a book, and 
 knew that I had discovered her and 
 Lady Marjorie s secret. 
 
 "I think books like this are much 
 nicer than to be reading about a lot 
 of monkeys. Don t you think so ? And, 
 just read this and tell me what you 
 think about it." 
 
 The particular place was heavily 
 marked by pencil and ran as follows: 
 
 "He spoke with intensest feeling, 
 never taking his eyes off the beautiful 
 face before him. Both of her hands 
 were clasped in his, and, swaying as 
 some glorious lily, Marjorie at last
 
 VARIATIONS ON DESCENT OF MAN. 93 
 
 yielded to his embrace with tenderest 
 grace." 
 
 "Ain t that nicer than monkeys?" 
 
 "Yes, but it is too much exagger 
 ated, for people don t gush like that 
 in real life." 
 
 "How do you know?" she asked, 
 kind of suspicious like. "And if they 
 don t they ought to. It is better than 
 using bad poetry." 
 
 That was meant for me and I took 
 the hint. 
 
 So I cleared my throat, and taking 
 the appropriate position, I "clasped 
 both of her hands in mine," "never 
 took my eyes off the beautiful face be 
 fore me" and "spoke with the intensest 
 feeling" and in the deepest basso. 
 
 She? Well, she was just as exact 
 about her part, and after "swaying as 
 some glorious lily" she finally "yielded 
 to my embrace with the tenderest 
 grace," and it was very wise of her
 
 94 THE PARTY SKETCHES. 
 
 to "yield," because she was bound to 
 be embraced, anyway. 
 
 I shall immediately procure a stock 
 of novels of the mentioned type, be 
 cause they contain more valuable in 
 formation than I thought they did. 
 
 IX. 
 
 ALONG OUR U. S. RHINE. 
 
 Listen ! 
 
 I have been up against all sorts of 
 games and know that, whether of the 
 400 or the four millions, a fellow has 
 to fix himself some way to make a hit 
 at a social function. 
 
 And that is where I fell down ! 
 
 I got stuck for two tickets for a 
 moonlight up the Hudson; but The 
 Party, instead of getting mad at me 
 for being so easy, thought it wouldn t 
 be so bad to take a sail after a hot day, 
 provided I d stay with her and keep
 
 ALONG OUR U. S. RHINE. 95 
 
 away from the lower deck, where the 
 breezes come in glasses. 
 
 There are some who say I like noth 
 ing so well as corned beef and cab 
 bage, but that s a mistake. 
 
 Sure, I eat it and have even eaten 
 so much of it that I am ashamed to 
 meet a cow face to face for fear of 
 being reproached; but my long suit is 
 poetry. 
 
 And all you got to do is to look at 
 any book of poems and you will find 
 that those long-haired fellows can rave 
 about nothing as fine as about moon 
 light. 
 
 I have said time and time again that 
 The Party is the finest ever, but I had 
 never seen any romantic business 
 about her, and was determined to show 
 her the beauty of it on this occasion. 
 
 "Step gently, sweet, and let me 
 guide you to yon bower, where zephyrs 
 of the evening will play a gladsome
 
 96 THE PARTY SKETCHES. 
 
 frolic with your lovely tresses. The 
 night" 
 
 "Oh, let s sit under that canvas." 
 
 "That s the place I meant, sweet." 
 
 "Well, why didn t you say so? 
 What s the matter with you, any 
 how?" 
 
 "Ah, let s take speedy flight from 
 our daily toil and travail. Let our souls 
 commune with each other, and bathed 
 in fair Luna s dancing sheen, let us 
 soar on to realms " 
 
 "Say, ain t you feeling well to 
 night? I want to know what s the 
 matter with you." 
 
 "Oh, sweet, the murmur of your 
 voice is song, the anthem of our love. 
 Whisper again " 
 
 "You better quit your kidding or 
 I ll shake you." 
 
 My poetic soul, hurt to death, crept 
 back into its shell, and I asked her to 
 have a glass of soda.
 
 ALONG OUR U. S. RHINE. 97 
 
 "It s about time you had sense." 
 "Where s your soda sweet?" she 
 asked me, when I returned, doing a 
 little kidding of her own at the same 
 time. 
 
 "I can t carry two glasses, so I had 
 mine below." 
 
 "Well, I ll forgive you this time. 
 Maybe them Looney zephyrs made you 
 dry. Now sit down, and let s talk." 
 "Yes, pillow your head upon my " 
 "Oh, cut that out. Let s talk sense." 
 And now I don t know if there is no 
 poetry in The Party or no sense in 
 poetry. 
 
 Well, I had to come down off the 
 funny horse with the flopping wings 
 and we talked sense, which in this case 
 was real estate. 
 
 The Party has about a dozen claims 
 staked along the Hudson in her mind 
 where some day we intend to 
 have a little shanty of our own.
 
 98 THE PARTY SKETCHES. 
 
 "We don t want nothing fancy " 
 
 "No marble halls with lofty col 
 umns ?" 
 
 "No," and a sharp glance was shot 
 at me from her dazzling orbs ; "just a 
 little house. And then we may grow 
 a few potatoes and cherries and ban 
 anas " 
 
 "A few cocoanut plants would look 
 nice." 
 
 "Well, we could have them, too, and 
 we ll have " 
 
 "Hold on a minute! To plant too 
 much on such a small plot would stifle 
 the growth of some of the trees, and 
 there must be plenty of room for the 
 sweetest plant of them all. It bears no 
 fruit, but it is beauty and beautifies 
 everything about it. Apples, bananas, 
 cherries, what care I for them as long 
 as I have my beautiful Rose." 
 
 Before she could utter the usual 
 "Oh, go on!" for which the little
 
 ALONG OUR U, S. RHINE. (^ 
 
 mouth was shaping itself, something 
 happened which made it die away to a 
 muffled gurgle. 
 
 And then she has the nerve to tell 
 me she doesn t care for poetry. 
 
 If, after we get hitched, you should 
 see any pineapples or cocoanuts from 
 the Hudson in the market, just think 
 of The Party, the marvellous, agricul 
 tural conjurer. 
 
 X. 
 
 DOWN TO CONEY! 
 
 Listen I 
 
 The Party said to me the other day : 
 "It s summer!" 
 
 Now, I always like to hear a bright 
 remark, and especially when it comes 
 in such mellow tones from such red. 
 rosy lips.
 
 IOO THE PARTY SKETCHES. 
 
 But "wiseness" told me to wait for 
 what was coming. 
 
 "You know, I don t care for picnics 
 and such things. I d sooner be with 
 you some place, but there s lots o 
 places where you can t go in the win 
 ter." 
 
 I only wish you could have heard 
 how she said that. 
 
 You would have done as I did. 
 
 "Well, what is it going to be ? Coney 
 Island, Rockaway or what?" I quer 
 ied, to which she squealed a nice little 
 "Oh !" and off we went. 
 
 "How much money have you got?" 
 she asked, when on the car, thereby 
 confirming what I have always said 
 about the level head of our Bowery 
 girls. 
 
 Of course, I am not going to state 
 my answer, for you might be shocked 
 at my nerve for taking the girl I love
 
 DOWN TO CONEY. IOI 
 
 best to a pleasure resort on that cap 
 ital. 
 
 But I told her, and sl. e determined 
 to act as manager of the expedition. 
 
 At Coney we started the festivities 
 by getting- tin-typed. (Only two but 
 tons. So sorry I can t let you have 
 one.) 
 
 No beach without a bath for mine, 
 and to the bathing pavilion next for us. 
 
 You know how those bathing suits 
 disfigure> but even in that bag-like 
 monstrosity The Party looked like a 
 nymph and aye, there was some rub 
 bering ! 
 
 Jealous? Me? Not much. 
 
 I know she is mine. She told me 
 so. 
 
 Bowery girls do not lie, and that s 
 all there is to it. 
 
 Envy was there, but only on the part 
 of the rubberers.
 
 102 THE PARTY SKETCHES, 
 
 "Beauty and the Beast!" 
 
 "Where did she get that?" 
 
 These -were -some of the comments, 
 but neither. The Party nor I had time 
 cc answer, for I. picked her up and 
 into the waves. 
 
 "To the dance hall after that ?" think 
 you ; but we didn t. 
 
 Not that we are above taking a 
 twist, but there s a time for all things, 
 and this was a time for other things. 
 
 We stood on the beach and I began 
 to spout prose poetry about her au 
 burn tresses, midnight-star eyes, pink- 
 shell ears, etc., until she said : 
 
 "Me feet s getting cold." 
 
 Oh, how I longed for certain other 
 things, but The Party dragged me off 
 to ice cream candy, peanuts, and soda 
 water, and I was praying that no sar 
 castic friend might pass along to see 
 me do this still-life pkUire, which no 
 artist could ever paint.
 
 DOWN TO CONEY. 1 03 
 
 Me and ice cream candy! 
 
 At last we hopped on a car and The 
 Party delivered herself of the moral 
 of the story. 
 
 "Now, didn t we have a good time? 
 And wasn t that better than going off 
 with your push and getting tanked up ? 
 Besides, it didn t cost much, and I 
 guess you d better let me put the rest 
 o that money in the bank. You know, 
 the sooner we get the money together 
 the sooner can we " 
 
 "Soon we ll be married," I whistled. 
 
 The Party blushed, dug me in the 
 ribs and said : "Oh, go on !" 
 
 She squinted around to see if any 
 body had tumbled. 
 
 They had not, so she snuggled a lit 
 tle closer and 
 
 "Here, wake up! Brooklyn Bridge, 
 all out!"
 
 IO4 THE PARTY SKETCHES. 
 XL 
 
 AN OBJECT LESSON. 
 
 Listen ! 
 
 The other day I was confronted by 
 this question : "Have I no heart, or 
 has The Party too much heart?" 
 
 We were taking a walk in the even 
 ing in Centre street, where you can let 
 your arm go to waist without being 
 rubbered at, when we were disturbed 
 by a horrible noise which smote the 
 air. 
 
 It was a kid, barefooted and dirty, 
 and crying to beat the band. 
 
 I hollered at him : "Shut up !" but 
 it didn t work for a cent. 
 
 The Party she had a new dress 
 and hat on instead of staying with 
 me and acting like a lady, didn t say a 
 word, but went over to him and knelt 
 down beside him.
 
 AN OBJECT LESSON. 1 05 
 
 Well, I knew what was coming, or, 
 at least, thought I did. 
 
 "Oh, you poor dear!" or "What is 
 the trouble with my little man?" or 
 some other gushing stuff like that, a 
 pat on the head, and then the childish 
 drama is supposed to have been 
 changed into a comedy by this per- 
 functionary sympathy. 
 
 I got good reasons to know this. 
 
 Quite a few years ago yours truly 
 had the distinction of being the ugli 
 est kid that ever sold a paper on Park 
 Row. 
 
 My side partner was distinguished 
 for the other extreme. 
 
 All this blue-eyed seraphim had to 
 do was to screw up his mouth and 
 squeeze a little dampness into his eyes 
 and a whole cluster of women would 
 crowd around him and stuff him with 
 candy and money.
 
 IO6 THE PARTY SKETCHES. 
 
 Me? Maybe I didn t try the same 
 game! 
 
 But all I ever got out of it was 
 something like this: "My, what a 
 face!" or "Oh, look at that fearful 
 boy!" 
 
 So you can hardly blame me for 
 still being a little jealous when I get 
 left out in getting petted. 
 
 But The Party didn t mind me in 
 the least. 
 
 There she was, not wasting any 
 breath in talking, but wiping and 
 scrubbing his dirty phiz until her 
 handkerchief was black and his face as 
 red as an apple. 
 
 He, in the meantime, had forgotten, 
 all about crying, and was contentedly 
 gulping away his sobs, willingly turn 
 ing his head in whatever direction she 
 wanted it. 
 
 At last his mother showed up and 
 wouldn t stop thanking The Party.
 
 AN OBJECT LESSON. IO/ 
 
 He was led away, but his eyes at 
 the risk of breaking his neck never 
 left The Party until we turned the cor 
 ner. 
 
 I neglected to say that The Party 
 sent me a thought wave before she got 
 through with the cleaning job, and, the 
 first thing I know my hand goes down 
 into my pocket and I handed the kid 
 a piece of money and he thanked her 
 for it. 
 
 "I bet I could cry until I get ar 
 rested for breaking the peace and you 
 wouldn t as much as wipe a tear from 
 my dimpled cheek," I remarked dis 
 gustedly. 
 
 "Now, don t you be silly," was all 
 The Party said, but I don t know 
 we both felt pretty good that night 
 and I did a pile of thinking. 
 
 I thought that, if we were lucky 
 and everything came out all right, we
 
 108 THE PARTY SKETCHES. 
 
 surely ought to be able to get married 
 this coming winter, and that if she 
 could be as good and kind as that to 
 strange children she but I don t think 
 it is any of your business what I was 
 thinking about. 
 
 XII. 
 
 ON THE ROAD OF SWELLDOM. 
 
 Listen ! 
 
 They who know least about New 
 York are the born New Yorkers. 
 
 There is no nook or corner in our 
 neighborhood which The Party and 
 me don t know and can find blind 
 folded ; but take us a few blocks from 
 there and we re like two babes in the 
 woods.
 
 ON THE ROAD OF SWELLDOM. IOO, 
 
 "If the Bowery has changed as it 
 has in the last five years there must 
 be also changes in other parts of the 
 city, and they might be worth looking 
 at," I thought, and put the case before 
 The Party. 
 
 She agreed that there might be 
 something in that, and last Sunday, 
 after taking carfare out of the top 
 drawer, we started out to see Fifth 
 avenue to compare its present condi 
 tion with its former one, just as if we 
 could tell the one from the other. 
 
 Instead of the car, we went over to 
 Bleecker street and climbed up on the 
 top of one of those stages. 
 
 Well, one of these days The Party 
 and me is going to take a ride in one 
 of those automobiles, but until then 
 this ride would have been the best ever 
 if it had not been spoiled by one of 
 those people who can never be satisfied 
 until they find a flaw in everything.
 
 IIO THE PARTY SKETCHES. 
 
 Right behind us sat two women who 
 knew no more about Fifth avenue than 
 we did, and they were escorted by a 
 very wise and brilliant young man. 
 
 What a glorious panorama! 
 
 Coming up the hill which winds up 
 at about Forty-second street, I looked 
 about me and said to The Party: 
 "Ain t it a great and proud thing to 
 be a New Yorker and to have a share 
 in all this?" 
 
 To which she answered a fervid 
 "Yes." 
 
 Just then the brilliant chap was 
 especially wise. 
 
 Pointing here and there, at houses, 
 carriages and people, he had a scrap 
 of scandal to tell about each and every 
 one of them. Now it was a divorce 
 he was reciting, then he knew some 
 thing about the son of the man who 
 owned that palace, and so on.
 
 ON THE ROAD OF SWELLDOM. Ill 
 
 There was The Party and me out 
 for a little pleasure, and this trousered 
 gossip trying to spoil it. Besides, if 
 his talk suited his lady friends it didn t 
 suit mine, and I arose to the occasion. 
 
 When he was getting down from 
 the stage he told the driver that "such 
 obnoxious persons" should not be per 
 mitted to ride, but he was too small to 
 climb down after, and besides, his lady 
 friends were laughing at him. 
 
 The Party promptly called me down 
 for losing my temper, and then got a 
 little closer and said : "Now we can en 
 joy the sights without having to listen 
 to the hidden sorrows of the people. I 
 guess we all got troubles, but it is best 
 not to stick your nose into those of 
 other persons. Anyway, you shouldn t 
 be so hasty." 
 
 And then I didn t count the call 
 down.
 
 112 THE PARTY SKETCHES. 
 XIII. 
 
 THE BEARER OF THE OLIVE BRANCH. 
 
 Listen ! 
 
 They say that a man who loves chil 
 dren, music and dogs stands a pretty 
 good chance to keep away from the 
 place where a fellow could make a 
 million a day selling ice-water. 
 
 Well, without taking any undue 
 credit to myself, I have always been 
 fond of those three things, and long 
 before The Party made my life so 
 much purer and brighter my best 
 friend yes, my good old pal was my 
 dog, Bill. 
 
 You know there is a whole lot of 
 excitement in being a Bowery boy ; yet 
 there are times when I used to have 
 the blues the same as everybody else,
 
 BEARER OF THE OLIVE BRANCH. 113 
 
 and it was then that I always differed 
 with the sage who said dogs have no 
 souls. 
 
 There were days when the board for 
 myself and Bill had to come off Barney 
 Flynn s lunch counter, but neither one 
 of us flinched. Sometimes I used to 
 feel ashamed at having nothing better 
 for Bill than his meagre fare, but he d 
 eat it, smack his lips and wag his tail to 
 beat the band. 
 
 And why ? Just to make me feel as 
 if he was enjoying the finest spread 
 ever. 
 
 Yes, we two have often sat and 
 looked at each other for long stretches 
 of time, until Bill would come right 
 over to me, put his wrinkled old phiz 
 on my knee and tell me as plain as 
 words : 
 
 "Kil, you re homely; so am I. We 
 two are made for each other. Kil, I m 
 only a dog, but I ll lay my life down
 
 114 THE PARTY SKETCHES. 
 
 for you at any time, because you re my 
 friend." 
 
 Well, when The Party appeared on 
 the scene Bill didn t know what to 
 make out of it. But his head was too 
 level to get jealous. 
 
 In fact, he is thriving since he made 
 acquaintance with The Party s old 
 lady, and can find his way to the 
 kitchen blindfolded. 
 
 Well, a few days ago since The 
 Party and I had a little misunder 
 standing I was sitting in my studio 
 (ahem!) at literary work when Bill 
 poked the door open and came in, the 
 most dilapidated rapscallion you d ever 
 seen. 
 
 Maybe he didn t feel ashamed ! He 
 tried to take it on a sneak in under the 
 bed I mean under one of the library 
 tables but I wouldn t let him, and I 
 looked him over.
 
 BEARER OF THE OLIVE BRANCH. 11$ 
 
 The hero of a hundred battles done 
 up beautifully. 
 
 A bandage over one of his eyes, 
 which would have given him a rakish 
 appearance if it hadn t been for the 
 other end of him his tail being taut 
 with linen bandages. 
 
 He tried to square himself, blinked 
 his one good eye at me, flopped down 
 and began to wag his tail. I say be 
 gan because he only gave one rap on 
 the floor with it, and then remembered 
 the damage to his caudal appendage. 
 
 Well, the bandage over his eye at 
 tracted me. 
 
 I looked closer and it was a little 
 handkerchief with my Party s initials. 
 
 I looked again, and Bill s collar was 
 gone. 
 
 Perhaps it was thought waves or 
 something, but Bill was at the door 
 before I knew it, and I went with him.
 
 Il6 THE PARTY SKETCHES. 
 
 Coming through The Party s block 
 a monstrous big tabby, looking a little 
 disorderly, acted very belligerently, at 
 which Bill had awfully important 
 business on the other side of the street. 
 
 "Pardon me, but didn t Bill forget 
 his collar here?" I asked The Party, 
 after thanking her for doing the Red 
 Cross for my chum. 
 
 She went over to the bureau and 
 handed me the big leather band and 
 I don t know how it happened but 
 our fingers met, and the first thing I 
 knew I said: 
 
 "It s a lovely day for a walk, ain t 
 it?" 
 
 Well, to make a long story short, 
 Bill took it all in and got so excited 
 that he gave two raps with his tail be 
 fore he tried to bite it. 
 
 That night we thought we heard the 
 finest music in our lives, down to the 
 park, and we got very enthusiastic.
 
 BEARER OF THE OLIVE BRANCH. I IJ 
 
 And when we were going home, she 
 said to me : "Won t you sing that little 
 favorite song of yours? You know I 
 like to hear it." 
 
 I knew she was jollying me, but, 
 anyway, I roared my ditty and was 
 lucky for not being arrested for dis 
 turbing the peace. 
 
 And Bill he got the indigestion 
 from the many pounds of frankfurters 
 I bought for him. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 A BARGAIN DAY. 
 
 Listen ! 
 
 It is only my good nature to tell you 
 that a certain event will soon take 
 place in our social set. Ahem! 
 
 The nearer the day approaches trie
 
 Il8 THE PARTY SKETCHES. 
 
 more The Party worries about her 
 trousseau. 
 
 There, now, I told you ! 
 
 Consequence: She took a day off 
 and I was ordered to report as escort. 
 
 Now I know more about chemisettes 
 and straight-front corsets than I ever 
 did before in my life. 
 
 And, the best of it is, she always 
 quite seriously asks my opinions. 
 
 Ah, but it s a great thing to have 
 an angelic disposition. When we do 
 things we do them in style and Four 
 teenth street nothing less was our 
 field of operation. 
 
 From store to store she tripped and 
 I stumbled, being kept in the rear by 
 the confounded, slippery bundles. 
 
 All you could see of me was my 
 nose and mild blue eyes. 
 
 "They ain t too heavy?" fluted The 
 Party.
 
 A BARGAIN DAY. 
 
 "Oh, no, not at all," and a few more 
 were piled on top. 
 
 (I wonder what makes a truthful 
 man the twin-brother of Satan for 
 lying when he s in love?) 
 
 I suggested an express wagon, but, 
 no. "They smash and mix them so." 
 
 Do not ask how we got back to the 
 Bowery. It was weird, uncanny, in 
 terspersed by tears from The Party 
 and forceful language from the con 
 ductor when I dropped half of my 
 load in getting on the car. 
 
 (Thank heaven, I m not given to 
 profanity.) 
 
 At mother s house, just a mouthful, 
 and I was snared away to Division 
 street to "help" The Party buy a hat. 
 
 Ever been in Division street? 
 
 From Chatham Square to the hor 
 izon nothing but millinery stores, and 
 a female "capper" in front of every 
 one of them. A male "puller-in" is
 
 I2O THE PARTY SKETCHES. 
 
 bad enough, but a female heaven pro 
 tect us. 
 
 We were defeated at the first as 
 sault and found ourselves in a store. 
 
 Do you know why The Party had 
 insisted on my escort ? She wanted an 
 efficient critic, and I liked the job. 
 
 I have seen some magnificent pic 
 tures, but no prettier sight has ever 
 been beheld by me than The Party try 
 ing on a bonnet in front of the mirror. 
 
 That little stubby nose almost be 
 came purple with straining. The fore 
 head was crossed by tiny wrinkles. 
 And the head swaying from side to 
 side, nearly revolved entirely, the 
 bright eyes fairly jumping with ani 
 mation. 
 
 Consequence: I kept finding fault 
 just to have the vision over and over 
 again. 
 
 But I got my reward for my wicked 
 ness.
 
 A BARGAIN DAY. 121 
 
 We were in the fifth store, and The 
 Party was nettled by my unsatisfactory 
 criticism. I bethought myself of my 
 duty, and, having lied in the morn 
 ing, resolved to be absolutely truthful. 
 
 The very first hat tried on was a 
 terrible thing, not fit for a queen like 
 my Party. 
 
 "How does it look ?" She turned to 
 me. 
 
 "Fierce !" I answered with con 
 viction. 
 
 "Oh, does it?" 
 
 And now the date is postponed in 
 definitely. 
 
 L ENVOI. 
 
 When criticising a Party s bonnet 
 tell the truth, but hide it under several 
 layers of sugar.
 
 122 THE PARTY SKETCHES. 
 
 XV. 
 
 CORRESPONDENCE. 
 
 Listen ! 
 
 So many letters have come to me 
 recently asking for information con 
 cerning The Party that I find it im 
 possible to answer them all by mail 
 and will endeavor to reply to my corre 
 spondents in the following way : 
 
 TO I. K. S. I am sorry, but I have 
 only one photo of The Party and, of 
 course, cannot send you that. Besides, 
 to be quite candid, even had I more, I 
 would not send you one. I do not 
 mean to be rude, but have good rea 
 sons for taking this stand. Only a 
 short time ago The Party informed me 
 that her employers were about to "put 
 her on the cans." She did not care to 
 tell me the scheme in detail and I was 
 obliged to call at her shop. I had no
 
 CORRESPONDENCE. 123 
 
 more than opened the door when I was 
 confronted by a life-size lithograph of 
 her asking me to "Say Ku-Ku." Now, 
 I feel somewhat flattered at this tribute 
 to my Party s prettiness, but could 
 not permit to have her likeness travel 
 through the country on canned soup 
 or tomatoes. As soon as oil will be 
 cheaper I am going to have her 
 painted, and then you and others can 
 have the pleasure of seeing her picture 
 in the museum in Central Park. On 
 the other hand, I am compelled to say 
 that I do not think you are overloaded 
 with courtesy yourself. You were not 
 at all bashful about asking for The 
 Party s picture, while I have a whole 
 bunch of tintypes of myself, which I 
 cannot give away no matter how hard 
 I try. 
 
 TO SUSIE M. I am very glad to 
 hear that the girl who works along 
 side of you is sufficiently pretty to be
 
 124 THE PARTY SKETCHES. 
 
 suspected of being The Party, but am 
 afraid your suspicions are wrong. 
 She is not following your trade, and, 
 furthermore, does not work alongside 
 of anybody, but has been promoted, 
 and now quite a number of girls work 
 "under me." 
 
 TO W. M C. Let me assure you 
 that The Party is very much "flesh 
 and blood" and not a creation of 
 imagination. I ought to know, be 
 cause I had the pleasure of paying for 
 several "little bites" after coming from 
 some affair. Her appetite is glorious ; 
 even ice-cream is not despised and is 
 eaten without any partiality to any 
 special flavor. Another proof of her 
 substantiality should be the fact that 
 I love her, and, being a very ma 
 terially-minded fellow, I would have 
 serious trouble in loving a phantom. 
 
 TO W. N. Your request is some 
 what embarrassing. You will under-
 
 CORRESPONDENCE. 125 
 
 stand it is no easy matter for me to 
 give a correct and yet just description 
 of The Party. Were I to tell how 
 she appears to me you would doubt 
 my sanity or else take me for a crazy 
 poet. All I can say is that she has the 
 full allowance of ears, eyes and limbs ; 
 wears her light hair out of style, be 
 cause I insist on the little curl on the 
 forehead, which is now out of date; 
 has never been to a dentist therefore 
 has two shining rows ot teeth, framed 
 by a mouth which can pout, smile, 
 pucker up for a certain purpose and 
 tell some plain home truths in a man 
 ner both refreshing and fearless ; does 
 not wear horse buckles on the tiniest 
 brogans ever made, and is just tall 
 enough to bring the aforesaid little 
 curl on an exact level with my lips. 
 Should you wish to get a look at her 
 let me tell you that she passes through 
 Chambers street every morning at 8
 
 126 THE PARTY SKETCHES. 
 
 A. M., accompanied by a certain in 
 dividual, more able-bodied than hand 
 some. This same individual, should 
 you care to ask him, will give you the 
 most convincing proof that you are at 
 the right address. Hope to meet you 
 some morning. 
 
 TO MISS E. L. You ask by what 
 name I address The Party and what 
 her name is, as you cannot conceive 
 her being called "Party" by me in 
 daily intercourse. The reasons for not 
 giving her name are somewhat similar 
 to those refusing the request for the 
 photo. I do not care to have her go 
 up in smoke by having cigars named 
 after her; neither do I care to have 
 chewing gum or chocolate kisses or 
 corsets or tomato catsup identified 
 with her. As to what I call her, why, 
 just pause for a moment and think 
 what your "he" calls you. If he loves 
 you as I love my Party we surely have
 
 CORRESPONDENCE. 127 
 
 taken our terms of endearment from 
 the same dictionary. My Party won t 
 stand for anything silly and I never 
 offer it, but, surely, there is a long list 
 to choose from, beginning with that 
 well "tootsie-wootsie" to plain "my 
 girl" or "girl o mine."
 
 LITTLE STORIES FROM 
 OUR STREETS
 
 LITTLE STORIES FROM OUR 
 STREETS. 
 
 I. 
 
 CANAL STREET AND THE BOWERY. 
 
 DO you know John Horn- 
 blower? Perhaps you do 
 not. And therefore it is 
 necessary to tell you something about 
 him. My friend Hornblower is a man 
 of affairs, known to almost everybody. 
 This latter is accounted for by the fact 
 that he is a "joiner." 
 
 A "joiner" is a man who belongs to 
 every club, society and lodge in exist 
 ence and spends his spare hours in 
 organizing new ones.
 
 132 STORIES FROM OUR STREETS. 
 
 Naturally, John Hornblower is al 
 ways on the go or on the jump. He 
 has to be by the nature of things, al 
 though he does not approve of it in 
 theory. 
 
 This morning I felt him, before I 
 saw him. 
 
 I stood at the corner of Canal street 
 and the Bowery, when somebody tried 
 to make a lasting impression on my 
 back. 
 
 It was John Hornblower, and, as 
 usual, on the go. 
 
 "Pardon me, old man, for trying to 
 break your back, but you know how 
 it is, I m in a hurry and want to catch 
 the next car. It is beastly brutal to 
 have to rush about thusly, but present 
 day conditions make it obligatory." 
 
 Within five seconds we were in a 
 heated discussion, or rather Horn- 
 blower was, defending his practice by 
 his theory.
 
 CANAL STREET AND BOWERY. 133 
 
 "You can say what you like, you can 
 call it what you like, aggressiveness, 
 goaheadiveness, push, energy ; the fact 
 remains that it is a state approaching 
 cannibalism to see men, presumably 
 intelligent men, rush about like sav 
 ages." 
 
 "Collar buttons, shoestrings, sus 
 penders !" 
 
 A Bowery peddler offered his wares. 
 
 No, my good man, I don t need 
 anything," said Hornblower. "There, 
 we ought to take example by this 
 peddler. Peaceably and peacefully he 
 goes through life, endeavoring to 
 make his modest living without giving 
 offense to any one, while we, the 
 respectable business men, must madly 
 trample on the feet and rights of 
 others, disregarding all decency in 
 striving after our aims. I want to tell 
 you, dear friend, that this confounded 
 strenuousness "
 
 134 STORIES FROM OUR STREETS. 
 
 "Collar buttons, shoestrings, sus 
 penders !" 
 
 "No, no, my man, I told you before 
 I don t need anything," said Horn- 
 blower impatiently. "As I was saying 
 before the peddler interrupted me, this 
 confounded strenuousness which has 
 settled upon us is a blemish in our 
 national character. It is a vice, ever- 
 spreading, all-absorbing; it saps all 
 that is good within us because it is the 
 essence of selfishness. Let me ask 
 you, and through you the American 
 people, to desist in our mad rush and 
 to be observing of the rights of our 
 neighbors, to be all brothers of one 
 grand brotherhood and to there s my 
 car. So long." 
 
 Hornblower, like a shot catapulted 
 for his car, collided with the peddler 
 and sent him and his wares a-sprawl- 
 ing. 
 
 But he caught his car.
 
 CANAL STREET AND BOWERY. 135 
 
 While helping the peddler to gather 
 his scattered stock I vainly endeavored 
 to convince him that the logical results 
 of theories are the most unreliable 
 things to depend on. 
 
 II. 
 COOPER SQUARE. 
 
 Is there a set of workers more uni 
 versally abhorred than the truck driv 
 ers ? Hardly. 
 
 Therefore this little story, good un 
 der any circumstances, is especially 
 good. 
 
 Here and there in the city we have 
 drinking troughs for horses. They are 
 not as many as they should be and not 
 complete enough, for only a few have 
 a smaller trough at the base for dogs. 
 
 The one on Cooper Square has the 
 trough for dogs.
 
 136 STORIES FROM OUR STREETS. 
 
 A little fellow of the tramp-dog 
 breed surely they are a breed; look 
 at their sameness and you will agree 
 with me who seemed to be a steady 
 customer at this particular fount made 
 his way direct to the basin. 
 
 With him a team of big, bulky 
 horses, pulling a heavy truck, arrived 
 there. 
 
 There was much rattling of iron 
 chains and plunging and backing of 
 horses, not mentioning the roaring 
 "Whoas" and "Git ups" of the driver. 
 
 Small wonder the little yellow tramp 
 was frightened and drew back shiver- 
 ingly. 
 
 But when the horses had settled 
 down to the enjoyment of their re 
 freshment the dog made for its trough 
 and found it empty. 
 
 Perhaps the pipe was out of order 
 or the water supply cut off. What-
 
 COOPER SQUARE. 137 
 
 ever the cause, the trough was dry and 
 empty and doggie was thirsty. 
 
 To jump to the large trough above 
 was out of the question. Besides, there 
 were those big, awful horses, and 
 nothing was left but to lick the few 
 wasted drops from the paving stones. 
 
 A man had watched the dog s 
 despair. 
 
 And just as the truck driver backed 
 his horses away from the trough he 
 lifted the little outcast to where water 
 was in plenty. 
 
 The dread of human touch, only 
 known to him by kicks and beatings, 
 made the poor mongrel tremble with 
 fear and unable to partake of the 
 proffered drink. 
 
 The truck driver saw it and came 
 over. 
 
 "Ah, you poor son of a gun !" was 
 all he said before making a cup of his
 
 138 STORIES FROM OUR STREETS. 
 
 hands and holding it full to the fam 
 ished little fellow s lips. 
 
 And the dog? 
 
 Why, he drank, drank greedily, 
 then jumped to the ground, gave one 
 squeaky bark and scampered away 
 with drooping tail. 
 
 The truck driver said nothing, but 
 jumped onto his seat and cracked his 
 whip. 
 
 Once I saw him turn back and look 
 at the measly little mongrel. 
 
 And now, isn t that called divine 
 compassion or something? But what 
 is the use of calling it anything? 
 
 It happened that s enough! 
 
 III. 
 
 TWENTY-FIFTH STREET. 
 
 He who rambles for pleasure or 
 profit is destined to see many sights 
 and incidents, which, at times, make
 
 TWENTY-FIFTH STREET. 139 
 
 one lose faith in humanity, and, again, 
 make one believe in it with all the en 
 thusiasm of one s soul. 
 
 It was late in the evening when I 
 came through Twenty-fifth street. 
 
 A short distance from the corner is 
 the glass and iron awning which cov 
 ers the approach to the side entrance 
 of one of our gigantic hotels. Near 
 this awning stood a carriage, which, 
 one could see at a glance, was a pri 
 vate, and very elegant, equipage. 
 
 Just as I passed the carriage a young 
 man leaned from its window and gave 
 an order to the coachman. I only had 
 a glance at him, but it had been enough 
 to note the serious, anguished expres 
 sion of his face. 
 
 Before I reached the corner the car 
 riage, with its sad occupant, was driven 
 at a walk down the block. 
 
 At the intersection of the streets I 
 met my old friend, Officer Flanagan,
 
 I4O STORIES FROM OUR STREETS. 
 
 and we were soon earnestly discussing 
 the merits of the recent primaries. Al 
 though interested in our talk, I did not 
 fail to notice that the carriage kept up 
 and down the block at a walking gait 
 and that the young man within kept a 
 watchful eye on the entrance to the 
 hotel. 
 
 Suddenly, an employee of the hotel 
 stepped to the sidewalk and seemed to 
 give a signal, which was answered by 
 the carriage hurrying to the massive 
 awning. 
 
 The young man sprang from the 
 coach and ran to the door of the side 
 entrance, where a portly, gray-haired 
 man, leaning on two liveried porters, 
 seemed to be awaiting his coming. One 
 of the servants was quickly replaced by 
 the youth, who, with his arm around 
 the old man s waist, began to lead him 
 to the carriage.
 
 TWENTY-FIFTH STREET. 14! 
 
 My curiosity had drawn me to the 
 scene and I could not help seeing the 
 old man s condition. To prevent any 
 doubt concerning it he broke into 
 maudlin speech. 
 
 "Hello, my son. (hie) Great sport 
 to-night (hie) I never " 
 
 "Father, father, please keep silent," 
 murmured the son. 
 
 "Whatsh the matter? They re all 
 good fellows and I " 
 
 They had reached the carriage, and, 
 with a great deal of trouble, succeeded 
 in bundling the old man into it. Then 
 the son gave his final order to the 
 coachman. 
 
 "John, my father is not feeling very 
 well to-night and I d like to have you 
 drive us home through some quiet 
 street." 
 
 "Very well, sir." 
 
 A touch of the whip, and they had 
 started for the quiet avenue below.
 
 142 STORIES FROM OUR STREETS. 
 
 I rejoined my friend Flanagan. 
 
 "Remarkable case," I commented, 
 not knowing what else to say. 
 
 "Well, it is and it isn t. I seen it 
 so often that I m used to it." 
 
 "You don t mean to tell me that this 
 scene is played here every night?" 
 
 "That s what it is, and, chances are, 
 it will be played many more nights." 
 
 "Tell me about it." 
 
 "There ain t much to tell. The old 
 gent used to be one of the sports when 
 this used to be the hang-out of the 
 swift crowds, years ago, and the habit 
 got such a hold on him that he can t 
 stay away for a single night." 
 
 "But the son mentioned to the coach 
 man that his father was ill and, surely, 
 he wouldn t say that if this happened 
 every night." 
 
 "He says it every night, thinking 
 he s shielding the old gent by it, and 
 there ain t a soul round here that
 
 TWENTY-FIFTH STREET. 143 
 
 doesn t try to look as if he believed 
 the son s gag, just to make the young 
 fellow feel a little better." 
 
 We stood silent for a while, follow 
 ing different trains of thought. Then, 
 Flanagan spoke again. 
 
 "I d like to have a son like him." 
 
 "Why ? To see you safely home after 
 a strenuous session at the ginmill?" I 
 asked facetiously. 
 
 "No, not because of that," replied 
 Flanagan with strange seriousness, 
 "but because of his loyalty." 
 
 IV. 
 
 CATHARINE STREET. 
 
 I came along Catharine street from 
 the ferry at the foot of it. 
 
 In the very first block from the 
 water front shone dimly a transparent 
 sign over the door of a mission. Al 
 though not later than 9 o clock, *he
 
 144 STORIES FROM OUR STREETS. 
 
 neighborhood was quiet and deserted, 
 save when an incoming ferry boat sent 
 its cargo through the street. This 
 quietness helped to make the melody 
 which came from the mission more im 
 pressive. 
 
 I heard, 
 
 "What a friend we have in Jesus," 
 and stopped to listen to this dear old 
 message, ever assuring. 
 
 But my communion was disturbed. 
 
 The door of the mission swung open 
 and through it came a man, slamming 
 it rudely behind him. 
 
 "There s no religion in there." 
 
 He did not address himself to me. 
 Rather, he flung his assertion to the 
 winds, but it gave me an excuse to in 
 quire into his perturbed state of mind. 
 
 "Do you mean to say that there is 
 no religion in that mission?" I asked. 
 
 "That s just what I mean," he 
 growled angrily. "God knows that if
 
 CATHARINE STREET. 145 
 
 there s a man who needs religion and 
 wants it it s me, but I can t find it in 
 there." 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 "Why not ?" he repeated, disgusted 
 ly. "Because I ve been through the mill, 
 young fellow. I m only after coming 
 from jail this morning, and while I was 
 there I did a pile of thinking. And I 
 came to the concluson that there s 
 nothing in wasting your life in prison." 
 
 That in itself was encouraging and 
 as I looked at the stalwart lad before 
 me, not at all resembling the proverbial 
 ex-convict, I firmly resolved to supple 
 ment the work of the mission. 
 
 "So, I made up my mind to try reli 
 gion," he continued. "And to-night 
 I came down here, ready to cut out all 
 the old business and start a new life. 
 But, you can t do it in there, with all 
 them frauds in there for nothing only
 
 146 STORIES FROM OUR STREETS. 
 
 free bed tickets. I don t want a bed 
 ticket, I only want religion." 
 
 Clearly, this was my cue to begin 
 my exhortation. Quickly recalling the 
 points I wanted to make particularly 
 strong, I was about to begin my dig 
 nified discourse when 
 
 "If you want religion you can have 
 it, my friend, in or without a mission." 
 
 Unnoticed by either the grumbler or 
 me, an old man had joined us at the 
 curb. Neither one of us wished to re 
 sent the intrusion, as, below the wide- 
 brimmed hat, a wonderful face shone 
 a greeting. 
 
 "It s over twenty years ago that I, 
 as you now, leaned against that lamp 
 post and declared with conviction that 
 there was no religion. I almost cursed 
 religion and worked myself into a 
 fury. But furies do not last long, and, 
 after mine had spent itself, it came to 
 me that if there was no religion, there
 
 CATHARINE STREET. 147 
 
 was still God, He of the ever and for 
 ever and I found him without 
 trouble." 
 
 It was not at all what I had in 
 tended to say. It was the simple re 
 cital of a simple experience, while my 
 discourse had been intended to dispel 
 the grumbler s doubts with the sledge 
 hammer force of dogmatic theology. 
 
 Still I did not interfere and list 
 ened, 
 
 "That was twenty years ago," re 
 sumed the old man, "yet, this lamp 
 post, this street, this mission are the 
 same to-night as then, and, so is He, 
 the same to-night as then. And now, 
 my friend " 
 
 I realized that this was not the right 
 opportunity for me to find the proper 
 appreciation for my impromptu ser 
 mon, and started on my way. 
 
 At the next corner I turned to see 
 what had become of the two, the
 
 148 STORIES FROM OUR STREETS. 
 
 grumbler and the faithful. The old 
 man had one hand on the other s 
 shoulder, and both, with uplifted faces, 
 seemed to see naught but the stars and 
 sky above them. 
 
 Just then came from the mission the 
 song of assurance for foul and clean : 
 
 "Rock of Ages, cleft for me, 
 Let me hide myself in thee."
 
 REAVY IN JULY 
 
 Whether Democrat or Repub 
 lican, Man, Woman or Youth 
 
 You will appreciate the humor, 
 truth and satire of :: ;: 
 
 Letters of a Politician 
 to His Son 
 
 The text-book for the coming campaign. 
 
 Its terse epigrams will be quoted on 
 
 all platforms. 
 
 ..." With the many laughs which the 
 Letters of a Politician gave me came also 
 the conviction that they were based on sad 
 truth." 
 
 SEKATOB AMOS P. DODGE. 
 
 Sendyffttr order early us only limited edition 
 ivffl be printed* 
 
 One dollar the copy. Postage, 10 cents 
 
 OWEN KILDARE, Publisher 
 J45J Broadway - - New Yotfc
 
 my mamit Rose 
 
 The Story of My Regeneration 
 By OWEN KILDARE 
 
 izmo, Illustrated, net, $1.50 ; postage, loc. 
 
 Q Filled with the sermon of life. 
 41, Hundreds of ministers have found in it a 
 text which they could not pass. It has a 
 message for you. 
 
 CJOHN WILLIS BAER, formerly Secre 
 tary of the Y. P. S. C. E. and now one of 
 the Secretaries of the Presbyterian Board of 
 Home Missions, writes, " It shows the ac 
 complishment of a regeneration in other than 
 the regular channels. It is a wonderful 
 book which every minister and every Chris 
 tian worker ought to read." 
 
 ALL BOOKSTORES 
 
 The BAKER & TAYLOR CO. 
 
 P UBLISHERS 
 
 33-37 East 1 7th Street - New York
 
 This book is DUE on the last 
 date stamped below 
 
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 2521 C-ood of the 
 - K613& wicked nnd the [ 
 
 Party sketches 5 4 
 
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