Sandburrs and Others

George D’Orsey lived in the far-off hamlet of Hoboken. He returned to his home. In three months he was to wed Imogene O’Sullivan. Benton O’Sullivan had a fit when it was first mentioned to him. At last he gave his sullen consent.

“I had planned a title for you, Imogene.” That was all he said.

Three months have elapsed. It was dark when the ferryboat came to a panting pause in its slip. George D’Orsey picked his way through the crowd with quick, nervous steps. It was to be his wedding-night. He wondered if Imogene would meet him at the ferry. At that moment he beheld her dear form walking just ahead.

“To-night, dearest, you are mine forever!” whispered George D’Orsey tenderly, seizing the sweet young creature by her arm.

The shrieks which emanated from the young woman could have defied the best efforts of a steam siren.

It was not Imogene O’Sullivan!

The police bore away George D’Orsey. They turned a deaf ear to his explanations.

“You make me weary!” remarked the brutal turnkey, to whom George D’Orsey told his tale.

The cell door slammed; the lock clanked; the cruel key grated as it turned. George D’Orsey was a prisoner. The charge the blotter bore against him was: “Insulting women on the street.”

When George D’Orsey was once more alone, he cursed his fate as if his heart would break. At last he was calm.

“Oh, woman, in our hour of ease,Uncertain, coy, and hard to please;But, seen too oft, familiar with her face;We first endure, then pity, then embrace!”

The Chateau O’Sullivan was a flare and a glare of lights. The rooms were jungles of palms and tropical plants. Flowers were everywhere, while the air tottered and fainted under the burden of their perfume. Imogene O’Sullivan never looked more beautiful.

But George D’Orsey did not come.

Hour followed hour into the past. The guests moved uneasily from room to room. The preacher notified Benton O’Sullivan that he was ready.

And still George D’Orsey came not.

“The villain has laid down on us, me child!” whispered Benton O’Sullivan to the weeping Imogene; “but may me hopes of heaven die of heart failure if I have not me revenge! No man shall insult the proud house of. O’Sullivan and get away with it; not without blood!”

The guests cheerfully dispersed, talking the most scandalous things in whispers.

Imogene O’Sullivan’s dream was over.

It was the next night. George D’Orsey stood on the O’Sullivan porch, ringing the bell. His eye and his pocket and his stomach were alike wildly vacant.

“Sic him, Bull! Sic him!” said Benton O’Sullivan, bitterly.

Bull tore several specimens from the quivering frame of George D’Orsey, who vanished in the darkness with a hoarse cry.

Years afterward George D’Orsey and Imogene O’Sullivan met, but they gave each other a cold, meaningless stare.

THE SURETHING

(By the Office Boy)

John Sparrowhawk was a sporting man of the tribe of “Surethings.” He was fond of what has Cherry Hill description as a “cinch.” He never let any lame, slow trick get away. John Sparrowhawk’s specialty was racing; and he always referred to this diversion with horses as his “long suit.” He kept several rather abrupt animals himself, and whenever he found a man whose horse wasn’t as sudden as some horse he owned, John Sparrowhawk would lay plots for that man, and ultimately race equines with him, and become master of such sums as the man would bet. John Sparrowhawk wandered through life in his “surething” way and amassed wealth. He was rich, and was wont to boast to very intimate friends:

“I never spent a dollar which I honestly earned.” This gave John Sparrowhawk a vast deal of vogue, and he was looked up to and revered by a circle which is always impressed by the genius of one who can rob his fellow-worms, and do it according to law.

It befell one day that the Brooklyn Jockey Club offered a purse for a running race, but demanded five entries. In no time at all, three horses were entered. Their names and capacities were well known to the sagacious John Sparrowhawk. He had a horse that could beat them all.

“He would run by them like they was tied to a post!” remarked John Sparrowhawk, in a chant of ungrammatical exultation.

It burst upon him that the time was ripe to pillage somebody. His latest larceny was ten days old, and John Sparrowhawk oft quoted the Bowery poet where he said:

“Count that day lost whose low, descending sunSees at thy hands no worthy sucker done.”

And John Sparrowhawk did business that way. If he might only get another horse entered, and then complete the quintet with his own, John Sparrowhawk would possess “a snap.” Which last may be defined as a condition of affairs much famed for its excellence.

At this juncture John Sparrowhawk had the idea of his career. The idea made “a great hit” with him. He had a friend who had a horse, which, while not so swiftly elusive as “Tenbroeck” and “Spokane” in their palmy days, could defeat such things as district messenger boys, Fifth avenue stages, and many other enterprises which do not attain meteoric speed. John Sparrowhawk’s horse could beat it, he was sure. He would explain the situation to his friend, and cause his snail of a horse to be entered. This would fill the race, and then John Sparrowhawk’s horse would win “hands down,” and thereby empty everybody’s pockets in favour of John Sparrowhawk’s, which was a very glutton of a pocket, and never got enough.

John Sparrowhawk’s friend was lying ill at the Hoffman. John Sparrowhawk went into that hostelry and climbed the stairs, softly humming that optimistic ballad, which begins: “There’s a farmer born every second!”

The sick friend took little interest in the deadfall proposed by John Sparrowhawk. He was suffering from a mass-meeting on the part of divers boils, which had selected a trysting place on his person, where their influence would be felt.

Locked, as it were, in conflict with his afflictions, John Sparrowhawk’s friend was indifferent to his horse. He cared not what traps were set with him.

John Sparrowhawk entered the friend’s horse and paid the entrance money – $150. Then he lavished $15 on a “jock” to ride him. The field was full, the conditions of the purse complied with, and the race a “go.” Of course, John Sparrowhawk’s horse would win; and, acting on it as the chance of his life, John Sparrowhawk went craftily about wagering his dollars, even unto his bottom coin; and all to the end that he deplete the “jays” about him and become exceeding rich.

“I’m out for the stuff!” observed John Sparrow-hawk, and acted accordingly.

When the race started John Sparrowhawk had everything up but his eyes, his ears, and other bric-à-brac of a personal sort, which would mean inconvenience to be without a moment.

There could be no purpose other than a cruel one, so far as John Sparrowhawk is concerned, to dwell on the details of this race. Suffice it that they started and they finished, and the horse of the sick friend made a fool of the horse of John Sparrowhawk. He beat him like rocking a baby, so said the sports, and thereby dumped the unscrupulous yet sapient John Sparrow-hawk for every splinter he possessed. It shook every particle of dust out of John Sparrowhawk. He called to relate his woe to his sick friend. That suffering person’s malady had temporarily taken a recess from its labours, and for the nonce he was resting easy.

“I know’d it, and had four thousand placed that way, John,” observed the invalid. “I win almost thirteen thousand on the trick. My horse could do that skate of yours on three legs. I tumbled to it the moment you came in the other day.”

“Why didn’t you put me on?” remonstrated John Sparrowhawk, almost in tears, as he thought of the dray-load of money he had lost.

“Put you on!” repeated the Job of the Hoffman, scornfully; “not none! I wanted to see how it would seem to let a ‘surething’ sharp like you open a game on a harmless sufferer and ‘go broke’ on it. No, John; it will do you good. You won’t have so much money as the result of this, but you will be a heap more erudite.”

GLADSTONE BURR

Gladstone Burr is a small, industrious, married man. His little nest of a home is in Brooklyn. Perhaps the most emphasised feature of the Burr family home is Mrs. B. She is a large woman, direct as Bismarck in her diplomacy, and when Gladstone Burr does wrong, she tells him of it firmly and fully for his good. There is but one bad habit which can with slightest show of truth be charged to Gladstone Burr. The barriers of his nature, yielding to social pressure, at intervals give way. At such times the soul of Gladstone Burr issues forth on a sea of strong drink.

But, as he says himself, “these bats never last longer than ten days.”

Notwithstanding this meagre limit, Mrs. B. does not approve of Gladstone Burr when thus socially relaxed. And from time to time she has left nothing unsaid on that point. Indeed, Mrs. B. has so fully defined her position on the subject, that Gladstone Burr, while he in no sense fears her, does not care to go home unless he is either very drunk or very sober. There is no middle ground in tippling where Gladstone Burr and Mrs. B. can meet with his consent. He is not superstitious, but he avers that whenever he has been drinking and meets Mrs. B. he has had bad luck. His only safety lies in either being sober and avoiding it, or in taking refuge in a jag too thick for wifely admonitions to pierce.

There arose last week in the life of Gladstone Burr some event that it was absolutely necessary to celebrate. For two days he gave himself up to his destiny in that behalf, and being very busy with his festival Gladstone Burr did not go home.

Toward the close of the third day he was considering with himself how best to approach his domicile so as to avoid the full force of the storm. He was not so deep in his cups at that moment, but Mrs. B.‘s opinions gave him concern. Still, he felt the need of going home. He was tired and he was sick. Gladstone Burr knew he would be a great deal sicker in the morning, but he felt of a four-bit piece in his pocket, and remarking something about the hair of a dog, took courage, and was confident he carried the means of restoring himself.

But how to get home!

It was at this crisis in the affairs of Gladstone Burr that his friend, Frederick Upham Adams, came up. An inspiration seized Gladstone Burr. Adams should take him home in a carriage. Mrs. B. didn’t know Adams, being careful of her acquaintances. They would say that he, Gladstone Burr, had been ill, almost dead from apoplexy, or sunstroke, during the recent hot spell, and that “Dr. Adams” was bringing him home.

It was a most happy thought.

“Don’t be alarmed, Mrs. Burr,” said Adams, as an hour later he supported the drooping Gladstone Burr through the hall and stowed him away on a sofa. “I am Dr. Adams, of Williamsburg. Mr. Burr has suffered a great shock, but he is out of danger now. All he needs is rest – perfect rest!”

Gladstone Burr gasped piteously from the sofa. Mrs. B. was deceived perfectly. The ruse worked like a charm.

“How long must he be kept quiet, Doctor?” asked Mrs. B., as she wrung her hands over Gladstone Burr’s danger. She was bending above the invalid at the time, and he was unable to signal his friend to be careful how he prescribed.

“Oh! ahem!” observed “Dr. Adams,” looking at the ceiling, professionally, “about three days! That is right! Perfect rest for three days, and Mr. Burr will be a well man again.”

“Are there directions as to what medicines to give him?” asked Mrs. B., passing her hand gently over Gladstone Burr’s heated dome of thought; “any directions about the food, Doctor?”

“He needs no medicine,” observed the wretched Adams, closing his eyes sagaciously, and sucking his cane. “As for food, we must be careful. I should advise nothing but milk. Give him milk, Mrs. Burr, milk.”

After this Frederick Upham Adams drove away. And at the end of three days Gladstone Burr was almost dead.

THE GARROTE

(Annals of The Bend)

Tell youse somethin’ about d’ worser side of d’ Bend!” retorted Chucky. His manner was resentful. I had put my question in a fashion half apologetic and as one who might be surprised at anything bad in the Bend. It was this lamblike method of being curious that Chucky didn’t applaud. Evidently he gloried a bit in the criminal vigour of certain phases of a Bend existence.

“Mebby you t’inks there is no worser side to d’ Bend! Mebby you takes d’ Bend for a hotbed of innocence! Don’t string no stuff on d’ milky character of d’ Bend. Youse would lose it one, two, t’ree, keno! see! There’s dead loads of t’ings about d’ Bend what’s so tough it ‘ud make youse sore on yourself to get onto ‘em.

“Be d’ way! while youse is chinnin’ concernin’ d’ hard lines of d’ Bend, I’m put in mind about Danny d’ Face, who shows up from Sing Sing to-day. Say! d’ Face wasn’t doin’ a t’ing but put up a roar all d’ morn-in’, till a cop shows up an’ lays it out cold if d’ Face don’t cork, he’ll pinch him.

“What was d’ squeal about? Why! it’s like this,” continued Chucky, settling himself where the barkeeper might know when his glass was empty. “It’s all about d’ Face’s Bundle. When d’ victim takes his little ten spaces, his Bundle mourns ‘round for a brace of mont’s, see! An’ then she marries another guy.

“What else could youse look for? That’s what I say; what could d’ Face expect? Ten spaces ain’t like a stretch, it’s ‘life,’ see! D’ mug who chases in an’ takes a trip for ten, he’s a lifer. An’ you knows as well as me, even if youse ain’t done time, that when a duck gets life, it’s d’ same as a divorce. That’s dead straight! his Bundle is free to get married ag’in.

“An’ that’s just what d’ Face’s Rag does; she hooks up wit’ another skate, after d’ Face has had his stripes for a couple of mont’s. She’s no tree-toad to live on air an’ scenery, so she gets hitched. I was right there, pipin’ off d’ play meself, when d’ w’ite choker ties ‘em. It was a good weddin’, wit’ a dandy lot of lush; d’ can was passin’ all d’ time, an’ so d’ mem’ry of it is wit’ me still.

“As I says, d’ Face comes weavin’ in this mornin’, an’ tries to break up what d’ poipers call ‘existin’ conditions.’ It don’t go, though; d’ cop cuts in on d’ play an’ makes it a cinch case of nit, see!

“What’ll d’ Face do? What can he do but screw his nut an’ stan’ for it? He ain’t got no licence to interfere. It’s a case of ‘nothin’ doin’,’ as far as d’ Face’s end goes. Let him charge ‘round an’ grab off another skirt. There’s plenty of ‘em; d’ Face can find another wife if he goes d’ right way down d’ line. But he don’t make no hit be hollerin’, he can take a tumble to that.

“What is it railroads d’ Face? He does a stunt garrotin’, see! I’ll tell youse d’ story. Of course, d’ Face is a crook.

“Now, understan’ me! I ain’t no crook. I’m a fakir, an’ a grafter; an’ I’ve been fly in me time an’ I ain’t no dub to-day, but I never was no crook, see! But, of course, born as I was in Kelly’s Alley, an’ always free of d’ Bowery push, I hears a lot about crooks, an’ has more’n one of d’ swell mob on me visitin’ list.

“Naw; d’ Face was never in d’ foist circles, nothin’ fine to him. He never was d’ real t’ing as a dip, an ‘d’ best he could do was to shove an’ stall. Now an’ then he toins a trick as a porch climber; but even at that I never gets a tip of any big second-story woik d’ Face does.

“D’ Face’s best trick is d’ garrote, an’ it’s on d’ gar-rote lay dey downs d’ Face when dey puts him away.

“Now-days there’s a lot of sandbaggin’. Some mug comes wanderin’ along, loaded to d’ guards wit* booze, an’ some soon duck lends him a t’ump back of d’ nut wit’ a sandbag, or mebby it’s a lead pipe or a bar of rubber. Over goes d’ slewed mug, on his map, an’ d’ rest is easy money, see! That’s d’ way it’s done now.

“But in d’ old times, when I’m a kid, it ain’t d’ sandbag; it’s d’ garrote. An’ d’ patient can be cold sober, still d’ garrote goes all right. It takes two to woik it; but even at that it beats d’ sandbag hands down. It’s smoother, cleaner, and more like a woik-man, see! d’ garrote is.

“Besides, there’s more apt to be stuff on a sober party than on some stiff who’s tanked. I know d’ poipers is always talkin’ about people gettin’ a load, wit’ money all over ‘em; but youse can gamble! such talk is a song an’ dance. I’m more’n seven years old, an’ me exper’ence is, that it’s a four-to-one shot a drunk is every time broke.

“But to go to d’ story of how d’ Face gets pinched. As I states, it’s way back; not quite ten spaces (for d’ Face shortens his stay at d’ pen wit’ good conduct time see!), an ‘d’ Face an’ a pal, Spot Casey, who’s croaked now, is out on d’ garrote lay.

“D’ Face is followin’, an’ Spot is sluggin’. Here’s how dey lays out d’ game. It’s on Fift’ Avenoo, down be Nint’. Spot’s playin’ round d’ corner on Nint’; d’ Face is woikin’ about a block away on Fift’ Avenoo, on d’ lookout for a sucker, see! Along he comes walkin’ fast, this sucker. As he passes, d’ Face gives him d’ size-up. He’s got a spark, an’ a yellow chain, an’ looks like he’s good for a hundred in d’ long green. That does for d’ Face. He lets this guy get good an’ by, an’ then toins an’ shadows him.

“D’ Face walks faster than d’ sucker. It’s his play to be nex’, be d’ time dey hits Nint’, where Spot is layin’ dead.

“As dey chases up, d’ Face an ‘d’ snoozer he’s out to do is bot’ walkin’ fast, wit ‘d’ Face five foot behint.

“Just before dey makes d’ corner, d’ Face gives d’ office to Spot be stampin’ onct wit’ his trilby on d’ sidewalk. Then he moves right up sharp, claps his right arm about d’ geezer’s t’roat, at d’ same time grabbin’ his right hook wit’ his left an’ yankin’ his arm in tight. It shuts off d’ duck’s wind.

“As d’ Face clenches his party, as I says, he gives him d’ knee behint, an’ sort o’ lifts him up. At d’ same instant, Spot comes chasin’ round d’ corner in front an’ smashes his right duke into what d’ prize fighters calls ‘d’ mark.’ Yes, it’s d’ same t’ump that does for Corbett that day wit’ Fitz.

“‘That’s d’ stuff, Spot!’ says d’ Face, as d’ party is slugged, an’ then he sets him down be d’ fence all limp an’ quiet, an’ goes t’rough him.

“Dey gets a super, a pin, an’ quite a healt’y roll besides. He’s so done up dey even gets a di’mond off one of his hooks.

“Sure! d’ garrote almost puts a mark’s light out. Youse can bet! after youse has been t’rough d’ mill onct, youse won’t t’ink, travel, nor raise d’ yell for half an hour. A mark’s lucky to be alive who’s been t’rough d’ garrote. It ain’t so bad as d’ sandbag at that, neither.

“How was it d’ Face is took? Nit; d’ cop don’t get in on d’ play; dey win easy. It’s two weeks later when he’s collared. D’ Face’s pal, Spot, gets too gabby wit’ a skirt, who’s stoolin’ for d’ p’lice on d’ sly, an’ she goes an’ knocks to d’ Chief!”

O’TOOLE’S CHIVALRY

A woman, a spaniel, and a walnut tree;

The more you beat them, the better they be.

Irish Proverb.

Thus sadly sang P. Sarsfield O’Toole to himself, as he readjusted the bandage to his wronged eye. He believed it, too; at least in the case of Madame Bridget Burke, the wife of one John Burke.

The Burkes were the neighbours of P. Sarsfield O’Toole; they lived next door. The intimacy, however, went no further; O’Toole and the Burkes were not friends.

This is the story of the damaged eye. It offers the reason why P. Sarsfield O’Toole comforted himself with the vigorous Irish proverb.

It was the evening before. P. Sarsfield O’Toole was sitting on his back porch, cooling himself after a day’s work at his profession of bricklayer, by reading the history of Ireland. The Burkes were holding audible converse just over the division fence.

P. Sarsfield O’Toole closed the history of his native land to listen. This last was neither an arduous nor a painful task, for the Burkes, with the splendid frankness of a household willing to stand or fall by its record, could be heard a block.

“Me family was noble!” P. Sarsfield O’Toole overheard John Burke remark. “The Burkes wanst lived in their own cashtle.”

“They did not,” observed Madame Burke. “They lived woild in the bog of Allen, and there was mud on their shanks from wan ind of the year to the other. Divvil a cashtle did a Burke ever see; barrin’ a jail.”

“Woman! av yez arouse me,” said John Burke, threateningly, “I’ll break the bones of ye, an’ fling yez in the corner to mend. Don’t exashperate me, woman.”

“I exashperate yez!” retorted Madame Burke, scornfully. “For phwat wud I exashperate yez! Wasn’t your own uncle transhpoorted? Answer me that, John Burke?”

“Me uncle suffered to free Ireland, woman!” responded the husband.

“May the divvil hould him!” said Madame Burke. “He was transhpoorted as a felon, for b’atin’ the head off Humpy Pete, the cripple, at the Fair. He was an illygant speciment of a Burke! always b’atin’ cripples an’ women!”

The last would seem to have been an unfortunate remark, in so far as it contained a suggestion. The next heard by the listening P. Sarsfield O’Toole was the loud lament of Madame Bridget Burke as her husband, John Burke, submitted her to that correction which he afterwards described to the police justice as, “givin’ her a tashte av the sthrap.”

The cries of Madame Bridget Burke were at their highest when P. Sarsfield O’Toole looked over the fence.

“Shtop b’atin’ the leddy, John Burke!” commanded P. Sarsfield O’Toole.

“Phwat’s it to yez! ye Far-down!” demanded John Burke, looking up from his labours. “Av yez hang your chin on that line fince ag’in, I’ll welt the life out av yez! D’ye moind it now!”

“Is it to me yez apploies the word ‘Far-down!” shouted P. Sarsfield O’Toole, wrathfully. “Phwat are yez yerself but a rascal of a Stonethrower? Don’t timpt me with your names, John Burke, an’ shtop b’atin’ the leddy. If I iver come over wanst to yez, I’ll return a criminal!”

“Shtop b’atin’ me own lawful Bridget,” retorted John Burke, in tones of scorn, “when she’s been teasin’ for the sthrap a month beyant! Well, I loike that! I’ll settle with yez, O’Toole, when I tache me woife to respect the name of Burke.” Here the representative of that honourable title smote Madame Bridget lustily. “Av I foind yez in me yarud, O’Toole, ye’ll lay no bricks to-morry.”

P. Sarsfield O’Toole cleared the fence at a bound. He was chivalrous, and would rescue Madame Burke. He was proud and would resent the opprobrious epithet of “Far-down.” He was sensitive, and would teach John Burke never to threaten him with disability as a bricklayer.

P. Sarsfield O’Toole, as stated, cleared the fence at a bound, and closed with John Burke as if he were a bargain.

What might have been the finale of this last collision will never be known. As P. Sarsfield O’Toole and John Burke danced about, locked in a deadly embrace, the emancipated Madame Burke suddenly selected a piece of scantling from the general armory of the Burke backyard and brought it down, not on the head of her oppressor, but on that of the gallant P. Sarsfield O’Toole, who had come to her rescue.

“Oh, ye murtherin’ villyun!” shouted Madame Burke. “W’ud yez kill a husband befure the eyes of his lawful widded woife! An’ due yez think I’d wear his ring and see yez do it!”

At this point in the conversation Madame Bridget Burke cut a long, satisfactory gash in P. Sarsfield O’Toole, just over the eye.

The police came.

John Burke was fined twenty dollars.

Madame Bridget Burke, present lovingly in court, paid it with a composite air, breathing insolence for the judge and affection for John Burke.

“The ijee av that shpalpeen, O’Toole,” said Madame Burke that evening to John Burke, and her words floated over the fence to P. Sarsfield O’Toole, as he nursed his wounds on his porch; “the ijee av that shpalpeen, O’Toole, comin’ bechuxt man and woife! D’ yez moind th’ cheek av ‘im! Didn’t the priest say, ‘Phwat hivin has j’ined togither, let no man put asoonder?”

“He did, Bridget, he did,” replied John Burke. “An’ yez have the particulars av a foine woman about yez, yerself, Bridget!”

“Troth! an’ I have,” said Madame Burke, giving full consent to this view of her merits. “But, John, phwat a rapscallion yer uncle they transhpoorted must av been, to bate the loife out o’ poor Humpy Pete, the cripple-fiddler, that toime at the Fair!”

For the second time the strap fell, and the shrieks of Madame Burke filled the neighbourhood. P. Sarsfield O’Toole, still on his porch, sat unmoved, and bestowed no interest on the doings of the Burkes. As the strap was plied and the yells of the victim uplifted, P. Sarsfield O’Toole repeated the proverb which stands at the head of this story.