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During this reminiscence, the man on the ground had contrived to
clear his mind of the mistiness induced by the Kid's upper-cut. The
first sign he showed of returning intelligence was a sudden dash
for safety up the road. But he had not gone five yards when he sat
down limply.
The Kid was inspired to further reminiscence. "Guess he's feeling
pretty poor," he said. "It's no good him trying to run for a while
after he's put his chin in the way of a real live one. I remember
when Joe Peterson put me out, way back when I was new to the
game--it was the same year I fought Martin Kelly. He had an awful
punch, had old Joe, and he put me down and out in the eighth round.
After the fight they found me on the fire-escape outside my
dressing-room. 'Come in, Kid,' says they. 'It's all right, chaps,'
I says, 'I'm dying.' Like that. 'It's all right, chaps, I'm dying.'
Same with this guy. See what I mean?"
They formed a group about the fallen black-jack expert.
"Pardon us," said Psmith courteously, "for breaking in upon your
reverie; but, if you could spare us a moment of your valuable time,
there are one or two things which we should like to know."
"Sure thing," agreed the Kid.
"In the first place," continued Psmith, "would it be betraying
professional secrets if you told us which particular bevy of
energetic sandbaggers it is to which you are attached?"
"Gent," explained the Kid, "wants to know what's your gang."
The man on the ground muttered something that to Psmith and Billy
was unintelligible.
"It would be a charity," said the former, "if some philanthropist
would give this blighter elocution lessons. Can you interpret,
Comrade Brady?"
"Says it's the Three Points," said the Kid.
"The Three Points? Let me see, is that Dude Dawson, Comrade
Windsor, or the other gentleman?"
"It's Spider Reilly. Dude Dawson runs the Table Hill crowd."
"Perhaps this is Spider Reilly?"
"Nope," said the Kid. "I know the Spider. This ain't him. This is
some other mutt."
"Which other mutt in particular?" asked Psmith. "Try and find out,
Comrade Brady. You seem to be able to understand what he says. To
me, personally, his remarks sound like the output of a gramophone
with a hot potato in its mouth."
"Says he's Jack Repetto," announced the interpreter.
There was another interruption at this moment. The bashful Mr.
Repetto, plainly a man who was not happy in the society of
strangers, made another attempt to withdraw. Reaching out a pair of
lean hands, he pulled the Kid's legs from under him with a swift
jerk, and, wriggling to his feet, started off again down the road.
Once more, however, desire outran performance. He got as far as the
nearest street-lamp, but no farther. The giddiness seemed to
overcome him again, for he grasped the lamp-post, and, sliding
slowly to the ground, sat there motionless.
The Kid, whose fall had jolted and bruised him, was inclined to be
wrathful and vindictive. He was the first of the three to reach
the elusive Mr. Repetto, and if that worthy had happened to be
standing instead of sitting it might have gone hard with him. But
the Kid was not the man to attack a fallen foe. He contented
himself with brushing the dust off his person and addressing a
richly abusive flow of remarks to Mr. Repetto.
Under the rays of the lamp it was possible to discern more closely
the features of the black-jack exponent. There was a subtle but
noticeable resemblance to those of Mr. Bat Jarvis. Apparently the
latter's oiled forelock, worn low over the forehead, was more a
concession to the general fashion prevailing in gang circles than
an expression of personal taste. Mr. Repetto had it, too. In his
case it was almost white, for the fallen warrior was an albino. His
eyes, which were closed, had white lashes and were set as near
together as Nature had been able to manage without actually running
them into one another. His under-lip protruded and drooped. Looking
at him, one felt instinctively that no judging committee of a
beauty contest would hesitate a moment before him.
It soon became apparent that the light of the lamp, though
bestowing the doubtful privilege of a clearer view of Mr. Repetto's
face, held certain disadvantages. Scarcely had the staff of Cosy
Moments reached the faint yellow pool of light, in the centre of
which Mr. Repetto reclined, than, with a suddenness which caused
them to leap into the air, there sounded from the darkness down the
road the crack-crack-crack of a revolver. Instantly from the
opposite direction came other shots. Three bullets flicked grooves
in the roadway almost at Billy's feet. The Kid gave a sudden howl.
Psmith's hat, suddenly imbued with life, sprang into the air and
vanished, whirling into the night.
The thought did not come to them consciously at the moment, there
being little time to think, but it was evident as soon as, diving
out of the circle of light into the sheltering darkness, they
crouched down and waited for the next move, that a somewhat skilful
ambush had been effected. The other members of the gang, who had
fled with such remarkable speed, had by no means been eliminated
altogether from the game. While the questioning of Mr. Repetto had
been in progress, they had crept back, unperceived except by Mr.
Repetto himself. It being too dark for successful shooting, it had
become Mr. Repetto's task to lure his captors into the light, which
he had accomplished with considerable skill.
For some minutes the battle halted. There was dead silence. The
circle of light was empty now. Mr. Repetto had vanished. A
tentative shot from nowhere ripped through the air close to where
Psmith lay flattened on the pavement. And then the pavement began
to vibrate and give out a curious resonant sound. To Psmith it
conveyed nothing, but to the opposing army it meant much. They knew
it for what it was. Somewhere--it might be near or far--a policeman
had heard the shots, and was signalling for help to other policemen
along the line by beating on the flag-stones with his night-stick,
the New York constable's substitute for the London police-whistle.
The noise grew, filling the still air. From somewhere down the road
sounded the ring of running feet.
"De cops!" cried a voice. "Beat it!"
Next moment the night was full of clatter. The gang was "beating
it."
Psmith rose to his feet and dusted his clothes ruefully. For the
first time he realised the horrors of war. His hat had gone for
ever. His trousers could never be the same again after their close
acquaintance with the pavement.
The rescue party was coming up at the gallop.
The New York policeman may lack the quiet dignity of his London
rival, but he is a hustler.
"What's doing?"
"Nothing now," said the disgusted voice of Billy Windsor from the
shadows. "They've beaten it."
The circle of lamplight became as if by mutual consent a general
rendezvous. Three grey-clad policemen, tough, clean-shaven men with
keen eyes and square jaws, stood there, revolver in one hand,
night-stick in the other. Psmith, hatless and dusty, joined them.
Billy Windsor and the Kid, the latter bleeding freely from his left
ear, the lobe of which had been chipped by a bullet, were the last
to arrive.
"What's bin the rough house?" inquired one of the policemen, mildly
interested.
"Do you know a sportsman of the name of Repetto?" inquired Psmith.
"Jack Repetto! Sure."
"He belongs to the Three Points," said another intelligent officer,
as one naming some fashionable club.
"When next you see him," said Psmith, "I should be obliged if you
would use your authority to make him buy me a new hat. I could do
with another pair of trousers, too; but I will not press the
trousers. A new hat, is, however, essential. Mine has a six-inch
hole in it."
"Shot at you, did they?" said one of the policemen, as who should
say, "Dash the lads, they're always up to some of their larks."
"Shot at us!" burst out the ruffled Kid. "What do you think's bin
happening? Think an aeroplane ran into my ear and took half of it
off? Think the noise was somebody opening bottles of pop? Think
those guys that sneaked off down the road was just training for a
Marathon?"
"Comrade Brady," said Psmith, "touches the spot. He--"
"Say, are you Kid Brady?" inquired one of the officers. For the
first time the constabulary had begun to display any real
animation.
"Reckoned I'd seen you somewhere!" said another. "You licked
Cyclone Al. all right, Kid, I hear."
"And who but a bone-head thought he wouldn't?" demanded the third
warmly. "He could whip a dozen Cyclone Al.'s in the same evening
with his eyes shut."
"He's the next champeen," admitted the first speaker.
"If he puts it over Jimmy Garvin," argued the second.
"Jimmy Garvin!" cried the third. "He can whip twenty Jimmy Garvins
with his feet tied. I tell you--"
"I am loath," observed Psmith, "to interrupt this very impressive
brain-barbecue, but, trivial as it may seem to you, to me there is
a certain interest in this other little matter of my ruined hat. I
know that it may strike you as hypersensitive of us to protest
against being riddled with bullets, but--"
"Well, what's bin doin'?" inquired the Force. It was a nuisance,
this perpetual harping on trifles when the deep question of the
light-weight Championship of the World was under discussion, but
the sooner it was attended to, the sooner it would be over.
Billy Windsor undertook to explain.
"The Three Points laid for us," he said. "Jack Repetto was bossing
the crowd. I don't know who the rest were. The Kid put one over on
to Jack Repetto's chin, and we were asking him a few questions when
the rest came back, and started into shooting. Then we got to cover
quick, and you came up and they beat it."
"That," said Psmith, nodding, "is a very fair precis of the
evening's events. We should like you, if you will be so good, to
corral this Comrade Repetto, and see that he buys me a new hat."
"We'll round Jack up," said one of the policemen indulgently.
"Do it nicely," urged Psmith. "Don't go hurting his feelings."
The second policeman gave it as his opinion that Jack was getting
too gay. The third policeman conceded this. Jack, he said, had
shown signs for some time past of asking for it in the neck. It was
an error on Jack's part, he gave his hearers to understand, to
assume that the lid was completely off the great city of New York.
"Too blamed fresh he's gettin'," the trio agreed. They could not
have been more disapproving if they had been prefects at Haileybury
and Mr. Repetto a first-termer who had been detected in the act of
wearing his cap on the back of his head.
They seemed to think it was too bad of Jack.
"The wrath of the Law," said Psmith, "is very terrible. We will
leave the matter, then, in your hands. In the meantime, we should
be glad if you would direct us to the nearest Subway station. Just
at the moment, the cheerful lights of the Great White Way are what
I seem to chiefly need."
CHAPTER XVII
GUERILLA WARFARE
THUS ended the opening engagement of the campaign, seemingly in a
victory for the Cosy Moments army. Billy Windsor, however, shook
his head.
"We've got mighty little out of it," he said.
"The victory," said Psmith, "was not bloodless. Comrade Brady's
ear, my hat--these are not slight casualties. On the other hand,
surely we are one up? Surely we have gained ground? The
elimination of Comrade Repetto from the scheme of things in itself
is something. I know few men I would not rather meet in a lonely
road than Comrade Repetto. He is one of Nature's sand-baggers.
Probably the thing crept upon him slowly. He started, possibly, in
a merely tentative way by slugging one of the family circle. His
nurse, let us say, or his young brother. But, once started, he is
unable to resist the craving. The thing grips him like
dram-drinking. He sandbags now not because he really wants to, but
because he cannot help himself. To me there is something consoling
in the thought that Comrade Repetto will no longer be among those
present."
"What makes you think that?"
"I should imagine that a benevolent Law will put away in his little
cell for at least a brief spell."
"Not on your life," said Billy. "He'll prove an alibi."
Psmith's eyeglass dropped out of his eye. He replaced it, and
gazed, astonished, at Billy.
"An alibi? When three keen-eyed men actually caught him at it?"
"He can find thirty toughs to swear he was five miles away."
"And get the court to believe it?" said Psmith.
"Sure," said Billy disgustedly. "You don't catch them hurting a
gangsman unless they're pushed against the wall. The politicians
don't want the gangs in gaol, especially as the Aldermanic
elections will be on in a few weeks. Did you ever hear of Monk
Eastman?"
"I fancy not, Comrade Windsor. If I did, the name has escaped me.
Who was this cleric?"
"He was the first boss of the East Side gang, before Kid Twist took
it on."
"Yes?"
"He was arrested dozens of times, but he always got off. Do you
know what he said once, when they pulled him for thugging a fellow
out in New Jersey?"
"I fear not, Comrade Windsor. Tell me all."
"He said, 'You're arresting me, huh? Say, you want to look where
you're goin'; I cut some ice in this town. I made half the big
politicians in New York!' That was what he said."
"His small-talk," said Psmith, "seems to have been bright and
well-expressed. What happened then? Was he restored to his friends
and his relations?"
"Sure, he was. What do you think? Well, Jack Repetto isn't Monk
Eastman, but he's in with Spider Reilly, and the Spider's in with
the men behind. Jack'll get off."
"It looks to me, Comrade Windsor," said Psmith thoughtfully, "as if
my stay in this great city were going to cost me a small fortune in
hats."
Billy's prophecy proved absolutely correct. The police were as good
as their word. In due season they rounded up the impulsive Mr.
Repetto, and he was haled before a magistrate. And then, what a
beautiful exhibition of brotherly love and auld-lang-syne
camaraderie was witnessed! One by one, smirking sheepishly, but
giving out their evidence with unshaken earnestness, eleven greasy,
wandering-eyed youths mounted the witness-stand and affirmed on
oath that at the time mentioned dear old Jack had been making
merry in their company in a genial and law-abiding fashion, many,
many blocks below the scene of the regrettable assault. The
magistrate discharged the prisoner, and the prisoner, meeting Billy
and Psmith in the street outside, leered triumphantly at them.
Billy stepped up to him. "You may have wriggled out of this," he
said furiously, "but if you don't get a move on and quit looking at
me like that, I'll knock you over the Singer Building. Hump
yourself."
Mr. Repetto humped himself.
So was victory turned into defeat, and Billy's jaw became squarer
and his eye more full of the light of battle than ever. And there
was need of a square jaw and a battle-lit eye, for now began a
period of guerilla warfare such as no New York paper had ever had
to fight against.
It was Wheeler, the gaunt manager of the business side of the
journal, who first brought it to the notice of the editorial staff.
Wheeler was a man for whom in business hours nothing existed but
his job; and his job was to look after the distribution of the
paper. As to the contents of the paper he was absolutely ignorant.
He had been with Cosy Moments from its start, but he had never read
a line of it. He handled it as if it were so much soap. The
scholarly writings of Mr. Wilberfloss, the mirth-provoking sallies
of Mr. B. Henderson Asher, the tender outpourings of Louella
Granville Waterman--all these were things outside his ken. He was a
distributor, and he distributed.
A few days after the restoration of Mr. Repetto to East Side
Society, Mr. Wheeler came into the editorial room with information
and desire for information.
He endeavoured to satisfy the latter first.
"What's doing, anyway?" he asked. He then proceeded to his
information. "Some one's got it in against the paper, sure," he
said. "I don't know what it's all about. I ha'n't never read the
thing. Don't see what any one could have against a paper with a
name like Cosy Moments, anyway. The way things have been going
last few days, seems it might be the organ of a blamed mining-camp
what the boys have took a dislike to."
"What's been happening?" asked Billy with gleaming eyes.
"Why, nothing in the world to fuss about, only our carriers can't
go out without being beaten up by gangs of toughs. Pat Harrigan's
in the hospital now. Just been looking in on him. Pat's a feller
who likes to fight. Rather fight he would than see a ball-game. But
this was too much for him. Know what happened? Why, see here, just
like this it was. Pat goes out with his cart. Passing through a
low-down street on his way up-town he's held up by a bunch of
toughs. He shows fight. Half a dozen of them attend to him, while
the rest gets clean away with every copy of the paper there was in
the cart. When the cop comes along, there's Pat in pieces on the
ground and nobody in sight but a Dago chewing gum. Cop asks the
Dago what's been doing, and the Dago says he's only just come round
the corner and ha'n't seen nothing of anybody. What I want to know
is, what's it all about? Who's got it in for us and why?"
Mr. Wheeler leaned back in his chair, while Billy, his hair rumpled
more than ever and his eyes glowing, explained the situation. Mr.
Wheeler listened absolutely unmoved, and, when the narrative had
come to an end, gave it as his opinion that the editorial staff had
sand. That was his sole comment. "It's up to you," he said,
rising. "You know your business. Say, though, some one had better
get busy right quick and do something to stop these guys
rough-housing like this. If we get a few more carriers beat up the
way Pat was, there'll be a strike. It's not as if they were all
Irishmen. The most of them are Dagoes and such, and they don't
want any more fight than they can get by beating their wives and
kicking kids off the sidewalk. I'll do my best to get this paper
distributed right and it's a shame if it ain't, because it's going
big just now--but it's up to you. Good day, gents."
He went out. Psmith looked at Billy.
"As Comrade Wheeler remarks," he said, "it is up to us. What do you
propose to do about it? This is a move of the enemy which I have
not anticipated. I had fancied that their operations would be
confined exclusively to our two selves. If they are going to strew
the street with our carriers, we are somewhat in the soup."
Billy said nothing. He was chewing the stem of an unlighted pipe.
Psmith went on.
"It means, of course, that we must buck up to a certain extent. If
the campaign is to be a long one, they have us where the hair is
crisp. We cannot stand the strain. Cosy Moments cannot be muzzled,
but it can undoubtedly be choked. What we want to do is to find
out the name of the man behind the tenements as soon as ever we can
and publish it; and, then, if we perish, fall yelling the name."
Billy admitted the soundness of this scheme, but wished to know how
it was to be done.
"Comrade Windsor," said Psmith. "I have been thinking this thing
over, and it seems to me that we are on the wrong track, or rather
we aren't on any track at all; we are simply marking time. What we
want to do is to go out and hustle round till we stir up something.
Our line up to the present has been to sit at home and scream
vigorously in the hope of some stout fellow hearing and rushing to
help. In other words, we've been saying in the paper what an
out-size in scugs the merchant must be who owns those tenements, in
the hope that somebody else will agree with us and be sufficiently
interested to get to work and find out who the blighter is. That's
all wrong. What we must do now, Comrade Windsor, is put on our
hats, such hats as Comrade Repetto has left us, and sally forth as
sleuth-hounds on our own account."
"Yes, but how?" demanded Billy. "That's all right in theory, but
how's it going to work in practice? The only thing that can corner
the man is a commission."
"Far from it, Comrade Windsor. The job may be worked more simply. I
don't know how often the rents are collected in these places, but I
should say at a venture once a week. My idea is to hang negligently
round till the rent-collector arrives, and when he has loomed up on
the horizon, buttonhole him and ask him quite politely, as man to
man, whether he is collecting those rents for himself or for
somebody else, and if somebody else, who that somebody else is.
Simple, I fancy? Yet brainy. Do you take me, Comrade Windsor?"
Billy sat up, excited. "I believe you've hit it."
Psmith shot his cuffs modestly.
CHAPTER XVIII
AN EPISODE BY THE WAY
IT was Pugsy Maloney who, on the following morning, brought to the
office the gist of what is related in this chapter. Pugsy's version
was, however, brief and unadorned, as was the way with his
narratives. Such things as first causes and piquant details he
avoided, as tending to prolong the telling excessively, thus
keeping him from perusal of his cowboy stories. The way Pugsy put
it was as follows. He gave the thing out merely as an item of
general interest, a bubble on the surface of the life of a great
city. He did not know how nearly interested were his employers in
any matter touching that gang which is known as the Three Points.
Pugsy said: "Dere's trouble down where I live. Dude Dawson's mad at
Spider Reilly, an' now de Table Hills are layin' for de T'ree
Points. Sure." He had then retired to his outer fastness, yielding
further details jerkily and with the distrait air of one whose mind
is elsewhere.
Skilfully extracted and pieced together, these details formed
themselves into the following typical narrative of East Side life
in New York.
The really important gangs of New York are four. There are other
less important institutions, but these are little more than mere
friendly gatherings of old boyhood chums for purposes of mutual
companionship. In time they may grow, as did Bat Jarvis's coterie,
into formidable organisations, for the soil is undoubtedly
propitious to such growth. But at present the amount of ice which
good judges declare them to cut is but small. They "stick up" an
occasional wayfarer for his "cush," and they carry "canisters" and
sometimes fire them off, but these things do not signify the
cutting of ice. In matters political there are only four gangs
which count, the East Side, the Groome Street, the Three Points,
and the Table Hill. Greatest of these by virtue of their numbers
are the East Side and the Groome Street, the latter presided over
at the time of this story by Mr. Bat Jarvis. These two are
colossal, and, though they may fight each other, are immune from
attack at the hands of lesser gangs. But between the other gangs,
and especially between the Table Hill and the Three Points, which
are much of a size, warfare rages as briskly as among the republics
of South America. There has always been bad blood between the Table
Hill and the Three Points, and until they wipe each other out after
the manner of the Kilkenny cats, it is probable that there always
will be. Little events, trifling in themselves, have always
occurred to shatter friendly relations just when there has seemed a
chance of their being formed. Thus, just as the Table Hillites were
beginning to forgive the Three Points for shooting the redoubtable
Paul Horgan down at Coney Island, a Three Pointer injudiciously
wiped out another of the rival gang near Canal Street. He pleaded
self-defence, and in any case it was probably mere thoughtlessness,
but nevertheless the Table Hillites were ruffled.
That had been a month or so back. During that month things had been
simmering down, and peace was just preparing to brood when there
occurred the incident to which Pugsy had alluded, the regrettable
falling out of Dude Dawson and Spider Reilly at Mr. Maginnis's
dancing saloon, Shamrock Hall, the same which Bat Jarvis had been
called in to protect in the days before the Groome Street gang
began to be.
Shamrock Hall, being under the eyes of the great Bat, was, of
course, forbidden ground; and it was with no intention of spoiling
the harmony of the evening that Mr. Dawson had looked in. He was
there in a purely private and peaceful character.
As he sat smoking, sipping, and observing the revels, there settled
at the next table Mr. Robert ("Nigger") Coston, an eminent member
of the Three Points.
There being temporary peace between the two gangs, the great men
exchanged a not unfriendly nod and, after a short pause, a word or
two. Mr. Coston, alluding to an Italian who had just pirouetted
past, remarked that there sure was some class to the way that wop
hit it up. Mr. Dawson said Yup, there sure was. You would have said
that all Nature smiled.
Alas! The next moment the sky was covered with black clouds and the
storm broke. For Mr. Dawson, continuing in this vein of criticism,
rather injudiciously gave it as his opinion that one of the lady
dancers had two left feet.
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