Part 15

In the course of time the big man with the neck of a gladiator died, and was buried in a manner fitting his life. A ton of flowers followed him to the six-foot hole which had been provided for him; a few bottles of wine were drunk by his cronies to drown their grief and to toast his successful debut into that new and unknown world to which he had gone, and that was all.

The bootblack, who had taken himself seriously, and was fond of calling himself a gentleman on all possible occasions, for no other reason apparently than that he wore the best clothes that money could buy, took possession of his patron’s effects, rifled his safe, his desk, and appropriated to himself everything that was of the slightest value, and then developed into a short card man.

So he sits there to-night, eating lobster and talking to a woman who, between you and me, is worth looking at more than once.

By an old and familiar, as well as extremely simple, process she had taken his name. It was a trifling matter, settled in a moment over a small bottle, and her only speculation was as to whether he could suitably provide for her.

It was a very good investment for him, for she has proven to be a very useful little lady in more ways than one. She knows a lot of real nice boys, and when they get very sporty she tells them about a good game where good fellows may be found. She is the kind of a woman who would make a sport out of a church deacon, consequently she fits very snugly into the life and trade of our friend the shoe-shiner.

When you get to know her passing well she will tell you how she was educated in a convent, which she left to visit a wealthy aunt in Pittsburg. While there she became engaged to marry a rich broker, and so on, and so on, you know, the same old story. The stage figures in it, too, because there is always a fascinating glamor about the other side of the footlights.

She has been in comic opera and she has a lot of expensive photographs of herself in theatrical poses, but no matter how well posted you may be you fail to recall her name, even though she was an understudy for Lillian Russell, “when Lillian was good.”

If you let your glance rove across the room to a table close by one of the central pillars, you will see another type of woman, and this one is worth studying.

She will never see her fortieth birthday again, although she looks about thirty-two. That may be art, or it may be an inherited physical characteristic, but the fact remains that she is still young enough and good looking enough to attract a man.

She is a veritable star and her singing and acting are flawless.

The fine old gentleman she is chatting with is the head of a very ancient and very distinguished family of New York, and she is under his protecting wing.

That is a remarkable feature of her career; she always selects with painstaking care, nice old men, with families.

And for that there may be a good and sufficient reason.

While you are watching her and noting her rather dainty ways, which are perhaps a bit too dainty for one of her age, listen to the little story I am going to tell you about her.

Not so many years ago, but just about the time when she was in the zenith of her career, she met just the same kind of a man she is talking with now. She had had a great deal of experience with old men and she took advantage of all she knew to make him like her.

She succeeded--hence this story.

The old fellow was all right, and he knew what was necessary under the circumstances, and he made good with characteristic rapidity. The first thing he did was to buy her a handsome brownstone house on a quiet side street, fill it full of handsome furniture, and then he blew himself in for a neat little brougham and pair for theatre use.

So far, so good, and the play went merrily on.

And now comes a spectacle, or a melodrama, or even a farce, if you like.

He wasn’t her constant companion, because he was clever enough to realize that if she saw too much of him it might be fatal to his chances, so he timed his visits with careful exactitude, and incidentally showered her with gifts--which, after all, is one of the direct roads to a woman’s heart.

But he made the fatal mistake one day of introducing to her one of his old friends, and from that moment there began a fierce rivalry between them for the smiles of the auburn-haired actress; it was a duel with a lock of hair as a reward; a combat with a smile for the victor, and they both went to work with a will and to the exclusion of every other object in life.

When one bought her a magnificent solitaire, she showed it to the other and he promptly laid a tiara at her feet, and it was unquestionably the greatest battle of senile old idiots that ever raged.

Separately they took to waylaying her on the street from her house to the theatre, and back again, and one even went so far as to buy a magnificent yacht, equip it for a long cruise, and attempt to kidnap her. But that plan failed, and it was just as well that it did, because the man who does eccentric stunts of that character is apt to find himself in hot water sooner or later, and in any event reap a whirlwind of scorn from the lady in the case.

Finally, the climax came, as it was bound to come, when they met at her house one Sunday afternoon.

All this may be new to you, but you must remember it was as common in club circles as the Spanish war, and the results of the affair were watched for by thousands of men whose names figure conspicuously in the public prints.

They met and they quarreled, and when my lady appeared on the scene these two beaux were on the verge of punching each other in good old Queensbury fashion.

“Gentlemen, gentlemen, I beg that you will not quarrel in _my_ house.”

You will notice that she put the accent on the word “my.”

At once there were criminations and recriminations, but with that charm of manner which made her famous, not only on the stage, but in the drawing room, to say nothing of the cafe, she poured oil on the troubled waters.

“I do not really know what your differences are about, but if you will allow me, I would like to suggest that you settle them in some amicable way. Here are dice and a cup, why not play for it?”

They looked at each other for a moment, and then one said:

“Yes, we will do it, madame, just the thing. Here, I will make the first throw,” and out upon the shining surface of the golden table rolled the three ivory cubes.

They fought it out while she looked on languidly, and at last when it had been decided, the winner arose exultingly and shouted:

“I have won.”

“Won what?” she queried, curiously.

“Won what? Why, won you.”

“Won me?” and she placed her taper finger on her breast. “Why, how very charming that is. I ought to congratulate you, I suppose, and I shall certainly let you know when I come back--if you are still alive.”

“You’re not going away?” he faltered. “When?”

“I sail to-morrow morning at eight o’clock; I go aboard this afternoon. I am going to Europe for a good long rest; mother says I need it, and so we are going together. Good afternoon. Let me congratulate you on being so lucky, and to win me, too. Why, it’s like a romance. How splendidly that would stage.”

Down the street the two old fellows walked, one slightly in advance of the other. At the corner the one who was ahead, hesitated a moment, then turned and waited for the other to come up.

“Tom,” he said. “I don’t know what you think, but I am of the opinion that we are a pair of damned old fools who ought to know better. Let’s go and have a drink.”

The old gentleman who is pouring out that wine for her now would perhaps like to hear that story in all its wealth of detail, but even if he knew it might make no difference.

Of all the thousands of people who go to restaurants there are only a few who do not go for the sole purpose of eating. We have been here an hour and have looked over but two tables, and the story is not half told.

A VOICE IN THE SLUMS

This is one of the “places” of New York.

It is not worth looking at in the daylight, because there is nothing to see.

It is gray, dull, dreary and desolate--too dismal to be considered for even a moment.

About it all there is not one thing that is attractive.

It is downtown and on the East Side, and that is enough to tell the story.

If you have never been downtown on the East Side of this big city, go and take a look some time, it is worth it, and you may see some things there--as I have--that will interest you.

At night you wouldn’t recognize this place because of the softening and concealing effect of the electric lights.

Besides the lights there is music, and in addition to that there are women--what kind of women you can guess, but the fact remains that they are still women, and even their presence helps to brighten up this spot of the slums.

Toughs of the street straggle in singly and by twos, glancing warily about for prey, or in search of girls to whom they are attached. The type is familiar enough in every city. Square-jawed, low-browed, with shifting eyes and an aggressive manner; dressing well when the money comes easy, and not so well when hard times arrive; living by their wits, which at the best is precarious, relying for the necessities of life upon a girl; spending a certain portion of time in jail, unless, as it often happens, they are too cowardly to rob a man, but not too cowardly to take from a woman.

Sightseers drift in, too, from everywhere, look curiously about, as if expecting some remarkable and extraordinary occurrence at any moment, and failing in that, they take chairs at the nearest table, and give meek orders to the aggressive waiter for liquors which they seem afraid to drink.

At stated intervals someone sings a song, and between times the music plays a waltz for those who care to dance on the bit of polished floor reserved for that purpose.

The very dregs of high life.

It is the lees of the wine.

Just a few years ago--so short a time that it seems almost like yesterday--a young woman was singing in light operas and doing occasional turns in vaudeville. If I were to tell you her name now it would have as familiar a sound to you as the name of any other popular performer.

One of her distinguishing characteristics was her voice, which had a remarkable and extraordinary range.

And how she could use it.

She was absolute master of it, and there was no doubt about her success, nor her future, either, barring accidents, of course.

Besides that she was good to look at. She was of a distinctive style of beauty, and she had a fetching way with her which spelled magnetism.

Magnetism, between you and me, means success on the stage--or anywhere else, for that matter. Take the best actor or actress in the world, one who is perfect in lines, diction and stage business; who is absolute master of the art of stage craft, and rob them of magnetism, and I will show you a failure.

So, you see, this young woman was well equipped for the business she was in, and there is the picture.

Nicely gowned, looking and acting like a thoroughbred, she had a big following of admirers, and there didn’t seem to be anything on earth within reason that she wanted she couldn’t have.

The limit of her vices was a few mild drinking bouts with the boys and the occasional smoking of a cigarette, even though there was a possibility that in the years to come the tobacco would destroy the finer tones of her voice.

The moral end of the business was her own affair, and consequently will not be touched on.

Now look.

See that pallid woman?

The one who has just come in. She is talking to a waiter now. Her thin face is seamed with lines, and the light of youth, of life and of enthusiasm has gone out of her eyes.

You wouldn’t think she was once a beautiful girl with a wonderful voice, would you?

“I had the yin-yin so bad,” she is saying, “that I had to go in and hit two pills before I came out. Now I’m good till the lights go out.”

One night, after the show, she went with a party on a slumming tour through Chinatown. They were out to have a good time and nothing more.

In one of the resorts in which they stopped was a good-looking young bartender who caught her fancy. He was all right in a way, but she outclassed him about twenty to one, but there is no telling what a woman is going to do, or upon whom she is going to bestow her favors, any more than one can tell what the state of the weather will be a month or two months from now.

She thought she was in love with him--but she wasn’t. She had only taken a fancy to him, which was a different sort of a proposition, but she didn’t know it at that time.

She went on singing just the same, but the time she was out of the theatre she spent with him, and the more money she earned the better he dressed.

She dipped a little deeper into the different vices, until at last she went up against the king of them all--opium.

With all of her drinking and cigarette smoking she was still able to hold her own and keep her voice in some kind of shape, and many a rare old song has she trilled in some cheap dive, and made the old-timers straighten up in their seats and tell her she was all right. Previous to that she had figured in only one escapade and that was when she was caught in a raid at a masked ball which was so off-color and made up of many desperate characters--men and women--that it took a platoon of police with drawn clubs to bring the affair to a sudden end.

They will never forget the night when she went down to the “Drum” in James street, and after setting up the drinks for the crowd, stood in the centre of the grimy floor and without a note of accompanying music sang Annie Laurie.

At the end of the first verse, a drunk crept on his hands and knees from a dark corner where he had been lying, and staggering to his feet, looked at her dully with bloodshot eyes, and then cursed her so violently that she instinctively shrank back for a moment.

But she had been drinking, too, and was equal to the emergency.

“Shut up,” she retorted. “I’m going to sing the whole damned song or break a rib trying,” and with that she started on the second verse.

Sitting on a chair, holding his head in his hands, the man began to sob and cry as only a man whose heart is aching can, and then, as if he could stand it no longer, he rushed madly from the place while she laughed.

“I can make them all quit if they will stay long enough.”

Almost a year later that same man, but dressed and washed and respectable, came downtown one night, and went through all the places upon whose floors he had fallen and slept many a night, looking for the girl who had sung that song.

He found her at three o’clock in the morning on the Bowery.

She was sitting at a table in McGurk’s with two men with whom she had been drinking cheap whiskey for hours.

“I beg your pardon,” said the man, “but are you the young woman who sang a song in a place on James street about a year ago--Annie Laurie it was?”

“I may have, old pal, I’ve sung a lot of songs in my day.”

“Well, you will probably be glad to know that that song was the turning point in my life, and I am now a reformed man. I feel that I owe it to you, and I want to give you some little memento that you can keep.”

As he spoke he pulled a package out of his pocket and handed it to her. With unsteady fingers she unwrapped it and when she had opened the case she saw a gold watch upon which was engraved:

_To the singer who saved my life._

“You’re a good old sport, all right, let’s have a drink on it.”

“No, thank you,” he said, hurriedly. “I must be going now, but I want to tell you that you have a great gift which you are throwing away.”

“So long, old pal, live while you can, for you’ll be a long time dead,” she said, and he was gone.

She looked at the watch curiously for a moment, and then called one of the waiters.

“Ha, Jimmy, here’s a swell watch. Ask the old man how much he will give me for it--it looks to be worth about fifty.”

The waiter returned in a few minutes and said:

“He says he’ll give you ten.”

“All right, he’s on, get the coin.”

She stayed until she had spent the money, and then she went reeling home.

True? Of course it’s true, every word of it.

But she’s not drinking so hard now, opium is her god, and she spends most of her time with her pipe and her lamp. Her downward course has been a very rapid one, and her name has almost been forgotten.

The man at the next table is whispering to his friends:

“She was the greatest singer I ever heard, and many a time I’ve gone to the same show three times in one week just to hear her, and when a woman’s voice gets me like that you can bet it’s got to be good.”

“Get her to sing now; I’d like to hear her.”

“Sing now? Why, she couldn’t sound a note if her life depended on it. She’s got all she can do to talk plain. She looks like a piece of leather, doesn’t she? Yet she made the prettiest picture on the stage I ever saw.”

Her voice interrupted here.

It was harsh and strident in tone--there was little of the woman in it.

“Well, if you won’t buy me a drink I’ll buy one for myself; give me a whiskey, Jack, and don’t be all night about it, either.”

“Why don’t you get that Chinky of yours to buy you a drink?” remarks some one from the other side of the room.

“Why don’t you mind your own business? He’d buy me all the drinks I wanted if I would ask him, and that’s more than you would do. If anybody asks you just tell them that the Chinks are all right, see, and don’t be so new.”

“Cut that out, you fresh guy over there, cut it out.”

Here’s a champion for her; there are a few left who are still under her spell, or who, remembering what she once was and knowing her in her palmy days, stick for old time’s sake.

“Have a drink on me, old pal, and go as far as you like.”

She comes back with a laugh; and if you look closely--if you have those kind of eyes that can see things below the surface, so to speak--you will see that she doesn’t really belong here, and never did. That she is here because of some unfortunate series of circumstances over which, perhaps, she had no control. You will see something in her manner that distinguishes her from the rest of the women, even those who are better looking and better dressed. It is that intangible, indefinite something which means blood, or previous environment. It cannot be put on and taken off like a garment, and when once there it is there to stay.

That makes the wreck all the more pitiable, and with the same eyes through which you have just looked you will see the finish.

It isn’t pleasant to look at, and now, while the music is playing for the waltz, and the couples are getting on the floor to go through that interminable routine of steps called dancing, while the painted women are laughing, and the men are calling them pet--or other--names, we will go out of this room to where we can breathe a fresher air and see the stars.

I’m not sentimental, but there are some things I don’t like to see, besides, I knew the girl when she was at her best, and I have heard her sing when she brought the house down with applause.

A GIRL OF THE NIGHT

The band on the platform at the end of the big hall was booming out the popular melodies of the day for dear life and the piercing notes produced by the leather-lunged piccolo player were heard as far as the street.

“That guy up there has me deaf with that flute he’s blowing,” remarked Big Lizzie, “and while I don’t wish him any harm yet I hope he chokes.”

“That knocks this place,” remarked her pal. “Why, I had a John in here the other day and he was wanting to buy me a new dress, and I thought he was wanting to know where I lived, and I was writing my name and number down on a piece of paper and he got disgusted and went away. It drives ’em out, if you want to know what I think.”

But it was once a famous old place when Fourteenth street was really good, and the casual visitor to New York who didn’t drop in for an hour or so missed something.

It was one of the sights, and the great mechanical organ invented and built by a straight-laced Methodist is there still, although he has long ago ceased calling the attention of his friends to the fact. Its tunes to-day are sandwiched in with those of the band, and in the interval the trombone player gets a chance to recover his breath.

Morning, noon and night men and women wander in, sit at the little round tables, drink queer decoctions made of liquor strong enough to eat into Harveyized steel, and then go forth to tear up the town. The police pass it by as though it were nothing more serious than an ice cream parlor or a peanut emporium, while the tide of upholstered and hand-painted mademoiselles sweep in on the flood and drift out on the ebb with business written in every line of their faces.

Their paths radiate like the sticks of a fan from this rendezvous of the social evil, and in their movements they show nearly all the characteristics of the honey-gathering bee.

The engaging and winsome smile of a girl not yet out of her teens had caught the eye of the man in this story, and against his will he had allowed her to lead him into this place where mirth was nothing more nor less than a mask behind which a skeleton face grinned, and where neither laughter nor anything else was sincere. Her black eyes had not yet taken on that hardness which the years to come would surely add to them, and her ways were to a certain extent ingenuous. Besides, she was distinctly pretty with her Yiddish style of beauty, which was unfortunately of the kind which matures at sixteen and is old at twenty-five. Either teaching or a subtle instinct had caused her to discard the gorgeous plumes and brilliant colors which had marked her debut on the street less than a year before, and in consequence she might have passed for anything but what she was.

She had been on the stage once on a tour, but got a rough deal and quit.

He outclassed her by a hundred to one, and his source was as high as hers was low. There was no tinge of peasantry in his veins, but good successful American stock traceable back for five or six generations without a blot upon escutcheon--which, by the way, is rather rare in these days, consequently it’s worth boasting about. Lured into the maelstrom of music, he found himself at one of the tables with the girl beside him, still smiling.

Liquor has different effects on different men; it turns the mild man into a savage and makes a careful one reckless in the extreme. In this particular case caution went to the four winds and sympathy--which is apt to be dangerous at times--took its place. But let youth and inexperience excuse him.

“You haven’t told me your name,” he said. “What is it?”

“Brown,” she answered, “Jennie Brown.”

“I mean your right name.”

“Well, Jennie is my right name--I took the other one after I came out of the hospital. Some day, maybe, I’ll get married and then I’ll change it again, but not before.”

“What did you go to the hospital for--were you ill and did you have no one to take care of you?”