Big Brother and Other Stories E-Book

Rex Beach

• Herausgeber: Ktoczyta.pl
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

This is a simple and sweet book. A story about a little sister who doesn’t like being teased by her older brother. But one day she starts to notice that it’s just a tease and she doesn’t give him the power to upset her. He gets bored and joins in her fun.

Leseprobe

Contents

Big Brother

“The White Brant”

Recoil

The Obvious Thing

I

II

III

The Talking Vase

Too Fat to Fight

Chapter 1 “Plattsburg. One Way.”

Chapter 2 Dimples Tries the Y. M. C. A.

Chapter 3 “One Man to Every Ten!”

Chapter 4 Hill Two Eighty-five

Chapter 5 Dimples Takes Part in a Ceremony

Big Brother

BLACK EAGLE’S braves were on the warpath. Wailing women, orphaned children, burning settlements marked their trail. But they had come to grips at last with Murray’s Scouts and in the battle quarter was neither asked nor given.

Murray’s men were famous Indian fighters; gradually they forced the redskins back and finally brought them to bay in a deep canyon–a cul-de-sac inclosed on three sides by perpendicular walls. Here the work of extermination began. Murray charged at the head of his band; he rode his white horse, Fleetwing, right in among the yelling savages and, drawing his six-shooter, he leveled it at the breast of Black Eagle himself.

Murray was an unerring shot. He never drew except to shoot, he never shot except to slay. He paused an instant before pressing trigger as if to give Black Eagle one more moment of life, and at that instant an unexpected interruption occurred. It came in the form of a cry, a long, shrill, commanding cry from high up on one of the canyon walls; it caused the bloodthirsty warriors, both red and white, to cease their yelling and to raise their eyes aloft.

It was repeated: “Willie-e-e! You Willie Sheehan!”

In an open window of the Sheehan flat appeared the face of Mrs. Sheehan herself. She looked down with disfavor upon this battle. Briefly she commanded:

“Stop that panjammonia an’ get me a cabbage from the Wop’s.”

Black Eagle’s tomahawk fell; he showed anything except relief at his deliverance from the deadly aim of his white foe. In a highly aggrieved treble he protested:

“Aw, mom! I can’t! Aw, mom!”

“He’s an Injun,” excitedly shouted Captain Murray. “I gotta moider him foist, Miz’ Sheehan.”

“Ple-ease, mom! Let sis get it.”

“She’s out wid the baby,” came the voice from on high. “Murdher, is it? Tell the Wop it better be a fresh one or a Sheehan will be up for murdher.” The window descended with a bang.

Black Eagle stirred, but as he went he dragged his heels; he kicked viciously at a tin can. Gone entirely was his high defiance; in its place abode a sullen, spiritless reluctance and he moved with the apathy of one long suffering from hook worm.

Captain Murray, too, was put out, for, above all things, he loved to kill Indians. But the war was over; the kids were streaming out of the vacant lot. Why couldn’t grown folks mind their own business?

Jimmy Donovan, who had been watching the battle from the sidewalk, grinned at the sudden termination of hostilities. Jimmy liked kids and understood them; he was especially fond of little Midge Murray and hence he was sorry the massacre had been so rudely interrupted. Midge was a great boy, always in the lead, always on the winning side. That was a good sign in a kid; that was the sort of kid Jimmy had been. It meant that Midge would amount to something.

Inasmuch as this story deals largely with these two, it may be well here to explain something about them. Donovan, young, tidy, debonair, idle of hand but active of mind, was a famous character and a person of importance in the neighborhood of East Ninetieth Street, for he was none other than the head of the notorious Car Barn gang, an organization well, if not favorably, known to the entire East Side of New York. Midge was the brother of Big Ben Murray, his fellow gangster, his pal, and his first lieutenant.

Nothing more about the boy need be said just now, but Donovan and his gang require some further introduction. In New York there are six principal street gangs, all of which are peculiar products of Manhattan conditions and each one of which exercises what amounts to exclusive privileges of outlawry in its own district. On the West Side, for instance, are the Hell’s Kitchen gang, the Gophers, and the Hudson Dusters; on the East Side are the Gas House, the Hell Gate, and the Car Barn gangs–bands of loafers, all of them, whose members manage to exist without toil and who live in daily defiance of the less serious provisions of the criminal code. These gangsters are not habitual crooks, nor are they hoodlums in the common sense of the word; rather are they minor malefactors, Jonathan Wilds, Arabs of the asphalt, mutineers against the law. Such was Jimmy Donovan and such had been the general state of affairs among the six separate gangs until he fought his way up to leadership of the Car Barn crowd. Haying acquired a position of influence and having apprised himself of the economic advantages arising from trusts and monopolies, he had effected a sort of consolidation of the scattered gangs and made himself the rowdy czar of Manhattan.

It was a feat of genuine leadership, and Donovan had exercised his new powers by relieving an inherent grudge against the police. He had long been a thorn and a vexation to them; it became his amusement, nay, his hobby, once he had acquired power, to annoy, to harass, and to persecute them in every possible manner. Following his elevation to office, life for such uniformed men as were stationed in the gang-ridden sections of the city became a trial and a misery. Rowdyism grew and efforts to check it were met with a defiant cunning hitherto unknown. Violence evoked violence and casualties were not light. One policeman, for instance, who made so bold as to invade the Car Barn rendezvous while the gang was in exuberant spirits, was thrown bodily out of a third-story window, and other meddlers met fates equally unpleasant and quite as disastrous. Jimmy and his friends were rough boys.

Of course, the prompt order went out to “get” Donovan, but his skill in avoiding traps, his ever-ready and ingenious alibis, his knack of evading consequences, were as unique as his gift for organization and it was almost impossible to hang anything on him. Even when apprehended, which was rarely, he proved to be as slippery as an eel in a bucket of ice, for he had mastered most of Houdini’s tricks and handcuffs fell from his wrists as if made of putty. On one occasion when he had been manacled, he freed himself, lovingly patted his captor upon the cheek, and disappeared. At another time he concluded a mockingly emotional farewell speech from the steps of a patrol wagon by suddenly slipping his handcuffs, upsetting his captors, and getting away clean. His most notable exploit in this line, however, had been his escape from the precinct station house after he was actually booked and locked up. The officer who had made the arrest had received the congratulations of those who could best appreciate the difficulty of his accomplishment, and was leaving the station house, when he was thunderstruck to behold his prisoner reading the World’s Series bulletins directly across the street. The officer had felt sure that he must be dreaming, until he had received a bright smile and a wave of the hand from the gangster as he melted into the crowd.

Exploits of this sort quite naturally gained for Jimmy a reputation. In spite of his calling, he became a sort of East Side hero, and the police writhed under the gibes of local residents. A good many people liked Jimmy–that was because of his smile, no doubt–and in consequence of their fondness it became increasingly difficult to fasten anything upon him–yes, and well nigh impossible to make out a case against him after haling him into court.

The police gave him up, finally, as a bad job and deliberately ignored him. It was a triumph for the gangster. He did as he pleased, thereafter, and his reputation grew. He was immune and he enjoyed the strange sensation–for a while. Then one day he awoke to the fact that he was bored.

So long as he had walked in danger, there had been a zest to living; now there was none. He realized with a shock that he was out of a job. For years, necessity had filed his wits to razor edge; rust was dulling them. His tautened nerves had vibrated like violin strings at concert pitch; with nothing to fear, they were letting down and he was getting out of tune. To offset the miseries of ennui Jim became reckless; he waged a more open war of terrorism upon the police, but they failed to react to it–their reflexes were dead. Paralysis had set in. He gave up finally in disgust. He became restless, irritable; he loafed about openly and fearlessly. The depth of his boredom may be imagined when he could find relief in watching kids playing “Indian warpath.” Such was his wretched condition to-day.

“Hey, fellahs!” It was Midge Murray’s shrill voice that arrested the other children. “Wanna see Jimmy do his tricks?” Midge was proud of his proprietary rights in the Car Barn outlaw and he never failed to exercise them. “C’mon, fellahs! I can make ’im. Show ’em dat one wit’ de quarter, Jim.”

“I got a new one–wit’ matches,” Donovan said as the urchins crowded about him. He took an ordinary match and broke it into three short pieces; these he laid in Midge Murray’s grimy little paw. Next he showed his own hands–they were white and well shaped, by the way–then picking the fragments one by one from Midge’s hand, he transferred them to his left palm. “How many is dat?” he inquired.

“T’ree!”

Mr. Donovan closed his left palm over its contents, made a magic pass, then he inverted it and out into Midge’s palm he let fall–four pieces of match! The boys laughed, all but the redoubtable Indian fighter himself.

“Aw, ye had it between yer fingers alla time,” Midge declared. “I kin do dat meself.”

“Yeah? Well, look at me mit. Take a good look.” Donovan opened wide his fingers and the boys made a thorough inspection, front and back. He discarded one piece of match, transferred the remaining three to his left hand as before, closed his fingers, repeated the magic pass. “Now, Mr. Fresh–!”

Slowly Jim opened his fingers and there were four fragments again. One of these he threw away, as before, and once again another took its place. He repeated the performance several times.

“Laugh dat off,” he told Midge with a grin.

This wasmysterious. It was even more mysterious when Jim made a quarter disappear before everybody’s eyes and then picked it off the end of a kid’s nose or out of another’s ear. He had them tie his thumbs tightly together with a piece of stout cord–so tightly that he “ouched” and made a terrible face at the pain–then he directed one of them to stand off and toss an iron hoop to him. He caught the hoop in his bound hands and–whaddye know about that? It came to rest upon one of his arms, having evidently passed right through between his two thumbs. But his thumbs were still tightly tied together! This was genuine magic.

It was a tribute to Jimmy’s powers of entertainment that Father Dan Marron was permitted to approach unobserved close enough to watch this performance,

“That’s a good trick,” said the priest.

Jimmy’s hands came apart somehow and he touched his hat. He respected the cloth but he distrusted it.

Murray and his scouts promptly transferred their fickle attention to Father Dan, for he was the best loved man on East Ninetieth Street and the particular pal of each and every boy present, but he sent them away, saying,

“Run along now. I want a word with Donovan.” Then when they had obeyed, “I’ve got a bone to pick with you, Jim.” Father Marron’s good-natured face had become stern; his lips were set in a firm straight line. Jimmy eyed him curiously, suspiciously.

“You’re the ringleader of all the rowdies, aren’t you? You’re the boss, the high mogul of all the street gangsters, and your word is law.”

“Huh! You been talkin’ wit’ some copper,” Donovan mildly protested. “You can’t believe nuttin’ dey tell you, Father. Coppers believes in fairies an’ Santy Claus an’ all dem t’ings. Honest!”

“You needn’t incriminate yourself. And, by the same token, you needn’t try to pull the wool over my eyes. I’m not talking as a priest. This is man to man. I’ve been telling myself you were a sort of East Side Robin Hood, but it seems I was wrong. I’ve watched your doings–watched you terrorize the police and run things to suit yourself–and I’ve never said a word, but when you begin to annoy women, when you make it unsafe for decent girls to go about alone–”

“Wait a minute,” Donovan broke in sharply. “Who says I done dat?”

“I say so. At least one of your precious Car Barn gang did it and that’s the same as you. He’s your man; he’d never dare, except for your protection.”

“Who done it?”

“Miller. “Cokey Joe,’ they call him.”

“Oh, him!He was steamin’ wit’ hop, Father. He must a’ been.”

“Nothing of the sort. He did it more than once. And the nicest girl in the whole parish, too.”

“Goils is like coppers, Father. Dey t’ink de woild’s against ’em.”

“Not Kitty Costello.”

There was a momentary silence, then Donovan repeated, queerly, “Kitty Costello!” A change, slow but perceptible, crept over his face; it was no longer pleasant to look upon, for some emotion had erased the signs of good nature that he wore as a mask for the world, leaving a countenance hard and evil tempered.

“Any man who’d annoy that girl–” the priest began, but Jimmy interrupted, roughly:

“Don’t boost her wit’ me. It ain’t necessary. Take me woid, Father, she’s as safe from now on as you are. Cokey Joe an’ me–Huh! We’ll have dat understood.”

A brief scrutiny appeared to satisfy the priest. “All right,” said he. “I’ve never interfered with you and yours. See that your Cokey Joes don’t interfere with me and mine.” He walked on.

Father Marron’s accusation had struck the gangster deep, for if the latter had a religion of any sort, Kitty Costello was it. Cokey Joe had dared to accost her, to insult her, whereas Jimmy himself had never even presumed to raise his hat to her. It seemed incredible that any member of his gang–even a hop-head–could so far forget the unwritten law of the Car Barn crowd as to molest a girl, much less one of Kitty’s kind. But Father Dan didn’t lie. As Jimmy set out in search of Miller he hoped he would find the fellow in his normal state of mind, for if Cokey Joe had any artificial courage aboard there might be serious trouble.

Fortunately for the sake of this story, Miller was in the dumps when Donovan discovered him and he met the latter’s accusation with little more than a whining apology. But apologies did not satisfy the irate Donovan and for once in his career he indulged in personal abuse unbefitting a leader. He was burning up and Cokey Joe heard language concerning himself–language voiced in the hearing of his comrades–such as no member of any gang could either forgive or forget. For days thereafter Miller pondered that language resentfully and the longer he thought about it the more vengeful he became.

Bawl him out, would he? In front of people. Donovan was getting swelled on himself, cursing a guy and making him eat dirt in public. And over a skirt, too. If he thought he could get away with that stuff he was crazy. It was time somebody pulled him down. Yes, and Miller believed he knew who could and would do it. At the first opportunity he went down into the Italian quarter and there held earnest conversation with one Mike Navarro.

This Navarro was, in his way, a character quite as distinctive as Jimmy Donovan and far more dangerous to the community. For years the papers had referred to a Mike Navarro gang, but, strictly speaking, there was no such thing, for Italian criminals do not operate in gangs, or if upon occasion they do, their organizations are so secret, their activities are so carefully guarded, that definite proof of their existence is difficult to uncover. Associations of some sort there must be, but how loose or how tight nobody seems to know and certain it is that there are no bands among them such as Jimmy Donovan headed. Navarro, himself, was a stevedore, or posed as such, and now and then he actually worked at that trade–in his idle moments, so to speak–but most of his time was devoted to tasks more subtle and more lucrative. In great cities, blackmail, extortion, dark enterprises of various sorts, can frequently be made to pay better than honest occupations.

Compared with Mike Navarro’s furtive undertakings, the depredations of Donovan and his amateur outlaws were little more than harmless pranks; nevertheless the two factions had clashed, seriously, and there was bad blood between them.

Knowing well the state of affairs, Cokey Joe Miller set himself the agreeable task of fanning the embers of that smoldering feud, and he met with better success than he had hoped for. The coals needed only to be breathed upon, and he returned to his haunts well satisfied with his journey. So! Jim would make a bum of him, would he?

Jimmy Donovan had learned that all work and no play brings dissatisfaction even to people who don’t work; in order, therefore, to provide an outlet for the social yearnings of his followers he had formed a club, a polite organization which gave dances at irregular intervals. It was known as the Pat McGraw Pastime Club, Mr. McGraw being the political boss of that neighborhood, and its functions were taken quite as seriously as were the gate receipts, which latter went directly into the till of the Car Barn gang and were an ever-present help in time of need.

People there were who imagined that a Pat McGraw Pastime ball was an amusing burlesque and afforded opportunities for an adventurous slumming expedition, or that suggestive Barbary Coast dances and strange goings-on could be observed there, but they were mistaken. As a matter of fact, a rigid propriety was enforced. More than once Big Ben Murray had ordered off the floor couples from the Park Avenue district who were “dancing tough,” as he put it, and it availed them nothing to argue that they were merely following the practices in vogue at the smart hotels. When Big Ben declared a dance indecent, indecent it was, and if the guilty parties persisted in argument, out they went. On their bonnets! Nor had any woman ever smoked a cigarette–not a whole one. At about the third draw Ben bounced the lady’s escort. Some he bounced all the way downstairs, giving the girls the choice of going under their own motive power or of suffering the same fate. Nobody ever pulled any rough stuff at a Pastime party.

This particular dance was expected to be the biggest and the finest in the club’s history, and to that end Jimmy Donovan personally saw to the details, even to the decorations of the hall, to the hiring of Rosenbluth’s Jazz Kings, to the catering and cloak-room arrangements, and the like. He did his work well and the affair proved to be no disappointment.

Not only were the Car Barners present to the last man, but also dressy delegations from the affiliated gangs attended, and these, together with the unattached youth and beauty of the neighborhood, made up a crowd of several hundred. There were a dozen or more tuxedos in evidence, and several evening coats. The tails of these latter were considerably longer than usual and their collars rode high in the back, but they lent a distinction, a refinement of elegance, to the wearers which was well worth the rental price. As for feminine loveliness, there was a plenty. Your New York working girl adores parties, and with the Fifth Avenue shop windows to copy from she can manage, even on a small salary, to appear extremely chic. Jimmy told himself proudly, in looking them over, that the Ritz never boasted a sweller bunch of dames than this.

His complacency received a jolt, however, when about ten o’clock Izzy the Jew, one of the men on the door, hurried to him with the breathless announcement that the Mike Navarros were buying tickets.

“There’s a dozen of ’em an’ their girls. Mike’s with ’em. They’re comin’ up now.”

Jimmy uttered an exclamation of dismay, then swiftly he sped to Big Ben Murray. There was time only for a whispered word of warning when Navarro himself appeared in the doorway followed by several other Italians and their lady friends. For a moment they stood in a group, eying the dancers revolving beneath the gaudy loops of paper decorations with which the hall was hung.

Recognition was swift. There came a lull in the babble of voices, and the sound of scuffling feet alone kept time to the blaring saxaphones. Startled faces were turned toward the entrance; some of the couples ceased dancing.

Donovan acted promptly, in the only manner possible, by crossing the floor with hand extended and with an agreeable smile upon his face.

“Hello, Mike!” he said, genially.

Navarro limply took the proffered hand, and showed his white teeth in an answering grin as Jimmy bade him welcome, but his eyes meanwhile remained watchful and the men who had come with him were equally alert.

“You havin’ beeg dance, eh?”

“Sure! De biggest we ever pulled. Me friends is all here. Allof ’em.” Jimmy purposely emphasized the last statement. “We’re coit’ny glad to see youse boys,” he lied.

Navarro carelessly introduced his companions and Jim mitted them all, conscious the while that his palms were growing wet. A run-in with these Wops would have been welcome anywhere, any time, except here and now in the presence of these women and outsiders. He heard himself wishing the newcomers good health and talking about the weather. It was a grand night for a nice, orderly party, and the Pat McGraw parties were always orderly, with never a harsh word spoke by nobody, or if they did they got the worst of it, so a guy was safe in bringing his girl–he could bring his mother, for that matter–so long as she behaved herself–and the proprietors of the hall were personally liable for coats and hats.

Navarro smiled fixedly and agreed that the club’s reputation was indeed excellent and that a nice time would undoubtedly be had by all. Several of the couples who had come with him joined those on the floor; gradually the talking and the laughter were resumed.

But a certain constraint lingered, and Jimmy Donovan cursed silently as he saw more than one pair of dancers slipping quietly out to the coat room. The mere presence of Navarro’s crowd would crab any party; already this one was cold. And of course they were looking for some sort of trouble.

The late arrivals danced pretty much with their own partners, and between dances they remained close together, an ominous sign. As time wore on, Jimmy Donovan experienced all the discomforts of a Turkish bath and he gained little relief from the fact that Big Ben Murray and one or two other dependables managed invariably to remain in the rear or on the flank of the visitors. Ben was always a tower of strength, but to-night the worried Jim felt his heart go out to him. He was watchful, swift, and ruthless, was Ben; Jimmy Donovan was his god. If anything could deter Mike Navarro and his gunmen from their evident purpose, the big gangster’s menacing presence should do so.

As for Jimmy, himself, the situation demanded that he give no sign of apprehension and he rose to it as best he could, but he managed most of the time to remain in the vicinity of the switch box which controlled the lights in the hall.

The explosion was slow in coming; Navarro’s girl set the spark when one of the Car Barn men asked her to dance. His request was formal; it was couched in polite words and voiced in a tone of such perfect respect that Mrs. Astor herself could not have resented it.

“I’d t’ank ye for de nex’ waltz, if ye’d be so kind as to gimme it.” Thus the invitation was spoken.

But Navarro’s girl screamed, and to her escort she cried, indignantly, “That bum insulted me!”

Calamity followed. In one swift, sweeping movement Mike Navarro reached for his automatic, drew and fired it. But instead of firing at the man who had committed the outrage he fired at Jimmy Donovan. The latter, however, at that first scream had been galvanized into movement equally swift, and the stevedore’s bullet buried itself in the wall a foot behind him as he ducked toward the switchboard. It would have been necessary to lead Jim as a flying bird is led.

Before Navarro could fire a second time Big Ben Murray had shot him through the chest.

The Italian reeled; he turned a queer, shocked face toward the tall gangster; his expression was one of stark, blank amazement. As his knees sagged and he pitched forward the weapons of his followers were turned upon his slayer. There was no missing the big fellow, for some of the Italians were within ten feet of him. Ben was riddled.

Then the lights went out and black terror fell. There were more shots–wicked stabs of fire–a rush of trampling feet, a crashing of chairs overturned and smashed, a bedlam of shrieks and curses and hoarse shouts. Against the windows, illumined by the street lights from below, were silhouetted figures in flight, figures crouched in cowering dread, others struggling to reach the fire escapes or to hurl themselves out. The crowd stampeded; it fought blindly; out into the hallway and down the stairs it surged.

Jimmy Donovan threw on the lights when he felt sure the marauders had fled, and a tragic desolation was revealed. What he saw was furniture wrecked and overturned, band instruments abandoned, garments strewn about, terrified and dishevelled creatures crouching in corners. It was as if the hall had been swept by a tornado.

Navarro lay where he had fallen, but Big Ben had somehow dragged himself out from under the rushing feet and was propped upon his hands. Jimmy ran to him, and it was well he came, for the big gangster was fighting for his last breath.

Donovan sobbed and cursed in broken, choking gasps as he took Ben into his arms.

“He’d ‘a’ copped ye, Jim, only I beat him to it.”

“Ben! Wha’d ye let them rats get ye for? For de love o’ God, Ben–!”

Murray groaned with the pain of his going. When others came and proffered help in lifting him he rolled his head weakly.

“Nuttin’ doin’!” he told them. Then: “Listen, Jimmy, I can’t–kick out like dis, on account o’ Midge. Y’know–me little brudder.”

“Get a doctor!” Jimmy cried, furiously, at the bystanders. “Get a doctor, quick, damn youse!” Murray’s weight became heavier in his pal’s arms. “No chance. I got–mine.... But Midge! Ye gotta promise somethin’.... He’s all alone now, Jimmy. You–gotta take ’im.”

“Sure! Sure I will, Ben, but–”

“Honest to God?”

“Honest to God! Only you ain’t–”

“An’ bring him up decent. Y’know–not like me an’ you–”

“Sure.”

“Mit me on it,” whispered the dying man, and Jimmy clasped his hand.

“He’s a–swell kid..... Smart, too, but kinda tough, a’ready.... Don’t let ’im kick out like–dis....” The words were little more than a rustle in the giant’s throat, his lips were numb, his eyes were glazing. Then with a sudden, unexpected flicker of strength he cried, “If anyone tries to loin ’im anyt’ing rotten–moider ‘em, Jimmy! Promise?”

“I promise. Sure I promise!” Jimmy exclaimed, hoarsely. “But you ain’t goin’ to kick out. Honest you ain’t, Ben. You can’t–! Ben–! Benny, old pal–! Benny–! Oh, my God!”

The police were entering now, followed by a curious crowd from the street. Some of them came and stood over the leader of the Car Barn gang, but not until one of them touched him upon the shoulder did he seem to know they had arrived. Then it was a bleak and stricken face he raised.

*     *

*

“I think I got something on this Donovan bird,” Patrolman Collins confided to his fellow officer, Burke, perhaps two weeks after the Navarro raid. Collins and Burke were new men and they cherished a natural ambition to land the elusive Car Barn leader.

“He never started that row with the wops, if that’s what you mean. I frisked him and he had nothin’ on him,” said Burke.

“Oh, sure! It ain’t that; he’s smugglin’ some queer stuff into his room. First off a big teakettle or what looked like it, then a tub an’ a lot of packages, I couldn’t make out what. Sneaky about it, too.”

“Yeah?”

“I ast him what was the tub; if he was startin’ a laundry or something, an’ he says, “No. I got a Norwegian goldfish an’ he’s outgrown his cage.’ Fresh as usual. He’s bought an erl stove an’–”

“Oho! A teakettle, eh?” Burke was excited. “That was a still! An’ the tub’s for his mash!”

“Surest thing you know. If we crash in on him about the time he gets all set up an’ the mash is good an’ sour he’ll have a hard job convincin’ the judge it’s turtle soup he’s makin’, won’t he?”

“I’ll tell the world!” Mr. Burke enthusiastically agreed. “It’ll be poor us landin’ young Houdini, right off the bat. Poor! He’ll have the worm workin’ about Saturday night. An’ us on the beat less’n a month! Say! It’s the young fellahs that knows how to use their head. A lotta these old wrinkles have been on the force so long they think a skull was just made to stretch a cap over, eh?”

During the next few days it did indeed seem as if the Car Barn leader must be engaged in some enterprise more than usually shady, for his actions were queer and in his bearing he was furtive, self-conscious, nervous. When Saturday night came and he returned home early in the evening, Collins and Burke closed in with the practical assurance that at last they had him.

Cautiously they felt their way up the dark stairs of the tenement in which he roomed. Outside his door they were halted by the sound of voices, one deep, firm, reassuring, the other high-pitched, thin, with a reedy quality induced evidently by some intense emotion. It appeared to be protesting wildly, hysterically, and–yes, profanely. Its profanities were broken by sobs.

Collins touched his companion on the arm and whispered, “He’s got a girl. Tryin’ to make her bootleg for him. Ready?”

The door creaked, bulged, gave way before the pressure of two burly shoulders; Collins spoke sharply as he stepped inside:

“Stick ’em up, Donovan! We want to taste that goldfish–” He did not finish his sentence, for an unexpected sight greeted him.

The room was warm and rankly odorous, to be sure, but not with the pungent fumes of fermenting mash. It smelled of laundry soap. Nor was there anywhere visible the bulging copper still, the coiled tubing, and other paraphernalia Collins and his pal had expected. Instead they beheld a galvanized iron washtub in the middle of the floor, and in the middle of the tub a very small, very angry, very tearful naked boy. He was soaped until he shone like a baby seal, and Jimmy Donovan, the street bandit, with coat off, sleeves up, and with a bungalow apron tied around his neck, was scrubbing the child with a brush–or thus he had been engaged when interrupted. He stood now facing the officers, poised in scowling defiance.

“W’at t’hell?” he queried, furiously, and both policemen were somehow aware that his anger was caused less by their sudden appearance than by his own outlandish garb and humiliating occupation. He did not lift his hands aloft.

At sight of the intruders the diminutive figure in the tub had doubled up in maiden modesty. It stamped its feet, then suddenly subsided–plunged itself into the soapsuds until only its head and shoulders were exposed.

“Get out, ya big bums!” it yelled, shrilly. “Get t’hell outa here. Beat it!”

“Say–what’s goin’ on?” Collins demanded, stupidly. He was sure there must be a still somewhere about, for the fanciful picture he had painted remained vividly in his mind. All he could see, however, was an ordinary room with two beds, an oil stove, a bureau, and the usual furnishings of a man’s quarters–nothing more damning in the way of evidence.

“Looks like a pinch,” the owner of the place snarled at him. “Well, what’s on your mind besides hair? I s’pose I stole de Custom House. Hurry up, spill it.”

Burke inquired: “Whose kid is that? An’ what you doin’–?”

“He’s my kid, Midge Murray. Big Ben left him to me. Ye can’t book a guy for washin’ his own kid. It’s Saturday night, ain’t it? Or mebbe youse new coppers has changed de law, an’ de day o’ de week, too.”

Mr. Burke looked at Mr. Collins. Mr. Collins returned the stare. A faint flush colored their sunburnt faces. “Um-m! There’s a lot of hootch bein’ made. You luggin’ in all that plunder an’ everything–”

Midge’s eyes were red from the soap and from his tears, but he ceased rubbing them long enough to curse the officers anew and to make his own feelings understood beyond the slightest doubt. It was bad enough to be held under water by a big bully who soaped you all over and then scrubbed you with a stiff brush that hurt like hell, but to have strangers witness the indignity was more than he proposed to stand.

“Whaddya lookin’ at, ya big tripes?” he shouted. “I’ll get ya for dis; seef I don’t get ya. Me “n’ my gang–” Midge’s groping hands encountered somewhere in the tub the bar of soap that had been the cause of so much of his earlier anguish and seized upon it. He rose to hurl it at the nearest blue-coat, but it slipped out of his fingers and went skittering across the floor. Again he subsided with a wail. But he kicked his feet and splashed terribly. “T’row ’em out, Jimmy. Bounce de kittle on ’em!” he squalled. “Ain’t ya got de guts to bean a coupla squaretoes?”

“Ben kinda let him have his own way,” Jimmy explained, “but I’m gonna make a man of him. Me, I ain’t got de time, no more, to bootleg, if I wanted to.”

“Let’s go,” said Officer Burke, and without a word Collins followed him out of the room.

It was true enough, Jimmy Donovan had taken his oath at par. He was not one to discount a promise exacted by a dying friend. Following Big Ben’s going he had accepted a brother’s full responsibility and now he suffered the consequences thereof, if not patiently, at least philosophically. Those consequences were more painful than ordinarily they would have been, for, although Ben had been a sturdy protector and had provided well enough for little Midge’s animal comfort, he had allowed the boy to run wild and to develop an independent habit of looking out for himself, and naturally, therefore, Midge resented a show of authority on the part of an outsider, even though that outsider was Jimmy Donovan, his hero. A hero is all very well until you live with him and he begins to butt into your private affairs. Yes, and what could be more private, more sacred, than the right to bathe when and where and how you feel like bathing?

If the truth must be known, Midge was not very clean when he came to Jimmy. In the summer it had been his habit to go paddling in the East River, but in winter, of course, there was no swimming, so when his new guardian, who was as meticulous as a cat in the care of his own person, told him that he was getting a bit “gamey” and admonished him to have a clean-up, the boy paid no heed. Bathing was a matter that could be attended to the first thing in the spring. Jimmy spoke to him several times; at last he ordered him to take a bath and to do it that very Saturday night. Midge retorted by telling him to go to hell and not to wait for Saturday. The result of that clash has just been told.

The two clashed again that evening. Their wills met for a second time when Jim unwrapped a flannel nightdress and told the boy to get into it. Midge eyed the garment with disdain and for the nth time told Jimmy what he thought of him. Jim was big enough and brutal enough to hold him down while he deliberately rubbed soap in his eyes and scoured the skin off his body with a wire brush–any big stiff could do that to a guy half his size–so he could probably put that thing on him, if he set his mind to it, but he, Midge Murray, was damned if Jim, or anybody else, was big enough to make him keep it on. He didn’t propose to wear girls’ clothes, even in bed. None of that effeminate stuff for him. He’d run away first. He’d go out West and join the Indians. The more he considered this proposition, the sorer and the more profane he became, until Jim had to read him a lecture on the evils of swearing.

It was the first lecture Donovan had ever delivered and he made heavy weather of it. When at last he had the boy in bed and the room tidied up and had gone down to join the gang, he was worn out.

It is characteristic of members of the underworld, so called, that they look after their young with a jealous care often lacking among people who move in higher circles of society. So it was with Donovan. To his mind, proper care commenced with cleanliness, so he commenced his education of the waif by inducing him to look upon bathing not as some absurd heathen ritual, but as a duty and a pleasure. He made of it a sort of game and convinced the boy, after some trying, that a stiff-bristled brush tickled almost as much as it hurt, if a fellow only thought it did, also that on week days it was practically as easy to wash back of one’s ears as to trust to luck, and finally that it was a distinction, not a disgrace, to be cleaner than other boys.

No growing thing responds so quickly to weeding, to care, and to cultivation, as a child; once Midge’s hostility had been overcome, his physical condition began to improve and his mind to grow. Nobody had ever taken an active personal interest in him up to this time, so when Jim adopted the practice of hearing his school lessons the boy was stimulated to study harder than ever before. This was fun; lesson books took on a new significance. It was tough on Jim, to be sure, for nobody is so busy as the man who loafs–the shorter a person’s hours of actual toil, the harder it is to find an extra one for others–nevertheless he persisted, for Ben had made him promise to bring up the boy decently, not as they had been brought up. Donovan’s severest trial, however, came when he helped Midge with his catechism, for here was something both foreign and distasteful. What portion of it he understood, he disagreed with. It was “the bunk.” Still, kids needed religion, he reasoned, so he did his part and pretended that this was his gospel.

Of course, it was not long before a real companionship developed between the two, and for Midge life began to take on a new and wholly delightful aspect. He quickly grew to idolize the man he had merely liked and admired, and when he showed his love, his trust, his admiration, Jim experienced moments of mingled rapture and discomfort. To awaken sincere, unselfish adoration, even in a child, was thrilling; it hurt to realize how completely misplaced it was. He told himself that he certainly had the kid fooled, and that it was the duty of all grown folks to keep kids fooled until they grew up and had children of their own to fool; nevertheless, it continued to hurt.

When Midge was good, Jimmy did tricks for him, all sorts of tricks. When Jim was good, Midge sang for him. The lad had a velvety, untrained soprano voice with a peculiar emotional quality to its high notes and he knew a verse or two of most of the late songs, especially the popular “Blues.” Some of the verses were not pretty, but Jim loved to listen to them as they came from the boy’s lips.

The question of diet finally arose to concern the gangster. As a child, Jim had eaten what he could get, where and when he could get it, and he had always accepted the comfortable theory that anything a kid is big enough to eat he is old enough to eat. But that theory did not appear to fit Midge. In spite of all the good, nourishing steak, fried potatoes, cabbage, baked beans, pie, and coffee Jim could pile into him, the boy refused to fatten. On the contrary, he grew ever more skinny. Jimmy consulted several mothers, but about all the satisfaction he got out of them was the statement, variously expressed, that Midge was mighty fortunate in having so much elegant and high-priced food to prey upon, and the wish that their own Mickeys and Tommies and Tinos had the half of his luck; so one day he made bold to speak to Kitty Costello. Kitty knew everything.

“De Greek has got standin’ orders, to wrap dat boy around t’ree squares a day,” he explained, “but it’s no good. He gets littler an’ littler. Why, he ain’t de size o’ me thumb!”

“Do you board at a restaurant?” the girl inquired, in some surprise.

“Sure. De best ain’t good enough for Midge.”

“Of course he eats anything he wants?”