Beggars of Life (10 page)

I feared not death at this time. I did fear the Black Bottle.

I left the room the next day, and groped my way to the end of the building where a faucet was attached above a dirty iron basin. Thirst-devoured, I drank freely of the warm water. My stomach revolted again.

Having twenty or thirty cents left, I went down to a cheap saloon that joined the lodging house. With dishevelled hair, and bloodshot, fever-smitten eyes, I blurted out my agony to the bartender.

That man, with coarse, protruding jaw, and heavy hands and shoulders, listened quietly. “Will you get me to the Newsboys' Home, Mister? I'll make it then. It ain't over a mile from here.”

“Hey, Billy,” called the bartender to a man leaning against the wall, “got your truck outside?”

“Yeap,” answered the man as he slouched to the bar.

“Take this kid to Fourteenth and Wabash, will you? He's sicker'n a hospital.”

B
OYS
of all sizes romped in the cement yard that fronted the Newsboys' Home. Bill was among the number.

He ran hurriedly toward me. The flannel-shirted truckman carried me in his hairy arms.

Bill ran up the stairs to the Matron of the Home, and quickly pleaded for my entrance.

“Jist long enough so's we kin git him in St. Luke's,” Bill told her. The kind woman entered my name on the Home Register, and Bill hurried back to me. Other boys had gathered about me.

They carried me up to the dormitory, while the matron telephoned the house doctor.

This man was one of the best-known physicians in Chicago. He came within an hour.

Bill and other boys scrubbed my face and hands, and tried to work a comb through my tangled hair.

Josephine G. Post, the beautiful silver-haired matron, superintended the work. Ever impulsive, and unused to the touch of gentleness, I cried in her arms.

Finally the great doctor came to the whitewashed dormitory. He was followed by two internes. He made an examination, and I can still hear him say, “Typhoid—malaria—advanced. Call the ambulance.”

An interne hurried to the telephone. The doctor and the internes left, and presently two heavy policemen entered the dormitory with a stretcher. I was placed upon it, and carried to the ambulance below.

One of the policemen grumbled steadily until I was placed in the waiting vehicle. The inmates of the Home stood in a group about the matron as the wagon of the poor clattered over the cobble-stones on Wabash Avenue, and turned toward Michigan Boulevard and the Lake.

In a short time, I was bathed, and clad in a clean night-gown, and placed in a white bed near a window which overlooked the blue water of Lake Michigan.

Sick, and at the point of death many times during the next forty-eight days, still, as I look back, even now, they remain the very happiest in my life.

Always, on the road, and in my earlier environment, I had seen too much of the wretched aspects of existence. Women of the finer sort were far off to me, and their gentleness was unknown. A reader of books all my life, and a lover of things beautiful, the doors of my environment had shut out all people who would talk about them to me.

A fluid had gathered on my lungs which seemed to make the abating of the fever impossible for a long time. Three attempts were made to remove it, and the third time was successful.

A German doctor came through the ward, and tapped above my lungs with his finger, and made a mark with a blue pencil on the flesh. That afternoon a hollow needle, to which a tiny hose was attached, drilled its way to the fluid. It ran into a small bottle at the end of the hose. A drop of it turned green on my night-gown.

There were no more relapses after that, and day after dreaming day followed. There were books and magazines in plenty. I roamed over India with Kipling's Kim, and down the roads of England with Hardy's Tess.

A blue-eyed nurse brought me three other books,
The Mayor of Casterbridge, Wuthering Heights
, and
The Story of an African Farm
.

There was no worry about meals or lodging, and the future was a pleasant haze that never cleared. There was never a harsh word spoken in the ward, and doctors, nurses, and internes seldom passed my bed without pausing for a word of greeting.

The boys from the Home made regular visits, and brought fruit each time. The Matron came and lingered over my bed as though I were her own son.

Often now, when the lines of life are drawn taut, I wish for a haven like St. Luke's Hospital.

When it came time for me to leave, the Matron brought me new clothes and shoes. I hated to go, and the last day was one of regret.

The food at the Home, the water, and the rough life and speech of the boys, were things to which I became accustomed only by slow and painful stages again.

I had been cured of typhoid and malaria, but the fever of the wanderlust still burned fiercely in my breast.

E
LECTION
D
AY
in Chicago was always a boon to the boys at the Home.

As soon as the polls opened, I went with Bill to see a ward heeler on C——Street. The man gave Bill the address of five polling places in as many different wards. The name of a man stationed at each place was also given.

We first went to an address on S——Street, in front of which many unkempt men stood. Two better-dressed men with whiskey-lined faces stood near the door. Bill gave one of the men a paper on which his own name was written. The man looked us over and said, as he turned to a small book which he took from his coat pocket, “Let's see, your name is Edward Ryan. You live at the——Hotel, W——Street, and yours,” looking at me, “is William Jones. You live at the same address. Go in an' vote. Then come an' see me.”

We did as we were told. The clerk made a mumbling sound as he sat with his feet high on a table, and his chair tilted back. The oath sounded something like—Woo-woo-woo-woo-woo, in rapid jumbled, and then slightly more clear and abrupt speech—“So help me God.”

The vote cast, we returned to the man at the door, who walked down the street a short distance and gave us three silver dollars each.

We kept this procedure up until we had voted at all five polling places.

At the last place, in a crowded section on West W——Street, the individual at the door said to me, “Let's see, your name's Abe Goldstein. You live at 422 Halstead Street. Go in an' vote.”

“Listen, Mister, what the devil,” Bill yelled. “Do you want to get him pinched? How the devil kin he vote with a name like that and the map of Ireland on his face?”

“Well, it's the last name I have on the list. Take it, or leave it. What's a little thing like a name. A cabbage by any other name ‘ud take just as long to cook.”

“Listen, Red, I look more like a kike ‘an you do. Trade names with me,” suggested Bill.

This weighty matter settled, neglected future citizens of America, we walked in and voted.

As we left the voting place, we saw a crowd gathered on the sidewalk. Our paymaster was in an argument with another gentleman. “Listen,” he was saying, “Ye can't pull that Englan' stuff 'round here, a shoutin' fer the king in front of an American pollin' place. Ye ought to thank God yere in a free country. I'll bust ye in the beezer, that's what I'll do.”

A policeman walked up. “What' 'amatter, Patty?” he asked of the offended one.

“Nothin'. This guy gettin' fresh a little. It's all right now.”

“Will I give 'im a ride!” asked the policeman.

“No. Let 'im go this time.”

When Patty's indignation had cooled, he walked down the street with Bill and me and turned into a saloon. He ordered a drink for all three, and when the bartender had changed a ten-dollar bill, he shoved three dollars each to us.

“Them damn Johnny Bulls gimme a pain in the ear. I wisht we had a war wit' England.”

Bill was the world's greatest yesser. “Yes, Sir. So do I,” he answered. When we were out on the street again, Bill said, “That's all you kin do wit' 'em guys, yes 'em.”

“Yes, Sir,” I said.

The early afternoon returns registered a heavy Democratic landslide. In a short time a great Victory Ball was held at the Coliseum.

T
HE
C
OLISEUM
is a great building on Wabash Avenue. It is said to be modelled after Libby prison of Civil War days.

Through its door had passed many noted political figures, Blaine, McKinley, Roosevelt, Ingersoll, Harrison, and Hanna. It was in the Coliseum that Mr. Bryan made the Cross of Gold speech, being at that time greatly concerned over labour being crucified with a cross of gold and a crown of thorns. The speech made him plenty of gold, but robbed labour of none of its thorns.

The Coliseum was bedecked this night with flags and bunting. The American flag, whose honour had been so gloriously upheld on Election Day, now hung from every conceivable angle.

The subterranean elite of the city arrived in great numbers.

I stood in front of the building as the two leading aldermen of the city arrived.

One of them was a square-jawed little man, whose clothes fit him neatly. The other was a ponderous man, who walked slowly. Both were saloonkeepers.

The little man had been a newsboy on the streets of Chicago. Born in a happier environment, he might easily have made the laws of a nation. He had political acumen and organizing ability of the highest order. He had learned the elementals of life, and had learned them well. All the pages of his life had been dotted with kindnesses. He was human to the core.

A man later entered the United States Senate, whom this little man had staked to a dime's worth of newspapers, when both had sold them together. He was tenacious and wary in a political fight. He played every card to win, and always with the only ethics he knew. He is possibly worth a million dollars to-day. There are those who say that he has given away many millions.

At one time he owned two saloons. One was an orderly, aristocratic little place, where the big political men of the city congregated. Here, the silent little man could usually be found each afternoon.

The inner history of Chicago for the past twenty years was interwoven with the life of this man. For he was the power behind many a temporary throne in the great city by Lake Michigan.

He owned another, and much larger saloon on South Clark Street, at which the floating population of America had gathered for years. It was one of the largest, if not the largest saloon in the world. Large glasses of beer were sold to thirsty vagrants for five cents. The free lunch was always plentiful, and whether a hobo had a five-cent piece or not, he always ate there.

The floor was strewn with sawdust. The place reeked with the odour of filthy clothes and bodies. Broken, wasted derelicts made it their daily headquarters. Wise men carried their beer with them when they walked toward the free-lunch counter, for the watchful eye of the bartender could not always keep it from being hurriedly gulped down by a thirsty vagrant when the owner's back was turned.

The bar was fully a hundred feet long. A yellow-stained looking-glass ran the length of it.

The saloon was often thronged with curious visitors and slumming parties from far and near places.

Vagrants would stream into the city from every direction. They made their headquarters at the cheap hotels in the ward. It was impossible to prove where their homes were, so they gave the names of other floaters who had registered the year before, and had either died or moved on. It made no difference which. Every floater voted for the owner of the saloon. It was impossible to beat him on election day.

Now a crowd gathered about the important little man who walked with the ponderous man. Both men were of Irish descent. They showed their ancestry in the half-choked smiles that lurked at the corners of their mouths.

I stepped up to the little man. “The guy at the door won't let me in— Take me in, won't you——” I pleaded, as I addressed him by his nickname.

The man stopped a moment, and perhaps thought of his own early life on the streets of the city. “Sure, me lad. Go on in.” The doorman stepped back, and I hurried past.

As the two aldermen walked through the door, the band played,

“Hail, hail, the gang's all here.”

The building was almost full, and a shout went up from the assemblage. Painted women and furtive-eyed men joined in the cheering. Circled all around was a sea of ten thousand faces.

The floor was as smooth as a looking-glass. The band played a waltz, and the dance was on.

Sinuous bodies of young women glided over the floor. They were guided by the hands of pickpockets and pimps, bartenders and ward heelers, and all that gentry whose hearts were soft, but whose way of life was hard.

Many of the young women were no older than high school girls. But their manner betokened women who had seen and remembered much.

Crowds of women from the red-light district were seated in boxes above the dancers. Red lilies they were in a carmine atmosphere, and they enjoyed it immensely. If they were aware of the day when they would be withered stalks, they did not show it. Inarticulate Sapphos, drunk on the wine of life, they enjoyed what many wise men claim is all we have, the present.

The dance ended and the Coliseum suddenly became dark. Then a great artificial electric moon shone from the topmost part of the building.

The band played a moonlight waltz. I was enraptured with the scene. A glint of the moon shone above the box occupied by the little alderman, whose steel grey eyes did not leave the gliding dancers on the floor.

There was a commotion to the rear of me, and a voice was heard saying, “Take your hand out of that. What you tryin' to do, rob a fellow lodge member? You've got a mitt like a elephant.”

Quiet came again, the dancing stopped, and the lights went on.

Dozens of burlesque girls who were playing at the different theatres in the city, ran hurriedly to the centre of the floor. Dressed in many-coloured tights, they began a wild Bacchanalian dance that brought applause from the thousands of onlookers.

Round about the floor they whirled, their sensuous bodies in a frenzy of glorious ribald motion. Blue, red, and white forms, with blond, red, and black hair streaming down their backs, they danced with the joy of life in an hour when it was sweet to be alive.

Robes were thrown about the girls when they had stopped dancing. They melted into the throng while the hall was prepared for the grand march.

Meanwhile, in the Coliseum Annex, a fat alderman, tipsy with booze, was impersonating a barber.

“Moler's barber college ain't got nothin' on me,” he yelled. “Who wants a shampoo.” He waved a champagne bottle above him as he yelled. No one answered, but all laughed. Suddenly he spied a boy from the Home, whose hair seemed to fascinate him. He ran heavily after him in an effort to pour the precious liquor on his head. The boy dodged, and man and liquid fell in a wrecked heap on the slippery floor.

A band of negroes in gay silk colours marched upon the floor. A loudly dressed black led them around the hall. Before many years this negro was to be known internationally as a pugilist—Jack Johnson.

There followed the darkies in silks, a composite gathering of negro types made up for the occasion. Some were dressed as cotton pickers, others as levee roustabouts. Old negresses appeared as scrubwomen, young negroes as bell boys—and older ones as Pullman porters. They sang in harmony:

And then—louder—like a college yell.

Then the Grand March began.

The little Irishman walked arm in arm with the ponderous one. The wall of habitual reserve had gone from his face. After them marched wine agents, keepers of bawdy houses, beefy saloon men, gamblers who resembled ministers, and members of local lodges, women in the first and second flushes of youth, the dancing burlesque girls, and the silken-clad and the nondescript gathering of negroes.

Above in a box, a fat man handed liquor to women from the Red-Light District. “I'm waterin' my cattle,” he yelled. The women laughed loudly.

Round and round the marchers walked to the tune of spirited band music.

The lights went out again. The electric moon shone. A great flag, larger than an immense rug, rolled downward from the roof of the building. A breeze played upon it from somewhere. It waved gently back and forth while the electric moon shone full upon it.

The band played, and the great crowd joined in song. A few fine voices from the assembled negroes rose above the rest,

And then later, in a low vibrating roll of voices,

The lights went on, and the speaker of the evening stood on the platform.

He was a lawyer, more polished than the alderman, possibly from long having been used as a tool. He was the graduate of an eastern college, and the son of an old American family. By obeying orders, he had gone far in city politics. He talked fervently about patriotism, and being an Irish-American, he ended by attacking England.

The audience cheered wildly his closing remarks, “The stars in our flag represent the souls of our patriotic dead, the red stripes, the blood of our early martyrs who made this nation that we might enjoy perfect freedom without thralldom of England.” And waving his hand majestically in the air, he continued, “And the stripes of that flag represent the pure souls of our women.”

After loud applause, the crowd dispersed. Cars waited on the Avenue to carry the mob away. Taxis moved through the throng. In a short time, the Coliseum was deserted.