Lewis Alfred Henry
The Apaches of New York

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VIII. THE WAGES OF THE SNITCH

Knowledge is power, and power is a good thing, as you yourself well know. Since Eve opened the way, and she and Adam paid the price – a high one, I sometimes think – you are entitled to every kind of knowledge. Also, you are entitled to all that you can get.

But having acquired knowledge, you are not entitled to peddle it out in secret to Central Office bulls, at a cost of liberty and often life to other men. When you do that you are a snitch, and have thrown away your right to live. Anyone is free to kill you out of hand, having regard only to his own safety. For such is the common law of Gangland.

Let me ladle out a cautionary spoonful.

As you go about accumulating knowledge, you should fix your eye upon one or two great truths. You must never forget that when you are close enough to see a man you are close enough to be seen. It is likewise foolish, weakly foolish, to assume that you are the only gas jet in the chandelier, the only pebble on the beach, or possess the only kodak throughout the entire length of the boardwalk. Bear ever in mind that while you are getting the picture of some other fellow, he in all human chance is snapping yours.

This last is not so much by virtue of any law of Gangland as by a law of nature. Its purpose is to preserve that equilibrium, wanting which, the universe itself would slip into chaos and the music of the spheres become but the rawest tuning of the elemental instruments. The stars would no longer sing together, but shriek together, and space itself would be driven to stop its ears. Folk who fail to carry these grave matters upon the constant shoulder of their regard, get into trouble.

At Gouverneur hospital, where he died, the register gave his name as “Samuel Wendell,” and let it go at that. The Central Office, which finds its profit in amplification, said, “Samuel Wendell, alias Kid Unger, alias the Ghost,” and further identified him as “brother to Johnny the Mock.”

Samuel Wendell, alias Kid Unger, alias the Ghost, brother to Johnny the Mock, was not the original Ghost. Until less than two years ago the title was honorably worn by Mashier, who got twenty spaces for a night trick he turned in Brooklyn. Since Mashier could not use the name in Sing Sing, Wendell, alias Kid Unger, brother to Johnny the Mock, adopted it for his own. It fitted well with his midnight methods and noiseless, gliding, skulking ways. Moreover, since it was upon his own sly rap to the bulls, who made the collar, that Mashier got pinched, he may have felt himself entitled to the name as part of his reward. The Indian scalps his victim, and upon a similar principle Wendell, alias Unger, brother to Johnny the Mock, when Mashier was handed that breath-taking twenty years, may have decided to call himself the Ghost.

It will never be precisely known how and why and by whose hand the Ghost was killed, although it is common opinion that Pretty Agnes had much to do with it. Also, common opinion is more often right than many might believe. In view of that possible connection with the bumping off of the Ghost, Pretty Agnes is worth a word. She could not have been called old. When upon a certain Saturday evening, not remote, she stepped into Jack Sirocco’s in Chatham Square, her years counted fewer than nineteen. Still, she had seen a good deal – or a bad deal – whichever you prefer.

Pretty Agnes’ father, a longshoreman, had found his bread along the docks. None better ever-shaped for a boss stevedore, or trotted up a gangplank with a 280-pound sack of sugar on his back. One day he fell between the side of a moored ship and the stringpiece of the wharf; and the ship, being at that moment ground against the wharf by the swell from a passing steamer, he was crushed. Those who looked on called him a fool for having been killed in so poor a way. He was too dead to resent the criticism, and after that his widow, the mother of Pretty Agnes, took in washing.

Her mother washed, and Pretty Agnes carried home the clothes. This went on for three years. One wind-blown afternoon, as the mother was hanging out clothes on the roof – a high one – and refreshing her energies with intermittent gin from the bottle of her neighbor, the generous Mrs. Callahan, she stepped backward down an airshaft. She struck the flags ten stories below, and left Pretty Agnes to look out for herself.

Looking out for herself, Pretty Agnes worked in a sweatshop in Division Street. Here she made three dollars a week and needed five. The sweatshop owner – for she was a dream of loveliness, with a fog of blue-black hair and deep brown eyes – offered to make up the lacking two, and was accepted.

Round, ripe, willowy, Pretty Agnes graduated from the Division Street sweatshop to a store in Twenty-third Street. There she served as a cloak model, making fourteen dollars a week while needing twenty. The manager of the cloak store was as generous as had been the owner of the sweatshop, and benevolently made up the absent six.

For Pretty Agnes was lovelier than ever.

All work and no play, makes Jack a dull boy. Also, it has the same effect on Jill. Pretty Agnes – she had a trunkful of good clothes and yearned to show them – went three nights a week to one of those dancing academies wherewith the East Side was and is rife. As she danced she met Indian Louie, and lost no time in loving him.

Having advantage of her love, that seeker after doubtful dollars showed Pretty Agnes where and how she could make more money than would come to her as a cloak model in any Twenty-third Street store. Besides, he jealously disapproved of the benevolent manager, though, all things considered, it is hard to say why.

Pretty Agnes, who had grown weary of the manager and to whom Louie’s word was law, threw over both the manager and her cloak-model position. After which she walked the streets for Louie – as likewise did Mollie Squint – and, since he often beat her, continued to love him from the bottom of her heart.

Between Pretty Agnes and Mollie Squint, Louie lived sumptuously. Nor could they themselves be said to have altogether suffered; for each knew how to lick her fingers as a good cook should. Perhaps Louie was aware that his darlings held out on him, but regarded it as just an investment. He must have known that to dress well stood first among the demands of their difficult profession, which was ancient and had been honorable, albeit in latter days ill spoken of.

Louie died, and was mourned roundly by Pretty Agnes for eight weeks. Then she gave her love to Sammy Hart, who was out-on-the-safe. Charlie Lennard, alias Big Head, worked pal to Sammy Hart, and the Ghost went with them as outside man and to help in carrying the tools.

Commonly Sammy and Big Head tackled only inferior safes, in cracking which nothing nobler nor more recondite than a can-opener was demanded. Now and then, however, when a first-class box had to be blown and soup was an absolute requirement, the Ghost came in exceeding handy. No yegg who ever swung under and traveled from town to town without a ticket, knew better than did the Ghost how to make soup.

The soup-making process, while ticklish, ought to be worth reading about. A cake of dynamite is placed in the cold bottom of a kettle. Warm water is added, and the kettle set a-simmer over a benzine lamp. As the water heats, the dynamite melts into oil, and the oil – being lighter – rises to the top of the water.

The oil is drawn softly off with a syringe, and as softly discharged into a bottle half filled with alcohol. The alcohol is to prevent explosion by jarring. Soup, half oil, half alcohol, can be fired with a fuse, but will sustain quite a jolt without resenting it.

This was not true in an elder day, before our box workers discovered that golden alcoholic secret. There was a yegg once who was half in, half out, of the window of a P. O. Pie had the bottle of soup in his hip pocket. The sash fell, struck the consignment of hip-pocket soup, and all that was found of the yegg were the soles of his shoes. Nothing so disconcerting would have happened had the Ghost made the soup.

The Ghost, while believed in by Big Head and Sammy, was distrusted by Pretty Agnes. She distrusted him because of his bad repute as a snitch. She called Sammy’s attention to what tales were abroad to the black effect that the Ghost was a copper in his mildewed soul, and one time and another had served stoolpigeon to many dicks.

Sammy took no stock in these reports, and told Pretty Agnes so.

“Th’ Ghost’s all right,” he said; “he’s been wit’ me an’ Big Head when we toins off twenty joints.”

“He may go wit’ you,” retorted Pretty Agnes, “for twenty more tricks, an’ never rap. But mark me woids, Sammy; in th’ end he’ll make a present of youse to th’ bulls.”

Sammy only laughed, holding that the feminine intelligence, while suspicious, was not a strong intelligence.

“Well,” said Sammy, when he had ceased laughing, “if th’ Ghost does double-cross me, w’at’ll youse do?”

“W’at’ll I do? As sure as my monaker is Pretty Agnes, I’ll have him cooked.”

“Good goil!” said Sammy Hart.

Gangland discusses things social, commercial, political, and freely forms and gives opinions. From a panic in Wall Street to the making of a President, nothing comes or goes uncommented upon and unticketed in Gangland. Even the fashions are threshed out, and sage judgments rendered concerning frocks and hats and all the latest hints from Paris. This you can test for yourself, on any evening, at such hubs of popular interest as Sirocco’s, Tony’s, Jimmy Kelly’s or the Chatham Club.

Sirocco’s was a-swarm with life that Saturday evening when Pretty Agnes dropped in so casually. At old Jimmy’s table they were considering the steel trust investigation, then proceeding – ex-President Roosevelt had that day testified – and old Jimmy and the Irish Wop voiced their views, and gave their feelings vent. Across at Slimmy’s the dread doings of a brace of fair ones, who had excited Coney Island by descending upon that lively suburb in harem skirts, was under discussion.

Speaking of the steel trust investigation and its developments, old Jimmy was unbelting after this wise. Said he, bringing down his hairy fist with a whack that startled every beer glass on the table into an upward jump of full three inches:

“Th’ more I read of th’ doin’s of them rich guys, th’ more I begin to think that th’ makin’ of a mutt lurks in every million dollars. Say, Wop, they don’t know how to pick up a hand an’ play it, after it’s been dealt ‘em. Take ‘em off Wall Street an’ mix ‘em up wit’ anything except stocks, an’ they can’t tell a fire plug from a song an’ dance soubrette. If some ordinary skate was to go crabbin’ his own personal game th’ way they do theirs, th’ next you’d hear that stew would be in Blooming-dale.”

“Phwat’s eatin’ yez now, Jimmy?” inquired the Wop, carelessly. “Is it that steel trusht thing th’ pa-a-apers is so full of?”

“That an’ th’ way Morgan an’ th’ balance of that fur-lined push fall over themselves. Th’ big thing they’re shy on is diplomacy. When it comes to diplomacy, they’re a lot of dead ones.”

“An’ phwat’s diplom’cy?”

The Wop didn’t like big words; his feeling was to first question, then resent them.

“Phwat’s diplom’cy?” he repeated.

“Diplomacy,” said old Jimmy, “is any cunnin’ move that lands th’ trick. You wake up an’ hear a noise; an’ you think it’s some porch-climber, like th’ Nailer here, turnin’ off th’ joint. At that, not knowin’ but he’s framed up with a gun, you don’t feel like goin’ to th’ mat with him. What do you do? Well, you use diplomacy. You tosses mebby a dumbbell over th’ bannisters, an’ lets it go bumpin’ along from step to step, makin’ more row than some geezer failin’ down stairs with a kitchen stove. Th’ racket throws a scare into th’ Nailer, an’ he beats it, see?”

“An’ that’s diplom’cy!” said the Wop.

“Also, it’s exactly what them Wall Streeters ain’t got. Look at th’ way they’re always fightin’ Roosevelt. For twenty-five years they’ve been roustin’ Teddy; an’ for twenty-five years they’ve done nothin’ but keep him on th’ map. When Teddy was in Mulberry Street th’ Tammany ducks gets along with him as peaceful as a basketful of pups. Diplomacy does it; that, an’ payin’ strict attention to Teddy’s blind side. ‘What’s th’ use of kickin’ in th’ gate,’ says they, ‘when we knows where a picket’s off th’ fence?’ You remember Big Florrie Sullivan puttin’ young Brady on th’ Force? Teddy’s in Mulberry Street then. Do you think Big Florrie goes queerin’ th’ chances, be tellin’ Teddy how Brady passes th’ cush box in Father Curry’s church? Not on your life! It wouldn’t have been diplomacy; Teddy wouldn’t have paid no attention. Big Florrie gets in his work like this:

“‘Say, Commish,’ he says, ‘I sees th’ fight of my life last night. Nineteen rounds to a knockout! It’s a left hook to th’ jaw does it.’

“‘No!’ Teddy says, lightin’ up like Chinatown on th’ night of a Chink festival; ‘you int’rest me! Pull up a stool,’ says he, ‘an’ put your feet on th’ desk. There; now you’re comfortable, go on about th’ fight. Who were they?’

“‘A lad from my district named Brady,’ says Big Florry, ‘an’ a dock-walloper from Williamsburg. You ought to have seen it, Commish! Oh, Brady’s th’ goods! Pie’s th’ lad to go th’ route! He’s all over that Williamsburg duffer like a cat over a shed roof! He went ‘round him like a cooper ‘round a barrel!’

“Big Florrie runs on like that, using diplomacy, an’ two weeks later Brady’s thumpin’ a beat.”

“Ye’re r-r-right, Jimmy,” said the Wop, after a pause which smelled of wisdom; “I agrees wit’ yez. Morgan, Perkins, Schwab an’ thim rich omadauns is th’ bum lot. Now I think av it, too, Fatty Walsh minchons that wor-r-rd diplom’cy to me long ago. Yez knew Fatty, Jimmy?”

“Fatty an’ me was twins.”

“Fatty’s th’ foine la-a-ad; on’y now he’s dead – Mary resht him! Th’ time I’m in th’ Tombs for bouncin’ th’ brick off th’ head av that Orangeman, who’s whistlin’ th’ Battle av th’ Boyne to see how long I can shtand it, Fatty’s th’ warden; an’ say, he made th’ place home to me. He’s talkin’, Fatty is, wan day about Mayor Hughey Grant, an’ it’s then he shpeaks av diplom’cy. He says Hughey didn’t have anny.”

“Don’t you believe it!” interrupted old Jimmy; “Fatty had Hughey down wrong. When it comes to diplomacy, Hughey could suck an egg an’ never chip th’ shell.”

“It’s a special case loike. Fatty’s dishtrict, d’yez see, has nothin’ in it but Eyetalians. Wan day they’r makin’ ready to cilibrate somethin’. Fatty’s in it, av course, bein’ leader, an’ he chases down to th’ City Hall an’ wins out a permit for th’ Dago parade.”

“What’s Hughey got to do with that?”

“Lishten! It shtrikes Hughey, him bein’ Mayor, it’ll be th’ dead wise play, when Fatty marches by wit’ his Guineas, to give them th’ gay, encouragin’ face. Hughey thinks Fatty an’ his pushcart la-a-ads is cilibratin’ some Dago Saint Patrick’s day, d’yez see. It’s there Fatty claims that Hughey shows no diplom’cy; he’d ought to have ashked.”

“Asked what?”

“I’m comin’ to it. Fatty knows nothin’ about phwat’s on Hughey’s chest. His first tip is when he sees Hughey, an’ th’ balance av th’ Tammany administration cocked up in a hand-me-down grandstand they’ve faked together in City Hall Park. Fatty pipes ‘em, as he an’ his Black Hand bunch comes rowlin’ along down Broadway, an’ th’ sight av that grandshtand full av harps, Hughey at th’ head, almosht gives him heart failure.

“Fatty halts his Eyetalians, sets them to ma-a-arkin’ toime, an’ comes sprintin’ an’ puffin’ on ahead.

“‘Do a sneak!’ he cries, when he comes near enough to pass th’ wor-r-rd. ‘Mother above! don’t yez know phwat these wops av mine is cilibratin’? It’s chasin’ th’ pope out av Rome. Duck, I tell yez, duck!”

“Sure; Hughiy an’ th’ rist av th’ gang took it on th’ run. Fatty could ma-a-arch all right, because there’s nobody but blackhanders in his dish-trict. But wit’ Hughey an’ th’ others it’s different. They might have got his grace, th’ archbishop, afther thim.”

“Goin’ back to Teddy,” observed old Jimmy, as he called for beer, “them rich lobsters is always stirrin’ him up. An’ they always gets th’ worst of it. They’ve never brought home th’ bacon yet. Tie’s put one over on ‘em every time.

“Yez can gamble that Tiddy’s th’ la-a-ad that can fight!” cried the Wop in tones of glee; “he’s th’ baby that’s always lookin’ f’r an argument!” Then in a burst, both rapturous and irrelevant: “tie’s th’ idol av th’ criminal illimint!”

“I don’t think that’s ag’inst him,” interjected the Nailer, defensively.

“Nor me neither,” said old Jimmy. “When it comes down to tacks, who’s quicker wit’ th’ applaudin’ mitt at sight of an honest man than th’ crim’nal element? – only so he ain’t bumpin’ into their graft. Who is it hisses th’ villyun in th’ play till you can hear him in Hoboken? Ain’t it some dub just off the Island? Once a Blind Tom show is at Minor’s, an’ a souse in th’ gallery is so carried away be grief at th’ death of Little Eva, he falls down two flights of stairs. I gets a flash at him as they tosses him into th’ ambulance, an’ I hopes to join th’ church if it ain’t a murderer I asks Judge Battery Dan to put away on Blackwell’s for beatin’ up his own little girl till she can’t get into her frock. Wall Streeters an’ college professors, when it comes to endorsin’ an honest man, can’t take no medals off th’ crim’nal element.”

“Phwy has Morgan an’ th’ rist av thim Wall Street geeks got it in f’r Tiddy?” queried the Wop. “Phwat’s he done to ‘em?”

“Nothin’; only they claims it ain’t larceny if you steal more’n a hundred thousand dollars, an’ Teddy won’t stand for a limit.”

“If that’s phwat they’re in a clinch about, then I’m for Tiddy,” declared the Wop. “Ain’t it him, too, that says th’ only difference bechune a rich man an’ a poor man is at th’ bank? More power to him! – why not? Would this beer be annythin’ but beer, if it came through a spigot av go-o-old, from a keg av silver, an’ th’ bar-boy had used a dia-mond-shtudded bung-starter in tappin’ it?”

Over at Slimmy’s table, where the weaker sex predominated, the talk was along lighter lines. Mollie Squint spoke in condemnation of those harem skirts at Coney Island.

“What do youse think,” she asked, “of them she-scouts showin’ up at Luna Park in harem skirts? Coarse work that – very coarse. It goes to prove how some frails ain’t more’n half baked.”

“Why does a dame go to th’ front in such togs?” asked Slimmy disgustedly.

“Because she’s stuck on herself,” said the Nailer, who had drifted over from old Jimmy and the Wop, where the talk was growing too heavy for him; “an’ besides, it’s an easy way of gettin’ th’ spot-light. Take anything like this harem skirt stunt, an’ oodles of crazy Mollies’ll fall for it. Youse can’t hand it out too raw! So if it’s goin’ to stir things up, an’ draw attention, they’re Johnny-at-the-rat-hole every time!”

“We ladies,” remarked Jew Yetta, like a complacent Portia giving judgment, “certainly do like to be present at th’ ball game! An’ if we can’t beat th’ gate – can’t heel in – we’ll climb th’ fence. Likewise, we’re right there whenever it’s th’ latest thing. Especially, if we’ve got a face that’d stop traffic in th’ street. Do youse remember” – this to Anna Gold – “when bicycles is new, how a lot of old iron-bound fairies, wit’ maps that’d give youse a fit of sickness, never wastes a moment in wheelin’ to th’ front?”

“Do I remember when bicycles is new?” retorted Anna Gold, resentfully. “How old do youse think I be?”

“Th’ Nailer’s right,” said Slimmy, cutting skilfully in with a view to keeping the peace. “Th’ reason why them dames breaks in on bicycles, an’ other new deals, is because it attracts attention; an’ attractin’ attention is their notion of bein’ great. Which shows that they don’t know th’ difference between bein’ famous an’ bein’ notorious.”

Slimmy, having thus declared himself, looked as wise as a treeful of owls.

“Well, w’at is th’ difference?” demanded Anna Gold.

“What’s th’ difference between fame an’ notoriety?” repeated Slimmy, brow lofty, manner high. “It’s th’ difference, Goldie, between havin’ your picture took at th’ joint of a respectable photographer, an’ bein’ mugged be th’ coppers at th’ Central Office. As to harem skirts, however, I’m like Mollie there. Gen’rally speakin’, I strings wit’ th’ loidies; but when they springs a make-up like them harem skirts, I pack in. Harem skirts is where I get off.”

“Of course,” said Big Kitty, who while speaking little spoke always to the point, “youse souses understands that them dolls who shakes up Coney has an ace buried. They’re simply a brace of roof-gardeners framin’ up a little ink. I s’pose they fig-gered they’d make a hit. Did they?” – this was in reply to Mollie Squint, who had asked the question. “Well, if becomin’ th’ reason why th’ bull on post rings in a riot call, an’ brings out th’ resoives, is your idee of a hit, Mollie, them dames is certainly th’ big scream.”

“Them harem skirts won’t do!” observed the Nailer, firmly; “youse hear me, they won’t do!”

“An’ that goes f’r merry widdy hats, too,” called out the Wop, from across the room. “Only yister-day a big fat baby rounds a corner on me, an’ bang! she ketches me in th’ lamp wit’ th’ edge av her merry widdy. On the livil, I thought it was a cross-cut saw! She came near bloindin’ me f’r loife. As I side-steps, a rooshter’s tail that’s sproutin’ out av th’ roof, puts me other optic on th’ blink. I couldn’t have seen a shell av beer, even if Jimmy here was payin’ fer it. Harem skirts is bad; but th’ real minace is merry widdys.”

“I thought them lids was called in,” remarked Slimmy.

“If they was,” returned the Wop, “they got bailed out ag’in. Th’ one I’m nailed wit’ is half as big as Betmont Pa-a-ark. Youse could ‘ve raced a field av two-year olds on it.”

“Well,” remarked the Nailer, resignedly, “it’s th’ fashion, an’ it’s up to us, I s’pose, to stand it. That or get off the earth.”

“Who invints th’ fashions?” and here the Wop appealed to the deep experience of old Jimmy.

“Th’ French.”

Old Jimmy – his pension had just been paid – motioned to the waiter to again take the orders all ‘round.

“Th’ French. They’re the laddy-bucks that shoves ‘em from shore. Say ‘Fashion!’ an’ bing! th’ French is on th’ job, givin’ orders.”

“Thim Frinch ‘re th’ great la-a-ads,” commented the Wop, admiringly. “There’s a felly on’y this mornin’ tellin’ me they can cook shnails so’s they’re almosht good to eat.”

“Tell that bug to guess ag’in, Wop,” said Mollie Squint. “Snails is never good to eat. As far as them French are concerned, however, I go wit’ old Jimmy. They’re a hot proposition.”

Jack Sirocco had been walking up and down, his manner full of uneasiness.

“What’s wrong, Jack?” at last asked old Jimmy, who had observed that proprietor’s anxiety.

Sirocco explained that divers gimlet-eyed gentlemen, who he believed were emissaries of an antivice society, had been in the place for hours.

“They only now screwed out,” continued Sirocco. Then, dolefully: “It’d be about my luck, just as I’m beginnin’ to get a little piece of change for myself, to have some of them virchoo-toutin’ ginks hand me a wallop. I wonder w’at good it does ‘em to be always tryin’ to knock th’ block off somebody. I ain’t got nothin’ ag’inst virchoo. Vir-choo’s all right in its place. But so is vice.”

Old Jimmy’s philosophy began manoeuvring for the high ground.

“This vice and virtue thing makes me tired,” he said; “there’s too much of it. Also, there’s plenty to be said both ways. Th’ big trouble wit’ them anti-vice dubs is that they’re all th’ time connin’ themselves. They feel moral when it’s merely dyspepsia; they think they’re virchous when they’re only sick. In th’ end, too, virchoo always falls down. Virchoo never puts a real crimp in vice yet. Virchoo’s a sprinter; an’ for one hundred yards it makes vice look like a crab. But vice is a stayer, an’ in th’ Marathon of events it romps in winner. Virchoo likes a rockin’-chair; vice puts in most of its time on its feet. Virchoo belongs to th’ Union; it’s for th’ eight hour day, with holidays an’ Saturday afternoons off. Vice is always willin’ to break th’ wage schedule, work overtime or do anythin’ else to oblige. Virchoo wants two months in th’ country every summer; vice never asks for a vacation since th’ world begins.”

The Wop loudly cheered old Jimmy’s views. Sirocco, however, continued gloomy.

“For,” said the latter with a sigh, “I can feel it that them anti-vice guys has put th’ high-sign on me. They’ll never rest now until they’ve got me number.”

Pretty Agnes, on comin’ in, had taken a corner table by herself. She heard, but did not join in the talk. She even left untouched the glass of beer, which, at a word from old Jimmy, a waiter had placed before her. Silent and sad, with an expression which spoke of trouble present or trouble on its way, she sat staring into smoky space.

“W’at’s wrong wit’ her?” whispered Slimmy, who, high-strung and sensitive, could be worked upon by another’s troubles.

“Why don’t youse ask her?” said Big Kitty.

Slimmy shook a doubtful head. “She ain’t got no use for me,” he explained, “since that trouble wit’ Indian Louie.”

“She sure couldn’t expect you an’ th’ Grabber,” remarked Anna Gold, quite scandalized at the thought of such unfairness, “to lay dead, while Louie does you out of all that dough!”

“It’s th’ rent,” said Jew Yetta. She had been canvassing Pretty Agnes out of the corners of her eyes. “I know that look from me own experience. She can’t come across for the flat, an’ some bum of an agent has handed her a notice.”

“There’s nothin’ in that,” declared Mollie Squint. “She could touch me for th’ rent, an’ she’s hep to it.” Then, in reproof of the questioning looks of Anna Gold: “Sure; both me an’ Agnes was stuck on Indian Louie, but w’at of that? Louie’s gone; an’ besides, I never blames her. It’s me who’s th’ butt-in; Agnes sees Louie first.”

“Youse ‘re wrong, Yetta,” spoke up the Nailer, confidently. “Agnes ain’t worryin’ about cush. There ain’t a better producer anywhere than Sammy Hart. No one ever sees Sammy wit’out a roll.”

The Nailer lounged across to Pretty Agnes; Mollie Squint, whose heart was kindly, followed him.

“W’y don’t youse lap up your suds?” queried the Nailer, pointing to the beer. Without waiting for a return, he continued, “Where’s Sammy?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” returned Pretty Agnes, her manner half desperate. “Nailer, I’m simply fretted batty!”

“W’at’s gone crooked, dear?” asked Mollie Squint, soothingly. “Youse ain’t been puttin’ on th’ mitts wit’ Sammy?”

“No,” replied Pretty Agnes, the tears beginning to flow; “me an’ Sammy’s all right. On’y he won’t listen!” Then suddenly pointing with her finger, she exclaimed; “There! It’s him I’m worryin’ about!”

The Nailer and Mollie Squint glanced in the direction indicated by Pretty Agnes. The Ghost had just come in and was sidling into a chair. It must be admitted that there was much in his appearance to dislike. His lips were loose, his eyes half closed and sleepy, while his chin was catlike, retreating, unbased. In figure he was undersized, slope-shouldered, slouching. When he spoke, his voice drawled, and the mumbled words fell half-formed from the slack angles of his mouth. He was an eel – a human eel – slippery, slimy, hard to locate, harder still to hold. To find him you would have to draw off all the water in the pond, and then poke about in the ooze.

“It’s him that’s frettin’ me,” repeated Pretty Agnes. “He’s got me wild!”

The Nailer donned an expression, cynical and incredulous.

“W’at’s this?” said he. “W’y Agnes, youse ain’t soft on that mutt, be youse? Say, youse must be gettin’ balmy!”

“It ain’t that,” returned Pretty Agnes, indignantly. “Do youse think I’d fall for such a chromo? I’d be bughouse!”

“Bughouse wouldn’t half tell it!” exclaimed Mollie Squint fervently. “Him?” – nodding towards the Ghost. “W’y he’s woise’n a wet dog!”

“Well,” returned the puzzled Nailer, who with little imagination, owned still less of sentimental breadth, “if youse ain’t stuck on him, how’s he managin’ to fret youse? Show me, an’ I’ll take a punch at his lamp.”

“Punchin’ wouldn’t do no good,” replied Pretty Agnes, resignedly. “This is how it stands. Sammy an’ Big Head’s gettin’ ready to do a schlam job. They’ve let th’ Ghost join out wit’ ‘em, an’ I know he’s goin’ to give ‘em up.”

The Nailer looked grave.

“Unless youse’ve got somethin’ on him, Agnes.” he remonstrated, “you oughtn’t to make a squawk like that. How do youse know he’s goin’ to rap?”

“Cause he always raps,” she cried fiercely. “Where’s Mashier? Where’s Marky Price? Where’s Skinny Goodstein? Up th’ river! – every mother’s son of ‘em! An’ all his pals, once; every one! He’s filled in wit’ th’ best boys that ever cracked a bin. An’ every one of ‘em’s doin’ their bits, while he’s here drinkin’ beer. I tell youse th’ Ghost’s a snitch! Youse can see ‘Copper’ written on his face.”

“If I t’ought so,” growled the Nailer, an evil shine in his beady eyes, “I’d croak him right here.” Then, as offering a solution: “If youse ‘re so sure he’s a stool, w’y don’t youse tail him an’ see if he makes a meet wit’ any bulls?”

“Tail nothin’!” scoffed Pretty Agnes, bitterly; “me mind’s made up. All I’ll do is wait. If Sammy falls, it’ll be th’ Ghost’s last rap. I know a party who’s crazy gone on me. For two weeks I’ve been handin’ him th’ ice pitcher. All I has to do is soften up a little, an’ he’ll cook th’ Ghost th’ minute I says th’ woid.”

Pretty Agnes, as though the sight of the Ghost were too much for her feelings, left the place. The Ghost himself, appeared uneasy, and didn’t remain long.

The Nailer turned soberly to Mollie Squint. “Do youse t’ink,” said he, “there’s anythin’ in that crack of Agnes?”

“Search me!” returned Mollie Squint, conservatively. “I ain’t sayin’ a woid.”

“It’s funny about youse skoits,” remarked the Nailer, his manner an imitation of old Jimmy’s. “Here’s Agnes talkin’ of havin’ th’ Ghost trimmed in case he tips off Sammy to th’ dicks, an’ yet when Slimmy an’ th’ Grabber puts Indian Louie over th’ jump, neither Agnes nor you ever so much as yelps!”