Chapter IX A Player of Many Parts
You will easily believe me when I tell you that my very first task on coming home was to look up my good, old pal, my Bill.
His temporary home was a stable. The owner of it was an old acquaintance of mine and I was satisfied that Bill had been well treated during my absence. But how I had longed for him!
In Europe and Africa I had seen dogs of purest breed and best pedigree, but, to me, they were only as mongrels when compared to my Bill, my loyal boy. There had not been a day in our travels, when I had not asked myself the question: “I wonder what Bill is doing just now?”
And here I was home and rushing up to meet my pal.
The owner of the stable met me at the door and congratulated me on my safe return. Then he grew serious and began: “See, here, Kil, whatever we could do for Bill, we did, but there’s something the matter with him. He’s off his feed and not half the lively dog he used to be.”
I did not wait to hear any more, but went to look for Bill. Up in the hayloft I caught a glimpse of him. On a bale, nearest to the dilapidated window, there lay my Bill, the picture of loneliness. He looked right straight in front of him and never shifted his eyes.
I stood and watched him for a few minutes, then, stepping behind a post, whispered: “Bill.”
One ear went up, the eyes blinked once or twice, but otherwise he remained unchanged. He was afraid to trust his sense.
Again I whispered: “Bill, Oh Bill,” and then hid myself.
I did not hear him move, but when I peeped out from my hiding place I found the gaze of his true eyes upon me and, with a whine and cry, my Bill and I were partners once again.
What a meeting that was I cannot describe to you, and, were I to attempt it, you would laugh at our silliness. Still, I think that some of you would not laugh and you will need no description of the scene.
That night saw Bill and me back in our ramshackle attic, and we sat up late into the morning exchanging experiences.
Divedom was still flourishing. The reform movement had subsided after the election, and things grew livelier every day. In spite of my ocean voyage and change of scene, my health was not very good, and it took considerable time to eliminate all traces of my African adventure.
There is an old German saw, which reads that any one that goes travelling can tell a good many tales afterward. Not being strong enough to take up my former calling of “bouncer,” I hung around the back room of Steve Brodie’s place on the Bowery, and became a raconteur par excellence. It was not my rhetoric or elocution which made me the lion of the hour. It was solely the recapitulation of my trip, and, particularly my African experience. This should not astonish you, for, I beg to assure you, Bowery boys are not in the habit of extending their tours to the Dark Continent, confining their excursions mainly to Hoboken and other convenient picnic grounds along the Hudson or East River.
I cannot mention the name of Steve Brodie without relating to you a curious phase of fraud, which is not entirely without humor. In saying this, I do not refer to Mr. Steve Brodie’s accomplishments in the bridge jumping line. Whether he really did jump from the Brooklyn and other bridges is a question, which will never disturb the equanimity of the world’s history. I may have my opinion and a foundation for it, but have neither the inclination or time to air it.
It was not very long before the stories of my travels had been told and told again, until every one of the habitués of the Brodian emporium was surfeited with them. This largely curtailed the number of drinks bought for me by admiring listeners, and I was sorely puzzled how to fill this aching void. I was not yet fully able to “hustle” very much, and still stuck to the sheltering shadow of Steve Brodie’s back room.
It was the veriest chance that put me in the way of a new “graft” and again brought me the surety of food and drink. I became a splendid exemplification of the saying that life is but a stage and we players of many parts.
The scheme developed finally owing to prevalent hero-worship. Take the greatest celebrity of the day, push him into a crowd which is not aware of his identity, and he will pass unnoticed. But only properly label him and the multitude will kneel before the erstwhile nonentity.
Now, while we always have the inclination for hero-worship, heroes are rather scarce and not always handy for the occasion. This is especially the case on the Bowery, where quantities of heroes are always supposed to be waiting around, “but ain’t.” Their supposed presence draws the usual attendance of worshippers, and it was solely for the purpose of not wishing to disappoint these worthy people that Steve Brodie, with my co-operation, decided upon a plan, which proved satisfactory from the start, and was the means of conveying many pleasant recollections into the houses of many uptown people and into the rural homes of our land.
The plan itself was very simple, and was originated by John Mulvihill, at the time the dispenser of liquids of the Brodie establishment.
The Horton Boxing Law had not yet been thought of, and the fistic cult had more followers than ever before. A few of the lesser lights of pugilism had their permanent headquarters at Brodie’s, while some aspirants for champion honors and even real champions dropped in whenever happening to be in the neighborhood.
Brodie’s well engineered fame and the many odd decorations and pictures in the place did not fail to draw the many, and they, after inspecting Brodie and the other oddities, invariably inquired if “some prominent fighters” were not present. As a rule, Johnnie Mulvihill was able to produce some celebrity to satisfy this craving of the curious, but there were times when the stock of stars was very low; then the mentioned plan was resorted to. It was the inspiration born of emergency.
On a certain evening I happened to be quietly sitting in the desolated back-room. Business was dreadfully slow. My quiet was suddenly disturbed by Mulvihill, who came tearing through the swinging doors.
“Say, Kil, you got to do me a favor. Steve is out, and there ain’t a single solitary man in the place whom I can introduce to the bunch I got up against the bar. They just came in and are fine spenders, but I’ll lose them if you don’t do this for me.”
Mulvihill’s request was not fully understood by me, yet, owing him many debts of gratitude for having given me a drink on the sly and for having often shared his corned beef and cabbage with me, I was quite willing to do him the favor desired, which, I thought, would be nothing else than to “jolly” the men at the bar into the buying of more drinks.
“No, no,” interjected Mulvihill, “that ain’t what I want you to do.”
He immediately unfolded his scheme, which was nothing more or less than that I should face the expectant as a pretended Jack Dempsey, famous throughout the land as one of the best and squarest fighters that ever entered a ring.
Naturally, I rebelled, not wishing to expose myself to an easy discovery of the palpable fraud, but Mulvihill pleaded with his most persuasive voice.
“Don’t you see, those fellows don’t know Jack Dempsey from Adam. Any old thing at all would convince them they are in the presence of the real man, and you know enough about Jack Dempsey and his history not to be tripped up by those fellows, who never saw a prize fight in their lives.”
Who could resist such gentle pleading? I could not, and followed my mentor in the path of deception.
Assuming the proper pose, I stepped into the barroom and was ceremoniously introduced by Mulvihill to the “easies,” who had traveled quite a distance to bask in the radiance of a real fighter.
“Gentlemen, permit me to introduce you to the famous champion of the world, Mr. Jack Dempsey,” quoted the artful Mulvihill, and, thereby, started me in a repertoire, which, in the number of different rôles cannot be surpassed by the most versatile actor.
The visitors pumped my hands and arms with fervid enthusiasm and showed their appreciation of the honor afforded them by copious buying of many rounds of drinks.
Well, the ball had been set rolling and it was a long time before it stopped.
The plan proved surprisingly profitable, at least for Steve Brodie, and although Mulvihill and I had to be satisfied with the crumbs from the feast, we had a lot of fun out of it and that was no mean recompense. You can imagine some of it, when I tell you that rather often some of the “sightseers” would bring themselves to my remembrance (?) by recalling to me something, which had happened to me (?) in their own town, or how they had seen me defeat Tom, Dick or Harry by one mighty swing from my tremendous left.
If there was fun in it, there was also some embarrassment attached to it. The male sex is not the only one which admires physical prowess, and ladies, escorted by gentlemen, appeared quite frequently at this newly founded shrine of pugilistic worship.
I cannot recollect having ever been so confused as I was on a certain night when I was cast for the rôle of Jake Kilrain, the man who tried to wrest the heavyweight championship from the redoubtable John L. Sullivan. In my limited but appreciative audience were several ladies.
A short while after my introduction I noticed a lot of whispering among the ladies. One, the spokeswoman, stepped over to me and presented the guest of the others.
“Oh, Mr. Kilrain, you must have a perfectly developed arm and chest. They are necessary in your profession, are they not? And may we not have the privilege of testing your strength?”
Before I fully realized what they intended to do they had gathered around me and with many “oh’s” and “oh, my’s” they began to feel my biceps and to prod me in the chest.
Of course, this was only an odd occurrence, and did not happen every night, but it did not help me to respect my “betters.”
It was also very embarrassing when, at the same time, I had to “double” and even “treble.” As an illustration, just let me tell you that in one evening, and at the same time, I represented Jack McAuliffe at the head of the bar, Mike Boden at the end of it, and Johnny Reagan in the back-room—all well-known pugilists and champions in their class. My audiences were especially annoying that night, holding me down to dates and details and keeping me on the edge of apprehension lest I should mix my identities.
Also, on a certain auspicious occasion, while portraying a certain renowned pugilist with admirable accuracy, the said pugilist happened to appear on the scene in person and it was only his true friendship for me which prevented the imitation ending in a fizzle, if not worse.
Now, when all that lies behind me and belongs to a different world and personality, I cannot fail to see the wrongness of it, but, at the time of its happening, I cannot deny having often laughed heartily at the silliness of those gaping curiosity-seekers.
Later, when on account of a disagreement with Steve Brodie, I transferred my headquarters to the palace of the king—Barney Flynn, the King of the Bowery—at the corner of Pell street and the Bowery, we instituted another fraudulent scheme intended to interest and entertain our many friends and provide drink and small change for us.
The palace of the King of the Bowery is not a very imposing building. On the ground floor a saloon, overhead a lodging house, it serves the two purposes of refreshing and resting the subjects of his majesty. For two weighty reasons the saloon has always been the Mecca of the curious. It is, so to speak, the entrance-gate to Chinatown and, also, the official address of Chuck Connors.
Besides the transient crowds of nightly visitors to Chinatown, the saloon is often honored by calls from literary personages. For some time, it seemed to be the proper thing for writers of a certain genre to come there to study types.
Right here let me say, that, without wishing to discredit any writer of dialect stories, I have yet to find the story which presents the idiom of the Bowery as it is spoken. I have taken the trouble to compare different stories—each one guaranteed to be a true and realistic study of the underworld—written by different writers and the discrepancies in the dialect are flagrant.
One, throughout his entire tale, puts “youse” in the mouth of his most important character. The other only uses “ye.” One spells the question: “Do you?”; the other phrases it: “D’you?”
Perhaps this also applies to other stories written in New England or Southern dialect, but whether it does or not, it seems to be a case of “you pays your money and you takes your choice.”
I have yet to see the “low life” story which is not studded with “cul” and “covey.” Take my advice and do not use this form of address on the Bowery. They would not understand it and, therefore, would feel insulted.
Also, the men of the East Side are not so lacking in gallantry as to call their lady loves “bundles” and other similar names.
Then, in the matter of emphatic language the writers are far from hitting the target. The favorite phrase is “Wot’ell,” which is a hundred leagues removed from the distinct utterance with which this dainty bit of conversation is used by a Bowery boy in a moment of rhetorical flight.
So I might cite hundreds of instances.
The same carelessness of detail is manifested in other things, when writing about us. They are not all important errors or serious mistakes, but are grave enough to prove the unreliability of those “true East Side studies.”
A writer, who for a considerable time, has been accepted as an authority on conditions in the underworld, is the most profligate in calling beings and things of the sphere he describes by their wrong name. He persists in claiming that thieves are called “guns” by police and fellows. Every man, who has lived all his life on the Bowery, as I have, knows that “gun” means an important personage. A millionaire is a “gun,” so is a prominent lawyer, or a politician, or a famous crook; in short, anybody who is foremost in his profession or calling, be he statesmen or thief, is a “gun.”
The Bowery is not hard to reach and, if so inclined, you can easily test my assertion. Take a page from one of the many East Side stories extant and read it to a typical Bowery boy and he will ask you to interpret it for him.
The East Side dialect does not abound in slang. Whatever of it there is in it has been absorbed from the Tenderloin and other sources. To coin a funny slang phrase one must have time to invent and try it. They have no time for this on the East Side, where even time for schooling cannot always be spared. And that accounts for ungrammatical expressions and whimsically twisted sentences, but not for the idiotic gibberish and forced coinages of words slipped onto the tongues of my people.
The courtiers of the King of the Bowery, being a good-natured set of fellows, did not wish to curb the fervency of the literary “gents,” and did their best to supply the ever-increasing demand for types.
The inner sanctum of the royal palace was divided from the outer room by the usual glass and wood partition. As Barney Flynn, the King of the Bowery, was a genial and jovial monarch, the more secluded chamber did not resemble a throne-room so much as a rendezvous of kindred spirits. It was a specimen of another strata of nether world Bohemia.
Tables and chairs were about the place in picturesque disorder. On the walls were three gigantic oil paintings, “done” by a wandering Bowery artist for his board and lodging, including frequent libations. In one corner was the voluntary orchestra, consisting of Kelly, the “rake,” the fiddler, and Mickey Doolan, the flute-player. Their day’s work over—they were both “roustabouts” along the river front—the two court musicians would take their accustomed seats, and, without paying much attention to those present, would fiddle and flute themselves back again to their own green shores of old Erin.
They are pathetic figures, these men of the Bowery, who live their evenly shiftless lives in dreams of days passed, but not forgotten.
Being directly in the path to and from Chinatown, Barney Flynn’s saloon was, at odd times, visited by the sociological pilgrims to this centre of celestial colonization. One night, a writer happened to stumble into the place. Whether his impressions were perceived in normal or abnormal condition is not known. The “gang” was engaged in a little celebration of its own, were observed by the writer, and, forthwith, Barney Flynn’s and the royal staff became a mine for authors of low-life stories.
With the acumen acquired in my dive training, I saw very soon that those coming to study us were most willing to pay for grotesquely striking types. The “real thing” had very little interest for them. What were we to do? To get the money we had to be types, therefore, whenever the word was passed that a searcher for realism—with funds—had arrived, we put on our masks, lingual and otherwise, to help along the glorious cause of literature.
No good purpose would be accomplished were I to mention the names of authors, who portrayed us so correctly. They are now celebrities with more paying aims. Their stories of us are still remembered, but only because of their “beautiful and pure sentiment,” and not because of their “true realism.” The latter differs with every writer and has bewildered the casual reader.
I am strongly tempted to call by name one, whose glory as demonstrator was dimmed in an unexpected manner. The writer in question had come here from Philadelphia, preceded by a reputation for his sympathy with those in the slums. Several of his “low down” stories had been hailed as the models for all the other writers of that tribe.
With his usual aggressiveness, not devoid of a touch of almost medieval dash and chivalry, this young man threw himself into the study of New York slums with wonted ardor, and, naturally, mastered the subject almost immediately. Being socially well-connected, or, rather, being well-taken up by society, he had no trouble in interesting his friends in his hobby. He was not niggardly in the spending of his money and quite popular on that account with my friends in Barney Flynn’s. As a matter of fact, this promising young writer—a promise since then fulfilled—was a favorite of the highest and lowest; verily, an enviable position.
With note-book in hand, this young man sat among us for hours, jotting down phrases and slang expressions, manufactured most laboriously and carefully for the occasion. The interest of his friends increased, and one night we were honored by a visit of a large party of ladies and gentlemen, piloted by the aforesaid author.
Before the precious cargo had been unloaded from the cabs and hansoms, word had been taken to the back-room. As actors respond to the call of the stage-manager, so did we prepare ourselves to play our parts with our well-known finesse and correctness of detail. By that I mean, that we knew what was expected of us and that we emphasized our “characteristics” as we had seen them burlesqued on the stage.
The promising young writer was in his glory. With irrepressible glee, he introduced us, one by one, to his admirers, watching the effects of our “quaint” salutations. The chorus of enthusiastic approval was unanimous. We were “absolutely charming,” “perfectly thrilling,” and “too droll for anything.” Encouraged by this warm reception of our feeble efforts, we surpassed ourselves and assault, battery, murder was committed on the English language in most wilful frenzy. Taking it all in all, it was a gem of slum mosaic, and is still remembered by most of the offenders.
Having given our performance and exhausted our programme, we were told by our friends how “very glad, charmed and delighted” they had been at meeting us.
The doors had barely closed behind the last of the promising young author’s friends, before all the performers rushed up to the bar to spend the money given to them for their instructive entertainment. The comments on the visitors were many and very much to the point, but were not uttered in the manufactured dialect. There was much laughter and many imitations of our late audience, and none of us had noticed that the promising young author, accompanied by a few of the party, had returned to look for a pair of gloves forgotten by one of the ladies. Part of our conversation was overheard and the laugh was at the writer’s expense.
Of course, we instantly endeavored to rectify our mistake and fell back to addressing each other as “cull” and “covey,” but, somehow, the effect was not convincing.
One of his friends turned to the promising young author on leaving:
“Old man, you certainly deserve another medal for this, but this time, it should be a leather one.”
I did not know then to what the above remark referred.