Sandburrs and Others

CHAPTER IV

Ten thousand people gathered to witness the last great contest between the Shamrocks and the Shantytowns.

Gwendolin O’Toole, pale but resolute, occupied her accustomed seat in the grand stand. Far away, and high above the tumult of the bleachers she heard the hoarse shouts of her brother, Godfrey O’Toole, the bleachers’ king.

“Remember, Gwendolin!” he had said, as they parted just before the game, “the mug who-makes the best average to-day wins your hand. I’ve sworn it, and the word of an O’Toole is never broken.”

“Make it the best fielding average, oh, me brother!” pleaded Gwendolin, while the tears welled to her glorious eyes.

“Never!” retorted Godfrey O’Toole, with a scowl; “I’m on to your curves! You want to give Marty O’Malley a better show. But if the butter-fingered muffer wants you, he must not only win you with his fielding, but with the stick.”

CHAPTER V

Terry Devine wasn’t in the box for the Shantytowns. With his head on the seven-up table, he snored on, watched over by the faithful barboy Jack. He still yielded to smoked glass and gave no sign of life.

“Curse him!” growled Umpire Mulcahey hoarsely beneath his breath “has he t’run me down? If I thought so, the world is not wide enough to save him from me vengeance.”

And the change pitcher took the box for the Shantytowns.

Marty O’Malley, the great catcher of the Shamrocks, stepped to the plate. Dennis Mulcahey girded up his false heart, and registered a black, hellish oath to call everything a strike.

“Never! never shall he win Gwendolin O’Toole while I am umpire!” he whispered, and his face was dark as a cloud.

It was the last word that issued from the clam-shell of Dennis Mulcahey for many a long and bitter hour; the last crack he made. Just as he offered his bluff, the first ball was pitched. It was as wild and high as a bird, as most first balls are. But Marty O’Malley was ready. He, too, had been plotting; he would fight Satan with fire!

As the ball sped by, far above his head, Marty O’Malley leaped twenty feet in the air. As he did this he swung his unerring timber. Just as he had planned, the flying, whizzing sphere struck the under side of his bat, and glancing downward with fearful force, went crashing into the dark, malignant visage of Dennis Mulcahey, upturned to mark its flight. The fragile mask was broken; the features were crushed into complete confusion with the awful inveteracy of the ball.

Dennis Mulcahey fell as one dead. As he was borne away another umpire was sent to his post. Marty O’Malley bent a glance of intelligence on the change pitcher of the Shantytowns, who had taken the place of the miscreant Dermis, and whispered loud enough to resell from plate to box:

“Now, gimme a fair ball!”

CHAPTER VI

And so the day was won; the Shamrocks basted the Shantytowns by the score of 15 to 2. As for Marty O’Malley, his score stood:

Ab. R. H. Po. A. E.

O’Malley, c…4 4 4 10 14 0

No such record had ever been made on the grounds. With four times at bat, Marty O’Malley did so well, withal, that he scored a base hit, two three-baggers and a home-run.

That night Marty O’Malley wedded the rich and beautiful Gwendolin O’Toole. Jack, the faithful bar-boy of the Fielders’ Rest, officiated as groomsman. Godfrey O’Toole, haughty and proud, was yet a square sport, and gave the bride away.

The rich notes of the wedding bells, welling and swelling, drifted into the open windows of the Charity Hospital, and smote on the ears of Dennis Mulcahey, where he lay with his face.

“Curse ‘em!” he moaned.

Then came a horrible rattle in his throat, and the guilty spirit of Dennis Mulcahey passed away.

Death caught him off his base.

POLITICS

Nixie! I ain’t did nothin’, but all de same I’m feelin’ like a mut, see!”

Chucky was displeased with some chapter in his recent past. I could tell as much by the shifty, deprecatory way in which he twiddled and fiddled with his beer-stein.

“This is d’ way it all happens,” exclaimed Chucky. “Over be Washin’ton Square there’s an old soak, an’ he’s out to go into pol’tics – wants to hold office; Congress, I t’inks, is what this gezeybo is after. Anyhow he’s nutty to hold office.

“Of course, I figgers that a guy who wants to hold office is a sucker; for meself, I’d sooner hold a baby. Still, when some such duck comes chasin’ into pol’tics, I’m out for his dough like all d’ rest of d’ gang.

“So I goes an’ gets nex’ to this mucker an’ jollies his game. I tells him all he’s got to do is to fix his lamps on d’ perch that pleases him, blow in his stuff an’ me push’ll toin loose, an’ we’ll win out d’ whole box of tricks in a walk, see!

“That’s all right; d’ Washin’ton Square duck is of d’ same views. An’ some of it ain’t no foolish talk at that. I’m dead strong wit’ d’ Dagoes, an’ d’ push about d’ Bend, an’ me old chum – if he starts – is goin’ to get a run for his money.

“It ain t this, however, what wilts me d’ way you sees to-night. It’s that I’m ‘shamed, see! In d’ foist place, I’m bashful. That’s straight stuff; I’m so bashful that if I’m in some other geezer’s joint – par-tic’ler if he’s a high roller an’ t’rowin’ on social lugs, like this Washin’ton Square party – I feels like creep-in’ under d’ door mat.

“D’ other night this can’date for office says, says he, ‘Chucky, I’m goin to begin my money-boinin’ be givin’ a dinner over be me house, an’ youse are in it, see! in it wit’ bot’ feet.*

“‘Be I comin’ to chew at your joint?’ I asts; ‘is that d’ bright idee?’

“‘That’s d’ stuff,’ he says; ‘youse are comin’ to eat wit’ me an’ me friends. An’ you can gamble your socks me friends is a flossy bunch at that.’

“I says I’ll assemble wit’ ‘em.

“Nit, I ain’t stuck on d’ play. I’d sooner eat be meself. But if I’m goin’ to catch up wit’ his Whiskers an’ sep’rate him from some of d’ long green, I’ve got to stay dost to his game, see!

“It’s at d’ table me troubles begins. I does d’ social double-shuffle in d’ hall all right. D’ crush parts to let me t’rough, an’ I woiks me way up to me can’date – who, of course, is d’ main hobo, bein’ he’s d’ architect of d’ blowout – an’ gives him d’ joyful mit; what you calls d’ glad hand.

“‘Glad to see youse, Chucky,’ says d’ old mark. ‘Tummas, steer Chucky to his stool be d’ table.’

“It’s at d’ table I’m rattled, wit’ all d’ glasses an’ dishes an ‘d’ lights overhead. But I’m cooney all d’ same. I ain’t onto d’ graft meself, but I puts it up on d’ quiet I’ll pick out some student who knows d’ ropes an’ string me bets wit’ his.

“As I sets there, I flashes me lamps along d’ line, an’ sort o’ stacks up d’ blokes, for to pick out d’ fly guys from d’ lobsters, see!

“Over’cross’d table I lights on an old stiff who looks like he could teach d’ game. T’inks I to meself, ‘There’s a mut who’s been t’rough d’ mill many a time an’ oft. All I got to do now is to pipe his play an’ never let him out o’ me sight. If I follows his smoke, I’ll finish in d’ front somewheres, an’ none of these mugs ‘ll tumble to me ignorance.’

“Say! on d’ level! there was no flies on that for a scheme, was there? An’ it would have been all right, me system would; only this old galoot I goes nex’ to don’t have no more sense than me. Why! he was d’ ass of d’ evening! d’ prize pig of d’ play, he was! Let me tell youse.

“D’ foist move, he spreads a little table clot’ across his legs. I ain’t missin’ no tricks, so I gets me hooks on me own little table clot’ and spreads it over me legs also.

“‘This is good enough for a dog, I t’inks, an’ easy money! Be keepin’ me eye on Mr. Goodplayer over there I can do this stunt all right.’

“An’ so I does. I never lets him lose me onct.

“‘How be youse makin’ it, Chucky?’ shouts me can’date from up be d’ end of d’ room.

“‘Out o’ sight!’ I says. ‘I’m winner from d’ jump; I’m on velvet.’

“‘Play ball!’ me can’date shouts back to encourage me, I suppose because he’s dead on I ain’t no Foxy Quiller at d’ racket we’re at; ‘play ball, Chucky, an’ don’t let ‘em fan youse out. When you can’t bat d’ ball, bunt it,’ says me can’date.

“Of course gettin ‘d’ gay face that way from d’ boss gives me confidence, an’ as a result it ain’t two seconts before I’m all but caught off me base. It’s in d’ soup innin’s an ‘d’ flunk slams down d’ consomme in a tea cup. It’s a new one on me for fair! I don’t at d’ time have me lamps on d’ mark ‘cross d’ way, who I’m understudyin’, bein’ busy, as I says, slingin ‘d’ bit of guff I tells of wit’ me can’date. An’ bein’ off me guard, I takes d’ soup for tea or some such dope, an’ is layin’ out to sugar it.

“‘Stan’ your hand!’ says a dub who’s organised be me right elbow, an’ who’s feedin’ his face wit’ both mits; ‘set a brake!’ he says. ‘That’s soup. Did youse t’ink it was booze?’

“After that I fastens to d’ old skate across d’ table to note where he’s at wit’ his game. He’s doin’ his toin on d’ consomme wit’ a spoon, so I gets a spoon in me hooks, goes to mixin’ it up wit ‘d’ soup as fast as ever, an’ follows him out.

“An’ say! I’m feelin’ dead grateful to this snoozer, see! He was d’ ugliest mug I ever meets, at that. Say! he was d’ limit for looks, an’ don’t youse doubt it. As I sizes him up I was t’inking to meself, what a wonder he is! Honest! if I was a lion an’ that old party comes into me cage, do youse know what I’d do? Nit; you don’t. Well, I’ll tip it to youse straight. If any such lookin’ monster showed up in me cage, if d’ door was open, I’d get out. That’s on d’ square, I’d simply give him d’ cage an’ go an’ board in d’ woods. An’ if d’ door was locked an’ I couldn’t get out, I’d t’row a fit from d’ scare. Oh! he was a dream! He’s one of them t’ings a mark sees after he’s been hittin’ it up wit ‘d’ lush for a mont’.

“‘But simply because he looks like a murderer,’ I reflects, ‘that’s no reason why he ain’t wise. He knows his way t’rough this dinner like a p’liceman does his beat, an’ I’ll go wit’ him.’

“It’s a go! When he plays a fork, I plays a fork; when he boards a shave, I’m only a neck behint him. When he shifts his brush an’ tucks his little table clot’ over his t’ree-sheet, I’m wit’ him. I plays nex’ to him from soda to hock.

“An’ every secont I’m gettin’ more confidence in this gezebo, an’ more an’ more stuck on meself. On d’ dead! I was farmer enough to t’ink I’d t’ank him for bein’ me guide before I shook d’ push an’ quit. Say! he’d be a nice old dub for me to be t’ankin ‘d’ way it toins out. I was a good t’ing to follow him, I don’t t’ink.

“If I was onto it early that me old friend across d’ table had w’eels an’ was wrong in his cocoa, I wouldn’t have felt so bad, see! But I’d been playin’ him to win, an’ followin’ his lead for two hours. An’ I was so sure I was trottin’ in front, that all d’ time I was jollyin’ meself, an’ pattin’ meself on d’ back, an’ tellin’ meself I was a corker to be gettin’ an even run wit ‘d’ 400 d’ way I was, d’ foist time I enter s’ciety. An’ of course, lettin’ me nut swell that way makes it all d’ harder when I gets d’ jolt.

“It’s at d’ finish. I’d gone down d’ line wit’ this sucker, when one of them waiter touts, who’s cappin’ d’ play for d’ kitchen, shoves a bowl of water in front of him. Now, what do youse t’ink he does? Drink it? Nit; that’s what he ought to have done. I’m Dutch if he don’t up an’ sink his hooks in it. An’ then he swabs off his mits wit’ d’ little table clot’. Say! an’ to t’ink I’d been takin’ his steer t’rough d’ whole racket! It makes me tired to tell it!

“‘W’at th’ ‘ell!’ I says to meself; ‘I’ve been on a dead one from d’ start. This stiff is a bigger mut than I be.’

“It let me out. Me heart was broke, an’ I ain’t had d’ gall to hunt up me can’date since. Nit; I don’t stay to say no ‘good-byes.’ I’m too bashful, as I tells you at d’ beginnin’. As it is, I cops a sneak on d’ door, side-steps d’ outfit, an’ screws me nut. The can’date sees me oozin’ out, however, an’ sends a chaser after me in d’ shape of one of his flunks. He wants me to come back. He says me can’date wants to present me to his friends. I couldn’t stan’ for it d’ way I felt, an’ as d’ flunk shows fight an’ is goin’ to take me back be force, I soaks him one an’ comes away. On d’ dead! I feels as’shamed of d’ entire racket as if some sucker had pushed in me face.”

ESSLEIN GAMES

For generations the Essleins have been fanciers of game chickens. The name “Esslein” for a century and a half has had honourable place among Virginians. In his day, they, the Essleins, were as well known as Thomas Jefferson. As this is written they have equal Old Dominion fame with either the Conways, the Fairfaxes, the McCarthys or the Lees. And all because of the purity and staunch worth of the “Esslein Games.”

It was the broad Esslein boast that no man had chickens of such feather or strain. And this was accepted popularly as truth. The Essleins never loaned, sold, nor gave away egg or chicken. No one could produce the counterpart of the Esslein chickens for looks or warlike heart; no one ever won a main from the Essleins. So at last it was agreed generally, that no one save the Essleins did have the “Esslein Games;” and this belief went unchallenged while years added themselves to years.

But there came a day when a certain one named Smith, who dwelt in the region round about the Essleins, and who also had note for his fighting cocks, whispered to a neighbour that he, as well as the Essleins, had the “Esslein Games.” The whisper spread into talk, and the talk into general clamour; everywhere one heard that the long monopoly was broken, and that Smith had the “Esslein Games.”

This startling story had half confirmation by visitors to the Smith walks. Undoubtedly Smith had chickens, feather for feather, twins of the famous Essleins. That much at least was true. The rest of the question might have evidence pro or con some day, should Smith and the Essleins make a main.

But this great day seemed slow, uncertain of approach. Smith would not divulge the genesis of his fowls, nor tell how he came to be possessed of the Esslein chickens. Smith confined himself to the bluff claim:

“I’ve got ‘em, and there they be.”

Beyond this Smith wouldn’t go. On’ their parts, the Essleins, at first maintained themselves in silent dignity. They said nothing; treating the Smith claim as beneath contempt.

As man after man, however, went over to the Smith side, the Essleins so far unbent from their pose of tongue-tied hauteur as to call Smith “a liar!”

Still this failed of full effect; the talk went on, the subject was in mighty dispute, and the Essleins at last, to settle discussion, defied Smith to a main.

But Smith refused to fight his chickens against the Essleins. Smith said it was conscience, but failed to go into details. This was damaging. Meanwhile, however, as Smith challenged the world of fighting cocks, and, moreover, won every match he ever made, and barred only the Essleins in his campaigning, there arose, in spite of his steady objection to fighting the Essleins, many who believed Smith and stood forth for it that Smith did have the far-famed “Esslein Games.” It is to the credit of the Essleins that they did all that was in their power to bring Smith and his chickens to the battlefield. They offered him every inducement known in chicken war, and tendered him a duel for his cocks to be fought for anything from love to money.

Firm to the last, Smith wouldn’t have it; and so, discouraged, the Essleins, failing action, nailed as it were their gauntlet to Smith’s hen-coop door, and thus the business stood for months.

It came about one day that a stranger from Baltimore accepted Smith’s standing challenge to fight anybody save the Essleins. The stranger proposed and made a match with Smith to fight him nine battles, $500 on each couple and $2,500 on the general main. And then the news went ‘round.

There was high excitement in chicken circles. The day came and the sides of the pit were crowded. Smith was in his corner with his handler, getting the first of his champions ready for the struggle. As Smith was holding the chicken for the handler to fasten on the gaffs – drop-socket, they were, and keen as little scimetars – he chanced to glance across the pit.

There stood John, chief of the Essleins.

Smith saw it in a moment; he had been trapped. But it was too late. The match was made and the money was up; there was no chance to retrace, even if Smith had wanted. As a fact to his glory, however, he had no desire so to do.

“We’re up against the Essleins, Bill,” Smith said to his trainer; “and it’s all right. I didn’t want to make a match with them, because I got their chickens queer. And if I’d fought them and won, I’d felt like I’d got their money queer; and that I couldn’t stand. But this is different. We’ll fight the Essleins now they’re here, and ‘if they can win over me, they’re welcome.”

Then the main began. The first battle was short, sharp, deadly; and glorious for Smith. The Esslein chicken got a stab in the heart the first buckle. Smith smiled as his handler pulled his chicken’s gaff out of its dead victim, and set it free.

The Smith entries won the second and third battle. Triumph rode on the glance of Smith, while the Esslein brows were bleak and dark.

“Smith’s got the ‘Esslein Games,’ sure!” was whispered about the pit.

In the fourth and fifth battles the tide ran the other way, the Esslein chickens killing their rivals. Each battle, for that matter, had so far been to the death.

The sixth battle went to Smith and the seventh to the Essleins. Thus it stood four for Smith to three for the Essleins, just before the eighth battle. It didn’t look as if Smith could lose.

It was at this juncture so hopeful for the coops of Smith, that Smith did a foolish thing. Yielding to the appeals of his trainer, Smith let that worthy man put up a chicken of his own to face the Esslein entry for the eighth duel. It was a gorgeous shawl-neck that Smith’s trainer produced; eye bright as a diamond, and beak like some arrow-head of jet. His legs looked as strong as a hod-carrier’s. It was a horse to a hen, so everybody said, that the Esslein chicken, – which was but a small, indifferent bird, – would lose its life, the battle, and the main at one and the same time.

Popular conjecture was wrong, as popular conjecture often is. The Esslein chicken locked both gaffs through the shawl-neck’s brain in the second buckle.

“That teaches me a lesson,” said Smith. “Hereafter should an angel come down from heaven and beg me to let him fight a chicken in a main of mine, I’ll turn him down!”

It was the ninth battle and the score stood four for Smith and four for the Essleins. As the slim gaffs, grey and cruelly sharp, were being placed on the feathered gladiators for the last deadly joust, Smith called across the pit to John Esslein:

“Esslein,” he said, “no matter how this last battle may fall, I reckon I’ve convinced you and everybody looking on, that, just as I said, I’ve got the ‘Esslein Games.’ To show you that I know I have, and give you a chance for revenge as well, I’ll make this last fight for $10,000 a cock. The main so far has been an even break, and neither of us has won or lost. The last battle decides the tie and wins or loses me $3,000. To make it interesting, I’ll raise the risk both ways, if you’re willing, just $7,000, and call the bundle ten. And,” concluded Smith, as he glanced around the pit, “there isn’t a sport here but will believe in his heart, when I, a poor man, offer to make this last battle one for $20,000, that I know that, even if I’m against, I’m at least behind an ‘Esslein Game.’”

“Make it for $10,000 a cock, then!” said John Esslein bitterly. “Whether I win or lose main and money too, I’ve already lost much more than both to-day.”

Then the fight began. The chickens were big and strong and quick and as dauntlessly savage as ospreys. And feather and size, eye, and beak and leg, they were the absolute counterparts of each other.

For ten minutes the battle raged. Either the spurred fencers had more of luck or more of caution than the others. Buckle after buckle occurred, and after ten minutes’ fighting the two enemies still faced each other with angry, bead-like eyes, and without so much as a drop of blood spilled.

They fronted each other balefully while one might count seven. Their beaks travelled up and down as evenly as if moved by the same impulse. Then they clashed together.

This time, – as they drew apart, Smith’s chicken fell upon its side, its right leg cut and broken well up toward the hip, with the bone pushing upward and outward through the slash of the gaff.

“Get your chicken and wring its neck, Smith,” said someone. “It’s all over!”

“Let them fight!” responded Smith. “It’s not ‘all over!’ That chicken of Esslein’s has a long row to hoe to kill that bird of mine.”

Hardly were the words uttered when a strange chance befell. Smith’s prostrate cripple reached up as its foe approached, seized it with its beak, and struggled to its one good foot. In the buckle that followed, the one gaff by some sleight of the cripple slashed the Esslein chicken over the eyes and blinded it. The muscles closed down and covered the eyes. Otherwise the Esslein cock was unhurt.

Then began a long, fierce, yet feeble fight. One chicken couldn’t stand and the other couldn’t see. The Smith chicken would lie on its side and watch its rival with eyes blazing hate, while the Esslein chicken, blind as a bat, would grope for him. When he came within reach of Smith’s chicken, that indomitable bird would seize him with his bill; there would be some weak, aimless clashing, and again they’d be separated, the blind one to grope, the cripple to lie and wait.

The war limped on in this fashion for almost two hours. But the end came. As the Esslein chicken strayed blindly within reach, its enemy got a strong, sudden grip, and in the collision that was the sequel, the Esslein chicken had its head half slashed from its body. It staggered a step with blood spurting, tottered and fell dead.

Smith said never a word, but from first to last his face had been cold and grimly indifferent. His heart was fire, but no one could see it in his face. Evidently the man was as clean-strain as his chickens.

That’s all there is to the story. What became of the victor with the broken leg? Smith looked him over, decided it was “no use,” and wrung his dauntless neck. The great main was over. Smith had won, everybody knew, as Smith went home that night, that he wras $10,000 better off, and that fast and sure, beyond denial or doubt, Smith had the “Esslein Games.”

THE PAINFUL ERROR

This is a tale of school life. Fred Avery, Charles Roy and Benjamin Clayton are scholars in the same school. The name of this seminary is withheld by particular request. Suffice it that all three of these youths come and go and have their bright young beings within the neighbourhood of Newark. The age of each is thirteen years. Thirteen is a sinister number. They are all jocund, merry-hearted boys, and put in many hours each day thinking up a good time.

One day during the noon hour the school building was all but deserted. Charles Roy, Fred Avery and Benjamin Clayton, however, were there. They had formed plans for their entertainment which demanded the desertion of the school building as chronicled. The coast being fairly clear, the conspiring three proceeded to one of the upper recitation rooms of the building. This room did not appertain to the particular school favoured by the attendance of Fred Avery, Charles Roy and Benjamin Clayton as scholars. This, however, only added zest to the adventure.

The room to which our heroes repaired was the recitation stamping ground of a high school class in physiology. The better to know anatomy, the class was furnished with the skeleton of some dead gentleman, all nicely hung and arranged with wires so as to look as much like former days as possible. During class hours the framework of the dead person stood in a corner of the room, and the students learned things from it that were useful to know. When off duty it reposed in a box.