Sandburrs and Others

THE BIG TOUCH

Me fren’, Mollie Matches,” observed Chucky.

That was our introduction. A moment later Chucky whispered in a hoarse aside:

“Matches is d’ dip I chins youse about, who gets d’ Hummin’ Boid t’run into him.”

“Matches,” as Chucky called him, was a sad, grey, broken man. Years and a life of flight and anxious furtivity had told on him. His eye was dancing and birdlike; resting on nothing, roving always; the sure mark of one sort of criminal. Matches drank for an hour before he felt at ease. That time arrived, however, and I took advantage of it to feed my curiosity. It was no easy matter, but at last I won him by a deft blending of flattery and drink to talk of his crimes. And indeed I fear – for I suppose the expert thief does plume himself a bit on his art – that Matches took some sort of wretched pride in his illicit pocket searchings.

“D’ biggest touch I ever makes,” said Matches, in response to a query, “was $36,000; quite a bunch of dough. Gettin’ it was easy; gettin’ away wit’ it was d’ squeak.

“We toins d’ trick on d’ train from Albany. D’ tip comes straight to me in New York that a bloke is goin’ to draw $36,000 from d’ Albany bank on such a day. I makes up a mob; t’ree stalls an’ meself; – all pretty fly we was – an’ lands in Albany.

“We gets onto d’ party who’s to be woiked early in d’ mornin’, an’ shadows him so dost he’s never out of reach. Our play is to follow him to d’ bank an’ do him wit ‘d’ drop game. If that misses, we’re to stay wit’ him till d’ bundle’s ours be one racket or another.

“This sucker is pretty soon himself, see! He ain’t such a mut as we figgers. His train starts at 1 o’clock, an’ he takes in d’ bank on his way to d’ station.

“Of course we was wit’ him; but he’s dead leary an’ never t’rows himself open to be woiked. D’ stuff is in t’ousand-dollar willyums, an’ as he just sinks it in his keck d’ minute his hooks is onto it, an’ never stops to count or run his lamps over it, we don’t get no chanct to do d’ drop. D’ instant d’ money’s in his mits he plants it – all stretched out long in a big leather, it is – in his inside pocket, an’ screws his nut for d’ door. D’ hack slams an’ he’s on his way to d’ train.

“Yes; we starts for d’ station be another street. D’ bloke ain’t onto us yet, an’ we tries not to plant a scare into him. He’s leary enough as it is; just havin’ such a roll wit’ him rattles him.

“So I makes up me mind to do d’ job on d’ train runnin’ into New York. As he sinks d’ stuff away, I notes how d’ ends of d’ bills sticks out over d’ pocket-book. Me idee is to weed it – get d’ dough an’ leave d’ leather in his pocket – if I can make d’ play. Weedin’ was d’ way to do; you gets d’ long green an ‘d’ sucker still has d’ leather to feel of, an’ it’s some time before he tumbles he’s been touched, see!

“D’ guy wit ‘d’ stuff plants himself in a seat. Two of me stalls sits ahead of him, me an’ me other pal is behint him. We only waits now for him to get up an’ come along d’ aisle of d’ car to get in our hooks.

“Foist I goes d’ len’th of d’ train to see who’s onto it. I always does that; I wants to see if any guy aboard knows Mollie Matches. You see, if there is, when d’ holler comes, an’ some duck declares himself shy his spark, or roll, or ticker, it’s 40 to 1 Mr. Know-all, who’s onto me for a crook, sends a tip to d’ p’lice: ‘Matches was on d’ train!’ an’ I gets d’ collar. No, I never woiks when one of me acquaintances is along be accident. D’ cops, in such case, as I says, is put onto me an’ spots me wit ‘d’ foist yell.

“I covers d’ train an’ comes back. There’s no guy on me visiting list who’s along. So I sits down wit’ me pal to d’ rear of d’ sucker an’ waits.

“It’s not for long. D’ leather’s still in his inside keck, ‘cause I can see him pressin’ on it wit’ his mit to make sure it’s there. At last he gets up to go to d’ watercooler. I sees d’ move comin’, an’ is in d’ aisle before him. So’s me stalls. From start to finish no one bungles d’ stunt. There’s a tangle – all be accident, of course – every mug ‘pologises, we break away, an’ I’ve got d’ blunt. But d’ woist part is, I can’t weed it. D’ stuff won’t come no other way, an’ so I lifts leather an’ all.

“There’s due to be a roar in no time; – this mark’s bound to be on he’s frisked! – so I splits out each stall’s bit in a hurry an’ says: ‘Every gent for himself! an’ if youse is nipped, don’t knock!’ an’ then I sherries me nibs for d’ rear coach. It was great graft. Me bit was $9,000, an’ I has me plan all set up to save it an’ meself wit’ it. This is d’ racket I has in me cocoa.

“In d’ last coach is an old w’ite choker – a pulpit t’umper, you understand. Wit’ him is his daughter, an’ wit’ her is her kid. Mebby d’ kid, say, is six years. I heads for ‘em an’ begins to give d’ old skate a jolly. I was dead strong on patter in them days, an’ puts it up I’m a gospel sharp from Hamilton. I saws it off on his nibs how me choich boins down, an’ how I’m linin’ out to New York to see if d’ good folks down there won’t spring their rolls – cough up be way of donations, you understand, an’ help us slam up a new box – choich, I means – so we can go back to our graft.

“It’s all right. Me razzle dazzle takes like spring water. In two minutes me an ‘d’ old party an ‘d’ loidy, an’ for that matter d’ kid, is t’ick as t’ieves. We was bunched together, singin’ ‘Jesus, Lover of me Soul,’ to beat four of a kind, when d’ galoot I skins for his bundle lifts d’ shout he’s been done, see!

“This dub who lose is t’ree coaches ahead. D’ foist we knows of his troubles – all but me – d’ Con’ comes an’ locks d’ door. No one can get off d’ train. Then he stops an’ taps d’ wires wit’ a machine from d’ baggage car an’ sends d’ story chasin’ into New York.

“‘Party t’run down for $36,000, says d’ message; ‘swag an’ crooks still on me train. Send orders.’

“D’ order comes to keep d’ doors locked an’ run to New York wit’ no more stops. An’ after puttin’ a Brakey in each coach to see what goes on, that’s what dey does. We go spinnin’ into New York at forty-five miles an hour.

“Naturally, I’m in a steam. I goes all right wit ‘d’ Con’, an’ d’ train crew, as a sky pilot, but how was I to make d’ riffle wit’ de fly cop of New York, who’d be waitin’ for d’ train – me mug in d’ gallery, an’ four out o’ five of ‘em twiggin’ me be me foist name? But I t’ought it out.

“When d’ train rumbles into d’ Gran’ Central, d’ door is slammed open an’ we all gets up to go. A fly-cop is comin’ in just as we starts. I grabs up d’ kid to carry him, see! bein’ d’ old preacher party nor d’ skirt ain’t so able as me.

“Say! it was a winner. I buries me map in d’ kid’s make-up, gets between d’ goil an’ d’ old stumblin’ mucker of a gran’dad, an’ walks slap t’rough d’ entire day-push of d’ Central office. An’ hard, sharp marks dey is to beat, see!

“Fly dey is, but not swift enough for Matches wit a scare on, see! Not a dub of ‘em tumbles to me.

“In two moves an’ ten seconts I’m in d’ street. As I goes along I pulls a ring off one of me north hooks wit’ me teet,’ an’ t’oins it over to d’ kid as his bit for makin’ d’ good front for me. No; d’ others don’t catch on, but d’ way he cinches it in his small mit shows me he’s goin’ to save it out for fair.

“When I hits d’ street I drops d’ youngone, who’s still froze to his solitaire, an’ grabs off a cab, an’ in twenty minutes I’m buried where all d’ p’lice in New York couldn’t toin me up in a t’ousand years.

“No; me pals got d’ collar, an’ each does a stretch. But dey lays dead about me; never peached nor squealed. I win out.

“Who? – d’ w’ite choker an’ his party? Nit; never hears of ‘em ag’in. For four days I gets one of d’ fam’ly – he’s a crook who’s under cover for a bank trick, an’ who’s eddicted – to read me all d’ poipers. I wants to see if d’ preacher an’ his goil gives up anyt’ing about d’ ring I swaps to d’ kid.

“Never hears a peep! Nixie; dey was on all right, you bet your life! when their lamps lights on that jewelry; but most likely dey needs d’ ring in their graft. It was a spark wort’ five hundred cases from any fence in d’ land, an’ so d’ old guy an’ his goil sort o’ stan’s for d’ play, see!”

THE FATAL KEY

Young Jenkins prided himself on sharp eyes. He said he could “give a hawk cards and spades.” He could find four-leaf clovers where no one else could see them. He took in the smallest detail of the scenery all about him.

As a result, young Jenkins was a great finder of small trifles, and that he might miss nothing, lost, strayed or stolen, he went about during the little journeys of the day, with his eyes searching the ground. And he picked up many trinkets of a personal sort that other men had lost. Nothing of much value, perhaps, but it served to please young Jenkins, and it gave him a chance to boast of the sharp, devouring character of his eyes.

Even as a child, young Jenkins was prone to find things. He told how once his talents as a retriever made him the subject of parental suspicion. He was ten years old when he picked up a four-blade Barlow knife.

“Where did you get it?” queried old Jenkins, as young Jenkins displayed his treasure trove.

“Found it,” was the reply.

“Oh, you found it!” snorted old Jenkins. “Well, take it straight back, and put it where you found it, and don’t ‘find’ any more. If you do, I’ll lick you out of your knickerbockers!”

In spite of such discouragement, young Jenkins kept on finding all sorts of bric-à-brac. He does even to this day.

One evening young Jenkins had a disagreeable adventure, as the fruit of his talent, which for an hour or so made him wish he had weaker vision.

It was on Great Jones Street, and young Jenkins, hurrying along, noticed in the half moonlight a big store key, where the owner had dropped it just after locking up for the night. The hour was full midnight.

Young Jenkins possessed himself of the key. He looked at it as he held it in his hand, and wondered how the careless shopman would open up in the morning without it.

From where it lay it wasn’t hard to infer the store to which the key belonged. Yet to make sure on that point it occurred to young Jenkins that he might better try the lock with it.

Young Jenkins had just fitted the big key to the lock when some one seized him by the wrist. It startled him so that he dropped the key and allowed it to go rattling along the sidewalk. As young Jenkins looked up he saw that the party who had got him was a member of the police.

“I was trying to unlock the door!” stammered young Jenkins.

“I saw what you were about,” said the officer with suspicious severity. “What were you monkeying with the door for? You aren’t the owner of this store?”

“No, sir,” said young Jenkins, much impressed. “No, sir; I – ”

“Nor one of the clerks?”

“No, sir,” replied young Jenkins again, “I have nothing to do with the store. I found the key, and thought I’d see if it opened this door.”

“What did you want to see if it would open the door for? Don’t you think it is a little late for a joke of that sort?”

“It wasn’t a joke,” said young Jenkins, beginning to perspire rather copiously; “it was an experiment. I found the key on the sidewalk, and wanted to see – ”

“Yes!” interrupted the blue coat with a fine scorn; “you wanted to see if you could get into the store and rob it bare. That is what you wanted to see. You’re a box-worker, if ever I met one, and if I hadn’t come along you would have had this bin cracked and cleaned out in another ten minutes.”

“I told you I found the key,” protested young Jenkins.

“That’s all right about your finding the key!” said the policeman in supreme contempt. “You found the key and I found you, and we’ll both keep what we’ve found. That’s square, ain’t it?”

And in spite of all young Jenkins could say at that late hour of the twenty-four, the faithful officer dragged him to the station, where a faithful sergeant faithfully registered him, and a faithful turnkey locked him faithfully up.

As young Jenkins sat unhappy in his cell, while vermin sparred with him for an opening, he registered a vow that never again would he find anything.

Young Jenkins wouldn’t pick up a twenty-dollar gold piece were he to meet one to-day in the street.

AN OCEAN ERROR

No; neither my name nor the name of my vessel can I give. Our navy has a way of courtmartialing its officers who wax garrulous.”

It was just as the Lieutenant called for the creme de menthe, that may properly succeed a dinner well ordered and well stowed.

“But you are welcome to the raw facts,” continued the Lieutenant. “It was during those anxious days that went before the penning in of Cervera at Santiago. We had been ordered on a ticklish service. Schley was over south of the island on a prowl for the Spanish fleet. Sampson was, or should have been, off the Windward Passage similarly employed. Cervera was last heard of two weeks before at Barbadoes. Then he disappeared like a ghost; no one knew where his smoke would be sighted next. The one sure thing, of which all were aware, was that with Sampson anywhere between the Mole and Cape Mazie, and Schley searching the wide seas south of Cuba, Cervera might easily with little luck and less seamanship dodge either and appear off Havana. There the cardboard fleet left on blockade wouldn’t, with such heavy odds, last as long as a drink of whiskey.

“It stood thus when our orders came to my Captain to proceed to Bayou Hondu, some seventy miles west of Havana, and there stand off and on, like a policeman walking his beat, in what would be the path of Cervera should he work to the rear of Schley and to the north of Cuba by the way of St. Antonio.

“Our vessel was detailed on this duty because of her perfect order and speed of seventeen knots. Our heavy armament was eight 4-inch broadside guns, with a 6-inch rifle forward and another mounted aft. Our orders were: If Cervera came upon us to fight! – steam as slowly as might be for Havana and fight! – and to keep fighting until sunk or sure that the block-aders off Havana were warned, whether by our signals or our racket, of Cervera’s coming.

“It was a grinding task, this lonely patrol off Bayou Hondu. The rains had just begun, the weather was a dripping hash of fog and squall and rain. If Cervera didn’t come, it meant discomfort; and if he did, it meant death. Take it full and by, the outlook was depressing.

“At night no light burned and the ship was dark as a coffin. This, with the service, contributed to keep us all in a mood of alert nervousness. Cervera’s ships would also be dark. We didn’t care to be crept upon, and get our first notice of his advent from the broadside that sent us to the bottom like an anvil.

“We had been on this dreary duty some ten days. It was a dark, heavy night. I myself had the bridge, and the captain, whose anxiety kept him up, was seated in the starboard corner, dozing. His sea cloak was thrown over his head to keep out the weather. We were working to the eastward, with engines at quarter speed, and with a head sea running, were making perhaps three knots.

“The ship’s bells were not being struck for the hours, and I had just looked at my watch by the light of the binnacle. It was half-past two in the morning.

“‘How’s your head?’ I asked of the man at the wheel, as I put up my timepiece.

“‘East by south, half south,’ he replied.

“This was taking us too much inshore. ‘Starboard for a point!’ I said.

“As I turned from the wheel I saw that which sent a thrill over me and brought me up all standing. It was the murky loom of a great ship, black and dim and dark and silent as ourselves. She was off our port quarter and not five hundred yards away. It gave me a start, I confess. None of our ships should be that far to the west of Havana. It was a sword to a sheath knife she was one of Cervera’s advance.

“Instantly I reached for the electric button; and instantly the red and white lights, which stood for the letter of that night, burned in our semaphore. The stranger replied with a red over two white lights. It was the wrong letter.

“With my first motion, the captain was on his feet; his hand gripped the lever that worked the engine bells.

“‘Try her again!’ he said.

“Again I flashed the proper letter, and again came a queer reply.

“The next moment the captain jammed the lever ‘Full steam, ahead!’ and a general call to quarters went singing through the ship.

“‘Starboard!’ shouted the captain to the man at the wheel; ‘starboard! pull her over!’

“There was a vast churning from the propellers; the vessel leaped forward like a horse; the sailor climbed the wheel like a squirrel. We surged forward with a broad sheer to port. The next instant we opened on our dark visitor with every gun in the larboard battery. It wasn’t ten seconds after she gave us the wrong signal when she got our broadside.

“The result was amazing. With the first crash of our guns the stranger went from utter darkness to the extreme of light. She flashed out all over like a Fall River steamer. Knowing who we were – for they bore orders for us – and realizing that there had been some mixing of signals, the officer on her bridge had the wit to turn on every light in his ship. It was an inspiration and saved them from a second broadside.

“Who was she? One of our own vessels. Cervera was locked in Santiago and she had come up to tell us the news. Her officer blundered in giving out the wrong letter for the night, and thereby sowed the seed of our misunderstanding.

“No, beyond peppering her a bit, our fire did no harm. We were so close that most of our shot went over her. Still, I don’t believe that vessel will ever get her signals fouled again. And it’s just as well that way. If she had made the wrong talk to some one of our heavy-weights, the Oregon, for instance, she would have gone down like so much pig-iron.”

SKINNY MIKE’S UNWISDOM

CHUCKY was posed in his usual corner. As I came in he nodded sullenly as one whom the Fates ill-use. I craved of Chucky to name his drink; it was the surest way to thaw him.

“Make it beer,” said Chucky.

Now beer stood as a symbol of gloom with Chucky, as he himself had told me.

“It’s always d’ way wit’ me,” said Chucky on that far occasion when he explained “Beer”, “when I’m dead sore an’ been gettin’ it in d’ neck, to order beer. It’s d’ sorrowfulest kind of booze, beer is; there’s a sob in every bottle of it, see!”

Realising Chucky’s low spirits by virtue of present beer, I suavely made query of his unknown grief and tendered sympathy.

“I’ve been done for me dough,” replied Chucky, softening sulkily. “You minds d’ races at d’ Springs? That’s it; I gets t’run down be d’ horses. I get d’ gaff for fifty plunks. Now, fifty plunks ain’t all d’ money in d’ woild; but it was wit’ me. It was me fortune.”

Chucky ruminated bitterly.

“Oh, I’m a good t’ing!” he ejaculated, as he tilted his chair against the wall with an air of decision. “I’ll play d’ jumpers agin, nit!

“W’at’s d’ use? I can’t beat nothin’. Say! I couldn’t beat a drum! I’m a mut to ever t’ink of it! I ought to give meself up to d’ p’lice right now an’ ast ‘em to put me in Bloomin’dale or some other bug house. I’m nutty, that’s what I am; an’ that’s for fair! Now, I’d as lief tell you. It’s d’ boss hard luck story, an’ that ain’t no vision!

“In d’ foist place, I was a rank sucker to d’ point of deemin’ meself a wise guy about d’ horses. An’ it so follows, bein’ stuck on meself about horses, as I says, that when Skinny Mike blows in wit ‘d’ idee that he can pick d’ winner of d’ big event, I falls to d’ play, an easy mark.

“Mike is an oldtime tout; an’ wit’ me feelin’, as I says, dead fly, it ain’t a minute before I’m addin’ me ignorance to Mike’s, an’ we’re runnin’ over d’ dopes in d’ papers seein’ what d’ horses has done. To make a long story short, we settles it for a finish that War Song’s out to win. Which, after all, ain’t such a sucker t’eory.

“‘It’s a cinch!’ says Skinny Mike; ‘War Song’s got a pushover. Dey can’t beat him; never in a t’ousand years!’

“It looks a sure tip to me, too; so I digs for me last dollar an’ hocks me ticker besides, an’ makes up d’ fifty plunks I mentions. Mike sticks in fifty an’ then takes d’ whole roll an’ screws his nut for d’ Springs to get it up on War Song. Naw; I don’t go. Mike’s plenty to make d’ play; an’ besides I had me lamps on a sure t’ing for a tenner over on d’ Bowery.

“Of course, while Mike’s gone, I ain’t doin’ a t’ing but read d’ poipers all to pieces. War Song’s a 20-to-1 shot; I stan’s to make a killin’ – stan’s to win a t’ousand plunks, see!

“An’, say! War Song win! Mebby I don’t give d’ yell of d’ year when I sees it in d’ print.

“‘W’at’s eatin’ youse, Chucky?’ says me Rag, as I cuts loose me warwhoop.

“‘O, I ain’t got no nut!’ I says, givin’ meself d’ gran’ jolly. ‘No! not at all! I has to ast some mark to tell me me name, I don’t t’ink! I’m cooney enough to get onto War Song, all d’ same! Say! I’m d’ soonest galoot that ever comes down d’ pike!’

“That’s d’ way I feels an’ that’s d’ way I chins.

“At last I cools off me dampers an’ sets in to wait for Mike. Meanwhile I begins to figger how I’ll blow d’ stuff, see! an’ settle what I’ll buy. It’s a case of money to boin an’ I was gettin’ me matches ready before even Mike shows up.

“But Mike don’t come. ‘W’at th’ ‘ell!’ I t’inks; ‘Mike ain’t crookt it; he ain’t skipped wit’ d’ bundle?’ An’ say! you should a-seen me chew d’ rag at d’ idee.

“But I’m wrong on me lead. Mike hadn’t welched, an’ he hadn’t been sandbagged. He comes creepin’ along a day behint d’ play, an’ d’ secont I gets me lamps on his mug I’m dead on we lose. I don’t have to have me fortune told to tumble to that. Mike looks like five cents wort’ of lard in a paper bag. An* here’s d’ song he sings.

“Mike says he goes to d’ Springs all right, all right, an’ is organised to get War Song for d’ limit d’ nex’ day. It’s that night, out be d’ stables, when he chases up on a horsescraper – a sawed-off coon, he is – an ‘d’ horse-scraper breaks off a great yarn on Mike.