Part 14

“We’ll leave him alone all right, and when you see the new front on me to-morrow you’ll think I own Broadway. Twelve thousand dollars, why, the four of us can go to Europe on that.”

Then she stood up.

“If you touch him or try to turn him off I’ll call in a cop and have you all pinched,” and she swept her hand at them with an inclusive movement.

“Don’t go off your nut like that, everything will be all right,” said Jack. “You’ll get your bit, no matter what happens, but you’re talking like a crazy woman. You never used to be like this. You’ve been in tougher jobs before. You just think you’re stuck on this Joe because he writes you a nice letter, but there’s nothing to it. You stick to me and I’ll stick to you, and this bundle will put us on Easy Street. Why don’t you be nice?”

She had partly turned her back on them and was looking at one of the pictures on the wall.

It is when a woman is silent that she is most dangerous, because then she is thinking. Give a woman time to think and you are simply supplying her with ammunition. But the stupid man who had dominated by brute force knew nothing of this. To him her silence meant acquiescence, and he scented an easy victory.

With a quick, alert nod of his head he motioned the other two from the room, and they left silently and like automatons, their feet on the carpet giving forth no sound, but her senses were keen and she knew when they had gone. As the door closed behind them she turned around with a smile on her face.

“I think,” she said, “that you will be a fool as long as you live. Here I find a man with a big roll, and arrange to have him bring it to us on a gold plate and you turn around, make me give my hand away, and declare those two dead ones in on the play. You’ll never have sense if you live to be a hundred years old.”

He looked at her admiringly.

“You’re better than I thought,” he said at last. “We’ll jump to Europe on this. Wait ’till I get a paper and see if there is a ship sailing to-morrow morning. We’ll make a quick getaway from the whole crowd.”

He almost ran through the door in his eagerness.

He was back in a few moments with a newspaper in his hand. Eagerly he scanned the columns devoted to shipping news.

“Good,” he ejaculated, “there’s one goes to France. Sails at nine o’clock. We’ll head for Paris--there’s the place to buy your clothes; swell, too, and cheap; and we won’t take anything with us, we’ll buy it all there.”

“Get down to cases,” she said sharply. “How are you going to do this?”

“I’ve got the peter drops,” he said, putting his hand to his pocket. “That’ll be the easiest way. We’ll just dope him a bit, grab the money, get out quick, and lay low somewhere until to-morrow.”

“You know best,” she said, but her voice had a strained tone in it that escaped him. “But whatever you do, whenever I give you any kind of a tip take it quick, see.”

Even as she spoke the door was pushed open and a well-built, brown-faced young fellow strode in, looked around, paused irresolutely, and then went toward her with a smile on his face and his hand outstretched.

“You see, I’m on time, Maude,” he said.

“Yes, Joe, and I’ve been waiting for you a long while. This is a friend of mine who has been very good to me, and I want you to know him. His name is Jack. That’s been enough for me and I guess it will be enough for you.”

“Let’s have one drink, and then I’ll have to be getting along,” said Jack, briskly.

The other didn’t drink, but the coaxing of the girl made him almost forget his name, and three glasses of whiskey were ordered from the man who came at the summons of the bell.

They were about to drink when she suddenly exclaimed:

“Oh, Joe, here’s a picture that always makes me think of the old days; see, that one with the lake,” and as Joe looked the other man deftly poured the dose into the waiting glass. She saw it done and nodded her approval, and then, while they were still talking about the picture, she asked Jack to get her a pencil so she could write a note. In little affairs of this kind strict obedience to an order is absolutely necessary, so he did not question her, but went at once.

When he returned they were sitting at the table again.

“Now for our last drink together,” she remarked gayly, “and here’s that we may all be happy,” and she looked at Jack.

And so they drank, and then Jack set himself to watching furtively out of the corner of his eye this man with the money. He fell to wondering just where it was, and turned cold at the thought that it might have been left at some place for safe keeping. Once his eyes closed and he opened them with an effort. The girl said something, and it took him some little time before his brain could figure out what he ought to say in reply, and longer still for his lips to form the words. She was talking rapidly, but her voice seemed a great distance away.

“Come on, Joe,” he heard that all right. “Come on, it’s time we were going. We must hurry.”

It didn’t seem at all strange to him that they should want to hurry; in fact, it seemed quite natural.

“If he’s a friend of yours we ought not to leave him here like that.” That was the man’s voice, he could swear to that.

“Come on,” she said again, and for hours afterward it was as if the world was filled with women shouting “come on, come on,” to tall, athletic young fellows with blue eyes and brown faces, and the incessant murmur of it all made his head ache.

Then he was being violently handled by someone who appeared to be intent upon annoying him and causing his head to hurt still worse.

He was slapped and walked, and a strange, queer liquid was being forced between his teeth.

Then he opened his eyes.

“You’re all right now, I guess,” said a man’s unfamiliar voice.

“What’s the matter?” he asked thickly.

“Nothing much, only you’ve been drugged and your heart came near quitting. Lie down now and rest up a bit and you’ll be all right after a while.”

“Where the devil am I?” he asked, after the manner of the abducted girl in the society drama.

“You’re in the hospital--you ought to be glad you’re alive.”

DISCOVERING A PRIMA DONNA

The great see-saw of life is as interesting as a poker game if you only have a mind to watch it, but, like the poker game, it must be thoroughly understood and closely studied to appreciate the fine points. In the beginning we all take cards, we all draw to fill; the winning hands slip easily through life, while the four flushes try to bluff it out, and there’s many a four flush in New York to-day who is getting away with it.

Many a girl who wears a sailor hat never saw a yacht, and many a man who wears a diamond pin couldn’t pay fifty cents on the dollar if it came to a show down.

But that isn’t the story by any means.

I call this little recital of facts the beginning and the end; you’ll see why later as the plot thickens.

New York with the lid on is New York just the same, no matter what the police say. It’s all there, only it is covered up a bit.

The shades are pulled closer, but the lights and everything else are behind them.

The wild revelry of the masked ball is toned down not one jot, and the perfect ladies in tights who help to make life endurable for the sports on these occasions do not add, so far as can be seen, even so much as one piece of jewelry to their scant costumes.

You may never have seen the kind of room I’m going to introduce to you, but if you haven’t it’s your fault, for they are common enough, not only in New York, but in many other cities.

There’s space enough for dancing here, and the floor is polished like glass. Around the sides are round tables for the drinkers, and they are the most important feature, for if you don’t drink, or at least order drinks, you had better skiddoo, for you’ll not have a very pleasant time.

At one end of the room is an orchestra, consisting of a piano and a violin. I don’t need to call your attention to the fact that the fellow who is playing the violin knows his business. You can tell that by the way he handles his instrument. He never learned that touch out of a book, nor did he acquire that technique at the rate of ten lessons for a dollar, cash in advance. A few years before he was playing nocturnes and sonatas before fashionable audiences for big money, but he hit the slide and now he’s at the bottom--a dollar a night and drinks for ragtime.

The hands on the clock which mark the flight of time show exactly midnight, and business is at high tide. It’s a case of get the money between now and three o’clock and then slow down, and every aggressive waiter in the place is hustling as if his life depended on it.

A girl is standing at the piano as the orchestra strikes the introduction of a song. Not a bad-looking girl if you observe her closely. Rather a strong face, good, honest blue eyes, set well apart, and a chin in which there is some hint of determination and self-reliance. She has a trim little figure, not voluptuous, but good to look at--the kind of a figure that seems to belong in an evening gown, and which men turn around to look at.

The only thing that stamps her as an habitue of the place is her dress. Its gaudiness was made for the night. It is a street beacon which proclaims at every step, “follow me.” The picture hat, with the sweeping red feather, heightens the effect. It is all very stagey, and would look as garish as spangles in the honest light of day.

But this is not a daylight scene, so we’ll let that pass.

“Ha, there, you noisy guys, cut out that chinnin’; Little Melba’s goin’ ter sing. Cheese it.”

It is the strident voice of a waiter that admonishes a noisy party at one of the tables, and it has an immediate effect.

It’s just as well, you know, to pay a little attention to the advice of a waiter in a place like this.

And so she sings her song.

It is a refrain with a swing to it, and it tells the story of a man and a woman in a rather affecting way, and for her loyalty to him, the man calls the woman his pal.

But the words don’t count here; it’s the voice, and you’ll see why they call her Little Melba. Every note is true and clear, and there is never a falter at the high ones.

It doesn’t need a waiter to command order now; the first line of that song, as sung by her, did more than all the waiters in the world could do.

It commanded the respectful attention of that mixed mob.

At the finish of the first chorus, a sailor in the exuberance of his admiration, and feeling that he must give voice to his sentiments in some tangible manner, roared out:

“You’re all right, old pal; you’re all right.”

She smiled at the compliment, nodded at him in a friendly way, and then she continued.

Every night she sang there--ten songs--and she was paid exactly the same as the waiters--one dollar, but she received in addition certain privileges, the details of which need not be entered into here, because they have nothing to do with the story.

One of the waiters--the one who had called out for order--was her man. She called him another name, and he was known to the world by still another. As a matter of fact, although he didn’t know it, he belonged to her--although he thought she belonged to him--for the clothes that he wore were bought with her money, the food that he ate she paid for, and it was she who rented the place which he called home. She was the bread winner, she bore the burden of life, and she took the blows. The police kept their eyes on her, but paid no attention to the man--the real criminal.

As the last notes of her song forced their way through the clouds of tobacco smoke, three men in evening dress came in. They were of the usual kind of visitors from which the waiters always expect a wine order. They wore evening clothes like men who had been used to them all their lives, and it didn’t need the sharp eyes of a waiter in a tough resort like this to detect that air of prosperity which invariably forms an invisible halo about money.

The square-jawed, square-shouldered young fellow who took the order was not disappointed. It was wine, and as he uncorked the bottle, full of a sense of his own importance, one of them asked, casually:

“Who is the lady who was singing as we came in?”

“Little Melba; she’s there with de goods, all right, ain’t she?”

“Tell her to come over here and have a drink.”

“Sure. Ha, Melba, you’re wanted over here,” he bawled, and smilingly she came.

“Will you have a drink?” asked the man who had sent for her.

“Wine?” she queried, “I’d rather have a glass of beer, if it’s all the same to you, for I’m thirsty enough to drink a keg. Then me for the wine afterward.”

After her drink had been ordered and she had tossed it off with the air of one who is well used to it, she remarked:

“Now I’ll hit a little of that fizz, if you don’t mind.”

“How long have you been singing here?”

“Oh, about six months. It’s a bum job, though. The smoke gets in my throat.”

“What songs do you sing?”

She ran over a list that took in all the popular melodies of the day.

“Here’s a dollar, get up and sing another one--anyone will do, and do your best.”

Dollars for singing one song were rare for her, so she obeyed with alacrity, and she sang as best she knew.

When she had finished she came back to where they were sitting just as one of the men was saying:

“Why don’t you give her a chance, Jim? You can never tell how these kind will turn out. Remember Elinore was dug up out of just such a joint as this.”

“Do you want to go on the stage?” asked Jim, abruptly.

“Do I?” and she unconsciously straightened up. “Why, I’d go on for nothing, just to show them I could make good. Say, I’d work for my board. Can you put me on?”

“I think I can,” and smiled as he said it.

He pulled a card case out of his vest pocket, took a card from it, which he handed to her.

“Come see me to-morrow afternoon at three o’clock.”

She looked at the name on the card and gasped in astonishment, for it was that of one of the best-known of metropolitan theatrical managers, whose chief claim to fame lay in the many successful productions of comic opera.

“Are you on the level with this?” she asked, incredulously.

“Come around to-morrow and see,” he answered.

“Put it there,” she said, excitedly, as she held out her hand, and then she called out to the waiter to whom she believed she owed her allegiance:

“Billy, Billy, come over here.”

With a roll and a swagger, and not too hurriedly, lest he lose one tithe of that dignity which he believed went with the position of beer slinger in one of the toughest joints in New York, Billy came, scowling, as if he already scented in the air coming interference with his plans of life.

“See, Billy,” she said, laughing like a little girl with the joy of it all. “See, this is the great theatre manager, and he’s going to give me a show to see what I can do. I’m going on the stage, Billy, in a regular theatre, and sing before the people. Ain’t it great?”

She was like a child in her enthusiasm.

“Come on, let me blow the crowd: what are you going to have, boys?” this last with a comprehensive sweep of the hands. “I’m buying now.”

Billy stood looking down on her with a scowl.

“What’s all dis?” he asked. “What’s comin’ off here, and me not in on de play?”

Then he turned to the manager.

“What are yer doing--givin’ me gal a jolly, ha? Well, cut it out, it don’t go here, see? Don’t let ’em string yer, Melba. I guess de’re a bunch of pretty flip guys wid all dere glad rags; what?”

“This ain’t no string, Billy, this is all right, ain’t it, Mister?” and she appealed to the man who had been talking to her.

“It’s all right as far as I am concerned,” was the answer. “You do as I say, and if you have any ambition, I guess you’ll get along all right.”

“Do as you say?” queried the waiter, scornfully. “You ain’t no Pierpont Morgan. What’s de matter wid her doin’ as I say once in er while. Do yer t’ink I’m a dummy wot ain’t got no voice? I guess nit. Just cut all dis funny business out and leave my gal alone.”

“Take it easy, Billy, and don’t get excited. This is a chance for me, don’t you see? What’s the good of staying here and losing my voice for a dollar a night when I might be getting big money in the theatre?”

“Big money nothin’,” he protested. “Ain’t yer on dat it’s only a stall? Dis guy is stuck on yer, dat’s it. He wants to win yer away from me.”

The three wise men who had been drinking wine rose to their feet just as any other three wise men would have done under the circumstances. It doesn’t pay to get mixed up with a waiter in a tough joint, because the waiter always gets the best of it--that’s why he is a waiter. He has a lot to do besides serving drinks, and if he wasn’t handy with his fists, and feet, too, for that matter, he couldn’t hold his place for more than a night.

As they started for the door the girl stood up.

“I’ll be there to-morrow, all right,” she called out.

“Over my dead body you will,” came Billy’s voice.

They were out of the door by this time, too late to hear the sound of a blow and too late to see the girl drop to the floor.

They don’t interfere in those kind of family rows in the Tenderloin, or in the Bowery, either.

It isn’t healthy.

It’s etiquette to mind your own business and keep out of the way. And so nobody paid any attention to the weeping girl and the swearing blackguard. But that night in a dingy room a girl cried herself to sleep, and between her tears made up her mind what she would do on the morrow.

She did what she had planned to do, and twenty-four hours later the tough waiter was looking for another girl to take her place.

Between you and me, that happened a long while ago, as we count time in New York. Since then she has been abroad, to the Pacific Coast and in all of the large American cities. Her name is in big type on the posters, and she is referred to as a prima donna.

I wonder if her memory ever takes her back to the little back room where she used to sing songs for a dollar a night?

A THROW OF THE DICE

There is probably no street in the world that has the same number and style of restaurants as Broadway, New York, especially the kind that are within the bounds of the Tenderloin. Chuck Conners would call them feed joints; the irreverent might refer to them as hash houses, and the slangy man or woman who wanted to designate them might be pardoned for dubbing them lobster palaces. But there would be a lot of sense and reason in the last if you were only on, or took the time to think it over.

There is nothing to them in the daytime, and the heavily carpeted floors and snowy-clad tables burdened with silver and glass are practically out of commission. There are a few waiters on duty, but no one ever heard of them being overworked, even with the rush of the merry-merry after a matinee.

These money-makers begin to rouse up a bit about the time the average man of business affairs is finishing his quiet dinner at home, but the time to go there if you want to see things, and by things I mean the sights and celebrities, is after the theatres have let out the evening performance. Then, if you amount to anything, you will have a table where you can see and be seen, and you will feast upon a bite that will cost you nothing less than a ten-dollar bill, not including wine.

The shining lights of this world are in a class by themselves, and include the bookmaker with a loud voice--a trifle heavier than his bank roll; the gambler, soft of hand and manner; the sport who has done something or other at some time or other to entitle him to a passing recognition; the detective sergeant, who is a necessary evil, and who mixes in for business purposes of his own, and not for the purpose of doing the work for which he is paid by the city; then, last of all, the actor--star or semi-star.

They order as if the cooks in all the world were working for them alone, and the waiters were employed for their exclusive benefit. They are epicures and gourmets by force of circumstances, and the circumstances are a roll of bank bills about the size of a man’s wrist. Most of them have risen to a mushroom-like affluence.

The money came quickly, and they are spending it just as quickly.

They know the difference in wines simply because of the price, and they order that which sounds the best, so for that reason a stream of the juice of the grape floods a bunch of uneducated palates and floats high-priced food that would kill a man with an ordinary digestive apparatus.

Not one in a hundred of these men were to the manor born; their lives were cast in stony places and what they are they made themselves by sheer force of will, or else they accepted the golden wreath of opportunity and knew which road to take when they came to the forks.

At a table near the wall is a man who twenty years ago was a bootblack of the city’s streets.

From river to river there was no spot on which he could put his finger and say:

“This is my home.”

He grew up like a blade of grass sprouting between stones, and he fought tooth and nail for his life. He knew what kicks and cuffs were, and if his memory isn’t bad he knows yet.

He blacked the boots of a man with florid face, a heavy gold chain across his vest, and a mammoth stone blazing like a headlight in his scarf, and because this boy was bright of eye and keen of wit his customer, whose business was politics, took a fancy to him. Had this little nomad been born with a gold spoon in his mouth he could not have fared better, nor could his prospects have been more alluring, for a politician, you know, is a man who, when he goes to bed at night, hangs his trousers on the bedpost, and when he wakes up in the morning the pockets are full of money. At least, that is my idea, and if I am wrong just let some of the leading politicians of to-day contradict me, and tell me truly how they got theirs.

While this man is eating his lobster a la Newburg, and sipping the wine that cost him $5 a bottle, I’ll go on with the story.

For about two weeks he blacked his patron’s shoes, and then one fateful morning the man with the bull neck said sharply:

“Chuck that box away, son, and come along with me.”

He didn’t wait for the boy to take the cue and act on it, but he gave the box a kick with his square-toed boot that sent it to the middle of the street, and then he led the boy to a clothing shop where he had him fitted out with everything a fellow that size ought to have.

He saw possibilities in this youngster, and he figured that it would be a wise move to have some one as close to him as his shirt, and upon whom, in time of trouble, he could depend with absolute certainty.

A good bed, good food three times a day and money in the pocket serves often to make a marvelous transformation, and it was so in this case, and the erstwhile bootblack forgot in a moment that he had ever shined shoes or performed any menial services for any human being. He was swept along on the tide of prosperity with his patron and he scoffed at poor things and poor people, as might have been expected. He was aggressive to everyone except his source of income, whom he followed and fawned upon like a hound.

The work he did was criminal, but he did it cheerfully, even though a hundred could have sent him up the river with a word. His morals were as flat as a desert, and he grew into a selfish, egotistical, arrogant, blatant man whose friends were friends by force of circumstances, and not by reasons of any virtues that he possessed, or of any real liking they had for him.