Out of Mulberry Street — Section 4

HE KEPT HIS TRYST

Policeman Schultz was stamping up and down his beat in Hester street, trying to keep warm, on the night before Christmas, when a human wreck, in rum and rags, shuffled across his path and hailed him: "You allus treated me fair, Schultz," it said; "say, will you do a thing for me?"

"What is it, Denny?"

said the officer.

He had recognized the wreck as Denny the Robber, a tramp who had haunted his beat ever since he had been on it, and for years before, he had heard, further back than any one knew.

"Will you," said the wreck, wistfully--"will you run me in and give me about three months to-morrow?

Will you do it?"

"That I will," said Schultz.

He had often done it before, sometimes for three, sometimes for six months, and sometimes for ten days, according to how he and Denny and the justice felt about it.

In the spell between trips to the island, Denny was a regular pensioner of the policeman, who let him have a quarter or so when he had so little money as to be next to desperate.

He never did get quite to that point.

Perhaps the policeman's quarters saved him.

His nickname of "the Robber" was given to him on the same principle that dubbed the neighborhood he haunted the Pig Market--because pigs are the only ware not for sale there.

Denny never robbed anybody.

The only thing he ever stole was the time he should have spent in working.

There was no denying it, Denny was a loafer.

He himself had told Schultz that it was because his wife and children put him out of their house in Madison street five years before.

Perhaps if his wife's story had been heard it would have reversed that statement of facts.

But nobody ever heard it.

Nobody took the trouble to inquire.

The O'Neil family--that was understood to be the name--interested no one in Jewtown.

One of its members was enough.

Except that Mrs. O'Neil lived in Madison street, somewhere "near Lundy's store," nothing was known of her.

"That I will, Denny," repeated the policeman, heartily, slipping him a dime for luck.

"You come around to-morrow, and I will run you in.

Now go along."

But Denny didn't go, though he had the price of two "balls" at the distillery.

He shifted thoughtfully on his feet, and said: "Say, Schultz, if I should die now,--I am all full o' rheumatiz, and sore,--if I should die before, would you see to me and tell the wife?"

"Small fear of yer dying, Denny, with the price of two drinks," said the policeman, poking him facetiously in the ribs with his club.

"Don't you worry.

All the same, if you will tell me where the old woman lives, I will let her know.

What's the number?"

But the Robber's mood had changed under the touch of the silver dime that burned his palm.

"Never mind, Schultz," he said; "I guess I won't kick; so long!"

and moved off.

* * * * * The snow drifted wickedly down Suffolk street Christmas morning, pinching noses and ears and cheeks already pinched by hunger and want.

It set around the corner into the Pig Market, where the hucksters plodded knee-deep in the drifts, burying the horseradish man and his machine, and coating the bare, plucked breasts of the geese that swung from countless hooks at the corner stand with softer and whiter down than ever grew there.

It drove the suspender-man into the hallway of a Suffolk-street tenement, where he tried to pluck the icicles from his frozen ears and beard with numb and powerless fingers.

As he stepped out of the way of some one entering with a blast that set like a cold shiver up through the house, he stumbled over something, and put down his hand to feel what it was.

It touched a cold face, and the house rang with a shriek that silenced the clink of glasses in the distillery, against the side door of which the something lay.

They crowded out, glasses in hand, to see what it was.

"Only a dead tramp," said some one, and the crowd went back to the warm saloon, where the barrels lay in rows on the racks.

The clink of glasses and shouts of laughter came through the peep-hole in the door into the dark hallway as Policeman Schultz bent over the stiff, cold shape.

Some one had called him.

"Denny," he said, tugging at his sleeve.

"Denny, come.

Your time is up.

I

am here."

Denny never stirred.

The policeman looked up, white in the face.

"My God!"

he said, "he's dead.

But he kept his date."

And so he had.

Denny the Robber was dead.

Rum and exposure and the "rheumatiz" had killed him.

Policeman Schultz kept his word, too, and had him taken to the station on a stretcher.

"He was a bad penny," said the saloon-keeper, and no one in Jewtown was found to contradict him.

JOHN GAVIN, MISFIT

John Gavin was to blame--there is no doubt of that.

To be sure, he was out of a job, with never a cent in his pockets, his babies starving, and notice served by the landlord that day.

He had traveled the streets till midnight looking for work, and had found none.

And so he gave up.

Gave up, with the Employment Bureau in the next street registering applicants; with the Wayfarers' Lodge over in Poverty Gap, where he might have earned fifty cents, anyway, chopping wood; with charities without end, organized and unorganized, that would have referred his case, had they done nothing else.

With all these things and a hundred like them to meet their wants, the Gavins of our day have been told often enough that they have no business to lose hope.

That they will persist is strange.

But perhaps this one had never heard of them.

Anyway, Gavin is dead.

But yesterday he was the father of six children, running from May, the eldest, who was thirteen and at school, to the baby, just old enough to poke its little fingers into its father's eyes and crow and jump when he came in from his long and dreary tramps.

They were as happy a little family as a family of eight could be with the wolf scratching at the door, its nose already poking through.

There had been no work and no wages in the house for months, and the landlord had given notice that at the end of the week out they must go, unless the back rent was paid.

And there was about as much likelihood of its being paid as of a slice of the February sun dropping down through the ceiling into the room to warm the shivering Gavin family.

It began when Gavin's health gave way.

He was a lather and had a steady job till sickness came.

It was the old story: nothing laid away--how could there be, with a houseful of children?

--and nothing coming in.

They talk of death-rates to measure the misery of the slum by, but death does not touch the bottom.

It ends the misery.

Sickness only begins it.

It began Gavin's. When he had to drop hammer and nails, he got a job in a saloon as a barkeeper; but the saloon didn't prosper, and when it was shut up, there was an end.

Gavin didn't know it then.

He looked at the babies and kept up spirits as well as he could, though it wrung his heart.

He tried everything under the sun to get a job.

He traveled early and traveled late, but wherever he went they had men and to spare.

And besides, he was ill.

As they told him bluntly, sometimes, they didn't have any use for sick men.

Men to work and earn wages must be strong.

And he had to own that it was true.

Gavin was not strong.

As he denied himself secretly the nourishment he needed that his little ones might have enough, he felt it more and more.

It was harder work for him to get around, and each refusal left him more downcast.

He was yet a young man, only thirty-four, but he felt as if he was old and tired--tired out; that was it.

The feeling grew on him while he went his last errand, offering his services at saloons and wherever, as he thought, an opening offered.

In fact, he thought but little about it any more.

The whole thing had become an empty, hopeless formality with him.

He knew at last that he was looking for the thing he would never find; that in a cityful where every man had his place he was a misfit with none.

With his dull brain dimly conscious of that one idea, he plodded homeward in the midnight hour.

He had been on the go since early morning, and excepting some lunch from the saloon counters, had eaten nothing.

The lamp burned dimly in the room where May sat poring yet over her books, waiting for papa.

When he came in she looked up and smiled, but saw by his look, as he hung up his hat, that there was no good news, and returned with a sigh to her book.

The tired mother was asleep on the bed, dressed, with the baby in her arms.

She had lain down to quiet it and had been lulled to sleep with it herself.

Gavin did not wake them.

He went to the bed where the four little ones slept, and kissed them, each in his turn, then came back and kissed his wife and baby.

May nestled close to him as he bent over her and gave her, too, a little hug.

"Where are you going, papa?"

she asked.

He turned around at the door and cast a look back at the quiet room, irresolute.

Then he went back once more to kiss his sleeping wife and baby softly.

But however softly, it woke the mother.

She saw him making for the door, and asked him where he meant to go so late.

"Out, just a little while," he said, and his voice was husky.

He turned his head away.

A woman's instinct made her arise hastily and go to him.

"Don't go," she said; "please don't go away."

As he still moved toward the door, she put her arm about his neck and drew his head toward her.

She strove with him anxiously, frightened, she hardly knew herself by what.

The lamplight fell upon something shining which he held behind his back.

The room rang with the shot, and the baby awoke crying, to see its father slip from mama's arms to the floor, dead.

For John Gavin, alive, there was no place.

At least he did not find it;

for which, let it be said and done with, he was to blame.

Dead, society will find one for him.

And for the one misfit got off the list there are seven whom not employment bureau nor woodyard nor charity register can be made to reach.

Social economy the thing is called; which makes the eighth misfit.

IN THE CHILDREN'S HOSPITAL

The fact was printed the other day that the half-hundred children or more who are in the hospitals on North Brother Island had no playthings, not even a rattle, to make the long days skip by, which, set in smallpox, scarlet fever, and measles, must be longer there than anywhere else in the world.

The toys that were brought over there with a consignment of nursery tots who had the typhus fever had been worn clean out, except some fish-horns which the doctor frowned on, and which were therefore not allowed at large.

Not as much as a red monkey on a yellow stick was there left on the island to make the youngsters happy.

That afternoon a big, hearty-looking man came into the office with the paper in his hand, and demanded to see the editor.

He had come, he said, to see to it that those sick youngsters got the playthings they were entitled to; and a regular Santa Claus he proved to the friendless little colony on the lonely island, for he left a crisp fifty-dollar note behind when he went away without giving his name.

The single condition was attached to the gift that it should be spent buying toys for the children on North Brother Island.

Accordingly, a strange invading army took the island by storm three or four nights ago.

Under cover of the darkness it had itself ferried over from One Hundred and Thirty-eighth street in the department yawl, and before morning it was in undisputed possession.

It has come to stay.

Not a doll or a sheep will ever leave the island again.

They may riot upon it as they please, within certain well-defined limits, but none of them can ever cross the channel to the mainland again, unless it be the rubber dolls who can swim, so it is said.

Here is the muster-roll: Six sheep (four with lambs), six fairies (big dolls in street-dress), twelve rubber dolls (in woolen jackets), four railroad-trains, twenty-eight base-balls, twenty rubber balls, six big painted (Scotch plaid) rubber balls, six still bigger ditto, seven boxes of blocks, half a dozen music-boxes, twenty-four rattles, six bubble (soap) toys, twelve small engines, six games of dominoes, twelve rubber toys (old woman who lived in a shoe, etc. ), five wooden toys (bad bear, etc. ), thirty-six horse-reins.

As there is only one horse on the island, and that one a very steady-going steed in no urgent need of restraint, this last item might seem superfluous, but only to the uninstructed mind.

Within a brief week half the boys and girls on the island that are out of bed long enough to stand on their feet will be transformed into ponies and the other half into drivers, and flying teams will go cavorting around to the tune of "Johnny, Get your Gun," and the "Jolly Brothers Gallop," as they are ground out of the music-boxes by little fingers that but just now toyed feebly with the balusters on the golden stair.

That music!

When I went over to the island it fell upon my ears in little drops of sweet melody, as soon as I came in sight of the nurses' quarters.

I listened, but couldn't make out the tune.

The drops seemed mixed.

When I opened the door upon one of the nurses, Dr. Dixon, and the hospital matron, each grinding his or her music for all there was in it, and looking perfectly happy withal, I understood why.

They were all playing different tunes at the same time, the nurse "When the Robins Nest Again," Dr. Dixon "Nancy Lee," and the visitor "Sweet Violets."

A little child stood by in open-mouthed admiration, that became ecstasy when I joined in with "The Babies on our Block."

It was all for the little one's benefit, and she thought it beautiful without a doubt.

The storekeeper, knowing that music hath charms to soothe the breast of even a typhus-fever patient, had thrown in a dozen as his own gift.

Thus one good deed brings on another, and a good deal more than fifty dollars' worth of happiness will be ground out on the island before there is an end of the music.

There is one little girl in the measles ward already who will eat only when her nurse sits by grinding out "Nancy Lee."

She cannot be made to swallow one mouthful on any other condition.

No other nurse and no other tune but "Nancy Lee" will do--neither the "Star-Spangled Banner" nor "The Babies on our Block."

Whether it is Nancy all by her melodious self, or the beautiful picture of her in a sailor's suit on the lid of the box, or the two and the nurse and the dinner together, that serve to soothe her, is a question of some concern to the island, since Nancy and the nurse have shown signs of giving out together.

Three of the six sheep that were bought for the ridiculously low price of eighty-nine cents apiece, the lambs being thrown in as make-weight, were grazing on the mixed-measles lawn over on the east shore of the island, with a fairy in evening dress eying them rather disdainfully in the grasp of tearful Annie Cullum.

Annie is a foundling from the asylum temporarily sojourning here.

The measles and the scarlet fever were the only things that ever took kindly to her in her little life.

They tackled her both at once, and poor Annie, after a six or eight weeks' tussle with them, has just about enough spunk left to cry when anybody looks at her.

Three woolly sheep and a fairy all at once have robbed her of all hope, and in the midst of it all she weeps as if her heart would break.

Even when the nurse pulls one of the unresisting mutton heads, and it emits a loud "Baa-a," she stops only just for a second or two and then wails again.

The sheep look rather surprised, as they have a right to.

They have come to be little Annie's steady company, hers and her fellow-sufferers' in the mixed-measles ward.

The triangular lawn upon which they are browsing is theirs to gambol on when the sun shines, but cross the walk that borders it they never can, any more than the babies with whom they play.

Sumptuary law rules the island they are on.

Habeas corpus and the constitution stop short of the ferry.

Even Comstock's authority does not cross it: the one exception to the rule that dolls and sheep and babies shall not visit from ward to ward is in favor of the rubber dolls, and the etiquette of the island requires that they shall lay off their woolen jackets and go calling just as the factory turned them out, without a stitch or shred of any kind on.

As for the rest, they are assigned, babies, nurses, sheep, rattles, and railroad-trains, to their separate measles, scarlet-fever, and diphtheria lawns or wards, and there must be content to stay.

A sheep may be transferred from the scarlet-fever ward with its patron to the mixed-measles or diphtheria, when symptoms of either of these diseases appear, as they often do; but it cannot then go back again, lest it carry the seeds of the new contagion to its old friends.

Even the fairies are put under the ban of suspicion by such evil associations, and, once they have crossed the line, are not allowed to go back to corrupt the good manners of the babies with only one complaint.

Pauline Meyer, the bigger of the two girls on the mixed-measles stoop,--the other is friendless Annie,--has just enough strength to laugh when her sheep's head is pulled.

She has been on the limits of one ward after another these four months, and has had everything short of typhus fever and smallpox that the island affords.

It is a marvel that there is one laugh left in her whole little shrunken body after it all; but there is, and the grin on her face reaches almost from ear to ear, as she clasps the biggest fairy in an arm very little stouter than a boy's bean-blower, and hears the lamb bleat.

Why, that one smile on that ghastly face would be thought worth his fifty dollars by the children's friend, could he see it.

Pauline is the child of Swedish emigrants.

She and Annie will not fight over their lambs and their dolls, not for many weeks.

They can't. They can't even stand up.

One of the railroad-trains, drawn by a glorious tin engine, with the name "Union" painted on the cab, is making across the stoop for the little boy with the whooping-cough in the next building.

But it won't get there; it is quarantined.

But it will have plenty of exercise.

Little hands are itching to get hold of it in one of the cribs inside.

There are thirty-six sick children on the island just now, about half of them boys, who will find plenty of use for the balls and things as soon as they get about.

How those base-balls are to be kept within bounds is a hopeless mystery the doctors are puzzling over.

Even if nines are organized in every ward, as has been suggested, it is hard to see how they can be allowed to play each other, as they would want to, of course, as soon as they could toddle about.

It would be something, though, a smallpox nine pitted against the scarlets or the measles, with an umpire from the mixed ward!

The old woman that lived in a shoe, being of rubber, is a privileged character, and is away on a call in the female scarlet, says the nurse.

It is a good thing that she was made that way, for she is very popular.

So are Mother Goose and her ten companion rubber toys.

The bear and the man that strike alternately a wooden anvil with a ditto hammer are scarcely less exciting to the infantile mind; but, being of wood, they are steady boarders permanently attached each to his ward.

The dominoes fell to the lot of the male scarlets.

That ward has half a dozen grown men in it at present, and they have never once lost sight of the little black blocks since they first saw them.

The doctor reports that they are getting better just as fast as they can since they took to playing dominoes.

If there is any hint in this to the profession at large, they are welcome to it, along with humanity.

A little girl with a rubber doll in a red-woolen jacket--a combination to make the perspiration run right off one with the humidity at 98--looks wistfully down from the second-story balcony of the smallpox pavilion, as the doctor goes past with the last sheep tucked under his arm.

But though it baa-a ever so loudly, it is not for her.

It is bound for the white tent on the shore, shunned even here, where sits a solitary watcher gazing wistfully all day toward the city that has passed out of his life.

Perchance it may bring to him a message from the far-away home where the birds sang for him, and the waves and the flowers spoke to him, and "Unclean" had not been written against his name.

Of all on the Pest Island he alone is hopeless.

He is a leper, and his sentence is that of a living death in a strange land.