II
The circle of boys in the corner by the Family Entrance broke up. Joe Kaplan, the biggest boy, cuffed and booted smaller ones aside, and walked off towards Rivington street, indifferent to what became of the others. He slapped the flagstones with his spreading shoes, and whistled between his teeth. He was feeling good. A recollection of the white-faced boy flitted across his mind, buoying him up with scorn. Kid from up-town, he thought, sneakin’ around lookin’ for somepin bad. Gee! what rotten minds them kids has! But Joe could not put this kid out of his mind right away. What made him look at me so funny? he asked himself.
At the Rivington street corner Joe lounged against a pillar with his shoulders hunched forward, making a stupid, sleepy look come in his face. Under his drooping eyelids gleamed a spark. This was his hunting ground. Every little stir in the crowd had its meaning for him. He marked the cop on the sidewalk to the left, leaning back with his elbows propped on a rail, surveying the crowd with good-humored contempt. Hogan; nothing to fear from him; a fat-head, always looking at the women. On the corner in the other direction was Mitchell; a terror if you tried to turn a trick on the storekeepers; but he despised the pushcart men; all the cops did. However, Joe had heard that the pushcart thefts had made so much talk, the captain of the precinct had sent out a couple of plain-clothes men to mix with the crowd. He was looking for them.
Taking to the middle of the street, Joe shambled up to the corner and back, making out to be a low-down poor mutt, searching under the pushcarts for butts. Joe could let his mouth hang open, and a sort of film come over his eyes; you would swear he was half-crazed with drugged cigarettes. His tour assured him there was no plain-clothes men in that block. He could smell a cop out. He gradually narrowed his beat to and fro, his objective being the pushcart that was selling furs. Cold weather was coming on, and it was doing a brisk trade.
Suddenly Joe perceived a thin-faced lad older than himself, standing about with a cagey eye. Bent upon the same business as himself of course. Joe grinned inwardly. He ain’t as smart as me, he thought. Watch me make him work for me. Joe’s only regret was, that there was nobody to see how clever he was. He unobtrusively fell back to the curb opposite the cart of furs, where he appeared to be looking at everything in sight except the thin-faced lad.
This one edged up to the pushcart from behind. Occasionally he turned a white face over his shoulder with a faraway look. Clumsy work! thought Joe; if there was a cop within a hundred feet he’d get on to his face. The pushcart had a rack about three feet high built around three sides of it, the better to display its wares. This rack was lined with canvas; but the canvas, as Joe could see, was not securely fastened at the bottom. The canvas-covered rack concealed the thin-faced lad from the proprietor of the cart, who was in front.
When he saw the thin-faced lad throw away his cigarette, Joe crossed the road. The lad was watching the proprietor around the edge of the screen, and did not see Joe. Joe went around the opposite end of the cart, and stood, making his eyes goggle at the grand display of furs. In this position he could no longer see the thin-faced lad, but he saw what he was waiting for; the piece of fur disappear under the canvas with a jerk. Others saw it too, and cries were raised. Some took after the thief. Every eye was turned in that direction. The distracted proprietor flung himself over his stock with arms outspread.
Everybody was looking the other way! What a snap! Joe slipped his hand under the canvas at his end of the cart, and jerked a fur neckpiece out. Fur makes no sound. Nobody got on to him, and a second piece followed the first. Thrusting his prizes under his coat, he walked off, whistling between his teeth. Oh, I’m smart! I’m smart! I’m smart! he thought upon a swelling breast. The foretaste of a big meal made his mouth water.
Having disposed of his loot in the back room of a little dry goods store where he was known, Joe proceeded to a restaurant on Canal street. This was no hash house, but a regular bon-ton restaurant, with cloths on the tables, and waiters that didn’t dast give the customers no lip, so’s they had the price. Here you could get a big T-bone steak and coffee for thirty cents, with French fried and bread thrown in, and all the ketchup you wanted. Joe went in feeling big; it wasn’t often a kid of his age had the nerve to enter that joint.
Half an hour later he leaned back and picked his teeth. He felt out o’ sight inside. He liked that joint; in the middle of the night it was always warm and bright, and had a stir of life about it. You could hear the meat frying at the back, and smell the smoke of it. There were two men sitting opposite to each other, leaning forward until their heads almost touched, and whispering, whispering, each one rapidly stirring his coffee without ever looking toward the cup. Planning some job all right, thought Joe; bet they ain’t as smart as me, though. You can see they’re nervous. Across from the men sat a girl who was vainly trying to attract their attention. She was beginning to look bedraggled, and there was a look of terror in the bottom of her eyes that excited Joe’s scorn. She was on the toboggan all right. Been kicked out of the houses. A man would be a fool to take her.
His breast twanged with exultation. He was a smart feller; he was all there, you bet. A feller could have a good time in this world if he was smart enough. Everything waitin’ to be picked up. No danger of him gettin’ pinched. He was just a little too smart for them. Gee! it was great to bat around at night, and sleep in the day when the thick-heads was workin’! Let the thick-heads work! There was plenty of them. Workin’ never got you nowhere. Look at his old man. . . . Soon as he was old enough he’d have a woman to work for him. Funny how women would work for a man. Soft. Oh well, he’d have one of the best. When he wanted anything, he went out and got it. That was the sort of feller he was. He was smarter than anybody.
Joe went home by way of Allen street where the houses were. After midnight when the East side generally was beginning to quiet down, Allen street was in full swing. Joe never tired of watching the game that was played there. The men looked so sheepish when they sneaked into the houses, and more so when they came out later, cleaned out. Each man looking as if he was the first who had been trimmed. These were the poor fools who hadn’t spunk enough to get a woman for themselves. The painted-up girls too, at the windows, grinning at the men like cats, and making goo-goo eyes, and calling pet names to get them to come in. And the poor suckers fell for it! It was enough to make a feller laugh. Besides, there was often a good trick to be worked in Allen street. If you could get hold of a souse before he fell into the hands of the girls.
On this night Joe had the fun of seeing Chicago Liz’s house raided by the police. He had heard rumors that Liz was having trouble with the Captain along of her payments. The police didn’t bother the other houses of course, and all the girls were at the windows and doors watching. It was good sport to see Chicago Liz’s girls carried out into the street in their short dresses; yelling and carrying on, and joshing the crowd until they were shoved in the wagon. The Madame herself, who looked sour, was taken away with a policeman to herself in a two horse cab.
After it was over, Joe was beckoned by a girl standing in a doorway across the street. This was Jewel La Count who was in Clara Moore’s house. Joe had a sort of footing in that house as occasional errand boy. Jewel was half Italian like himself; but nobody knew what the other half of her was. They were about the same age, but Jewel tried to put it over him because she had been going with men for more than a year. Joe sneered at her, but these girls were often useful to him, and he went across the street. A certain uneasiness attacked him at the thought of speaking to her alone. Kid though she was, he wasn’t sure how to handle her; he hadn’t discovered any way of getting her going.
“What yeh want?” he asked gruffly.
Jewel’s great brown eyes took him in unsmilingly, and turned away. “Nottin’,” she said. “There’s nottin’ doin’ to-night. I just wanted somebody to talk to.”
Joe felt at a loss. “Aah!” he said, kicking the step with his spreading shoe.
“Tell me somepin, Kid,” said Jewel. “I never get out.”
“Aah!” said Joe. He sized her up calculatingly out of the corners of his eyes. She was a damn pretty girl. But that meant nothing to him. Her skin was as soft and smooth as a baby’s. The prettiest girl in the street. He had heard said that Clara Moore knew what a good thing she had in Jewel, and took good care of her. “Where’s the Madam?” he asked.
“Out,” said Jewel indifferently.
“You’d catch hell if she saw you down in the street.”
“I ain’t lookin’ for anything. The house is closed to-night.”
A silence fell between them. Joe wished himself away from there. Jewel made him feel small. He whistled between his teeth, and cursed. “——! but it’s slow in the street to-night. Why the hell couldn’t Liz pay up and let business go on.”
Jewel ignored this as if it had not been spoken. That was the way she was, thought Joe sorely, independent. Stealing a look at her, he was struck by the calm rise and fall of her breast under the pretty waist. She was healthy all right. Well, she lived soft; nothing to do but eat and sleep.
“I like to talk to somebody on the outside,” said Jewel. “In this house it’s always the same. . . . I like to talk.”
“Well, you got plenty company,” said Joe with a knowing grin.
“Aah! I don’t talk to them,” said Jewel coolly. “They don’t ac’ human. I like young kids better. Seems like boys went dotty when they got to be men.”
Joe knew what she meant, but he wasn’t going to let anything on to a girl. “Aah! you’re a bit too big for your shoes,” he said loftily.
It made no impression on her. “I like the streets,” she said dreamily. “I wisht I could roam the streets with a gang of kids. That’s what I’d like.”
“You don’t know when you’re well off,” said Joe.
“Where you been to-night?” asked Jewel.
“To the Bowery Mission,” said Joe derisively.
“Yeah,” said Jewel. “You look it!”
Joe laughed, and felt more at his ease. After all, there was something about Jewel. . . . She didn’t talk with a sponge in her mouth like other girls. She gave it to you straight. “I had a steak at Dolan’s,” he said offhand.
“Yes, you did!” said Jewel. “Where’d you git the price?”
“Oh, I hooked a coupla cat-skins offen a pushcart.”
“Were you chased?” asked Jewel eagerly.
“Nah! What d’ye think I am?”
Jewel paid no attention to the question. Her thoughts pursued their own course.
“Come on up,” she said in friendly fashion.
Joe went hot and cold. At first he didn’t know what to say.
“I got a pack of cigarettes in my room,” the girl went on; “we’ll smoke and chin. I’ll mend your coat for you.”
“Clara’d give me hell if she come home,” said Joe. He heard the little quaver in his own voice and it made him sore. A hard nut like him!
“Oh, Clara wouldn’t mind you,” said Jewel, coolly.
This stung.
“You often been in before,” said Jewel.
This was true, and why shouldn’t he go now? But something inside him trembled.
“Come on,” Jewel went on; “I’ll show you all my things. I got real nice things of my own. I keep ’em locked in my drawer. I’d like to show ’em to somebody. I got a big doll that I dressed myself. She looks real cunning. I got a set of dishes from Chinatown. I got a solid silver photograph frame. . . .”
“Who’s in it?” asked Joe with a curling lip.
“President Cleveland,” said Jewel undisturbed. “Come on up. We’ll talk. You could come often. I’d like to have somebody come to see me, that belonged to me like. . . .”
Joe felt that he must play the man. “Nottin’ doin’ to-night, girly,” he said, as he had heard men say along Allen street.
Jewel looked at him with her big, calm eyes. Then she laughed. She planted her hands on her hips, and opened her mouth wide to let it come out.
“Aah!” snarled Joe. “Aah . . . !” Her laughter stung him like whips. If she had said anything, he could have got back at her, but she laughed what was in her mind, and there was no answer to that. She wasn’t just trying to get back at him; she really thought he was as funny as hell. “Aah!” snarled Joe, “I’m not afraid of you!”
She laughed afresh, and by that he knew that she knew that he was afraid of her. “Aah! to hell with you!” snarled Joe, grinding his teeth.
He walked off followed by the sound of her laughter.
The Kaplans lived in two rooms on Sussex street. Joe banged the door open noisily. Here was a place where he could make himself felt. Though it was past midnight his father and mother were still sewing pants on the two sewing machines, side by side against the wall between the cook-stove and the front windows. Their bowed backs were to Joe as he entered. On a chair between the two narrow windows sat a girl of eleven asleep, her head fallen back against the wall, her white, unchildlike face turned up to the gaslight; mouth open. The pair of pants she had been sewing on, had slipped to the floor. On a broken, carpet-covered sofa against the left-hand wall, lay two little boys sleeping in their clothes; the outer one clinging to his brother to keep from rolling off. The dining table with the remains of the last meal upon it, was shoved into the back corner of the room. Pants in various stages of completion were piled everywhere.
“Well, this is a hell of a dump to come back to!” said Joe in a rasping voice.
At the sound of his voice, the two little boys rolled off the sofa, and creeping on hands and knees to the only unoccupied corner, curled up in a fresh embrace, and instantly fell asleep again. It pleased Joe to see how quickly they moved. His mother rose heavily from her machine, and threw a ragged piece of quilt over the boys. She shook the girl by the shoulder, and led her staggering into the back room, where the child collapsed on a mattress spread on the floor.
Joe sat down on the vacated sofa, and commenced to take off his shoes. His eyes roved around the place full of contempt. There was both a window and a door into the back room, which had no other openings. It was not much larger than a closet; the bed and the narrow mattress thrown down beside it, filled the floor space. From lines stretched across between wall and wall hung whatever of the family wardrobe was not in use. The walls were painted blue.
“God! what a home for a fellow!” said Joe.
Nobody paid any attention. His mother plodded back to her machine without looking at him. His father never had stopped working the treadles. Joe looked from one to another in a rage. Nice pair of broken-down mutts they were! Was this the best they could do for him? Did they think a fellow was going to stand for it? His mother was a strong, healthy woman, but dead from the neck up; dazed-like; dumb. She took everything that came. It was almost impossible to get her going. His father—Joe grinned; you could always get him by the short hairs. Joe gloated over the humbled back. His father was askeared of him, all right! Yah! the skinny Jew with his ashy face and sore eyes! His grey hair was coming out in spots like a mangy dog’s. The tufts that remained curled in ringlets with the bald spots showing through. His beard too. Spit-curls!
“How the hell do you expect me to sleep in this racket?” snarled Joe.
“This lot is promised in the morning,” said his mother in a dead voice.
“What’s that to me? I gotta have my sleep.”
“Take my place on the bed,” she said.
“What! sleep wit’ him,” said Joe indicating his father. “Not on your tin-type. I’m more particular, I am.”
The woman shrugged, and went on with her sewing.
“On the level,” said Joe, undressing, “is he my fat’er?”
“You shut your mouth,” she said, without looking around.
“Honest, I can’t believe that bag o’ bones ever made me,” drawled Joe. “I ain’t like him. It beats me, Mom, how you could a’ done it!”
The two machines whirred on, with only the necessary pauses to turn the goods.
Joe raised his voice a little to make sure of being heard above the sound. “But its a cinch some Jew made me. I got Jew blood all right, and I’m glad of it. The Jews are a smart people. . . . All except him. He’s a botched Jew; a scarecrow; he’s a Jew that didn’t come off. He must a been made of the stale bits like that twice-baked cake yeh git such a big hunk of for a penny, but at that it would make you puke to eat it. . . .”
Joe’s father suddenly rose, and turning round, supported himself against the back of his chair with a wasted, shaking arm. Joe, with a grin, watched how the sparse curls of his beard seemed to stiffen and quiver. “You bad boy . . . you bad boy!” he said in a husky broken voice. The old geezer’s lungs were rotten. “You are my son, God help me! When you were placed in my hands I gave thanks to God for my first-born. Little did I think it was a curse He was laying upon me!”
The old man straightened up, and shook his scraggy arms above his head. Good as a t’eayter, thought Joe. “Oh God! what have I done to deserve such a son!” he croaked. “I have worked hard all my days, and have wronged no man!” He waved his sticks of arms about. “Look! Look! How we live; how we work! We are sick and starving. And he comes in from the streets, the loafer! greasy with good food, and twits me to my beard! . . . God has abandoned me! God has abandoned me! . . .” Straining back his head like a man struggling for air, the old man staggered into the back room. They heard him fall, a dead weight on the bed.
Joe laughed loudly. “Well, if I’m a hell of a son, you’re a hell of a father,” he called after him. “What did you ever do for me?” He pulled an old coverlet from under the sofa, and wrapped himself up in it, laughing. “Gee! it’s rich when the old man begins to call on God!” he said. “That’s the Jew of it! And him kicked out of the synagogue, like you was kicked out of the church! This is a swell religious family, this is!”
His mother did not answer him. She kept her broad back turned to him. Joe saw her glance over at the other machine to measure how much work the man had left undone. Then her head went a little lower, as she made the treadles of her machine move faster. Joe, feeling better now, flung an arm over his eyes to shield them from the gaslight; and settled himself to sleep.