“Do you see that fellow at the third right-hand table, reading a letter to a drunken woman? He is an ex-lawyer’s clerk who has gone to the dogs through strong drink. He hangs round pot-houses and, for a drink, writes begging letters and bogus letters of reference for customers. Every time he is arrested for being drunk his pockets are full of well-written notes, addressed to prominent people, recommending meritorious cases of necessity to their notice. The next table is occupied by two prostitutes smoking cigarettes, and a couple of sneaking blackguards who secretly sell obscene pictures and transparent cards on the boulevards. Still further on are a lot of the ‘bankers’ or hawkers, who sell newspapers and pamphlets with loud cries of ‘Last night’s murder!’ or ‘Frightful scandal—full and minute particulars!’ Mixed in with them are street singers, street musicians and other Bohemians of the lowest class.”
Unmasked.
On receipt of 30 cents we will send, postpaid, a large book entitled “Mabille Unmasked.” It tells of the wickedest place in the world, how it was started, who have patronized it, and what has happened there. It is one of the greatest sensational books of the age. A notable feature is that it is full of pictures taken from life. Send 30 cents, stamps, to U. S. Supply Co., Box 329, Lynn, Mass. Another sensational book is entitled “Coney Island Frolics.” It is profusely illustrated. Sent postpaid for 30 cents by U. S. Supply Co.
Deep In Sin.
At the entrance to the Rue de Trois Portes, the writer made a sudden move. “Here’s a poor, ragged woman lying stretched out on the sidewalk. She looks as if she might be dead.”
“Dead drunk,” responded the Chief of Detectives, cynically. “Even animal life seems suspended. Do you detect a very loathsome smell? It is a combination of all the drinks and perfumes popular among women of her kind. She is still young—hardly thirty years old.” Between her thick lips gleamed fine white teeth. She must have been pretty at one time.
“How disgusting she looks, all plastered over with mud.”
“She is what they call a ‘sidewalker.’”
“What’s that?”
“It is the slang name for a class of prostitutes whose only home is the scaffolding round some old house that is being pulled down, or some new one that is being built. They carry on their trade in the open air under bridges, in the trenches of the fortifications, in back alleys, where there are no janitors. Once a week, regularly, this one fetches up in the station-house. She comes lawfully by her drunkenness. Her mother died in hospital of delirium tremens. Her father committed suicide while drunk. She herself has almost got to the end of her rope. Some day, coming out of a pot-house, she’ll drop dead in the street, and then she’ll be on show, for the last time, at the Morgue. Although known to thousands, nobody will claim her body, and she will be turned over to the medical school for dissection.”