"The Tortoni is getting too much for me; I never saw so many vagabonds in my life as there, so I changed places. The service and the goods are no good here; I've tried this place three days and can't stand it. I prefer the Tortoni but if that legless hobo ever tries to sell me a lottery ticket again, I am going to tip him out of his perambulator into the street even if I hang for it. I believe I shall hire the waiters at the Tortoni to give all the street peddlers a thrashing."
Mr. Lane did so. The waiters cuffed up several of the human pests, and the policemen arrested a few others, so for about a week everybody was free from molestation by the riffraff. Then they gradually came back to their usual haunts.
There was a woman who continually made the rounds soliciting alms by showing the bare stump of an arm severed about six inches from the shoulder. This harridan would take delight in walking between the tables of the restaurants while people were at dinner and expose this gruesome sight spoiling appetites.
Another nuisance was a woman about thirty-five years old who had once been comely. She sold lottery tickets and was also terribly persistent. She carried in her arms a baby while a young child clung to her skirt. Although this woman was a nuisance, I never thought her to be disagreeable, but for some reason Mr. Lane took an aversion for her which could be classified in the same category as the detest he had for the legless ruffian. One day while being pestered by this woman, he made a grab at her tickets, crumpled them up and slung the whole outfit in the street. He was sorry for it afterwards and gave her a peso to ease her. The next day, while Mr. Lane was absent, one of our associates called the woman aside and gave her two pesos if she would continue to display her lottery tickets to Mr. Lane. She accepted the proposition and did so much to his annoyance. This woman had for a husband a whiskered Irish bum. He would come several times a day to the subway entrance and make her hand over the proceeds of her sales to him. He had a staff of women selling tickets and his sole occupation was to make the rounds collecting money from them.
There are many Irish bums in Buenos Aires, men past middle life who years ago became stranded in Argentina having deserted sailing vessels and who have never had the price nor the desire to return to the Old Country. They are strong, powerful men physically, unkempt with long beards; their clothes are a mass of rags and teem with vermin. Their daily occupation is to walk along the Avenida begging alms which goes for strong drink. At night they sleep in the doorways and in the gutter. One such man made his rounds on the Avenida about nine o'clock every night. Every time he passed our table at the Tortoni, Mr. Packer would give him some money, on one occasion the sum being a peso. As the man had begged in Spanish, we did not know his nationality until a certain incident happened. One particular night, Mr. Packer was without funds when this hobo came around, and told him so. The bum sarcastically imitated Packer and then broke out into such a tirade of profane and obscene invectives and abuse in the English language, but with a strong brogue, that I am afraid the apostles turned over in their graves.
The policemen of Buenos Aires are efficient. They are mostly of Indian descent and come from the far provinces. They seldom make an arrest for misdemeanors for there are but few street quarrels when compared to the cities of the United States. They occasionally disperse a bunch of young beggars who return to their posts as soon as the "cop" has vanished. At night they make the drunken bums vacate the street benches whither they have repaired to sleep off the fumes of Geneva gin, which in Spanish goes by the name of ginevra. Quite a few incidents happen in the lives of the Bonaerense police, of which here are a couple:
On the Calle Peru there is an old policeman, beloved by nearly everybody. The storekeepers in the neighborhood of which he is the guardian of the peace hold him in such high esteem that at every Christmas they take up a collection for him. For some unknown reason, a North American named Woody, who represented the Case Implement Company "had it in" for him. Mr. Woody was accustomed to partake of too much John Barleycorn and when in his cups always abused this man in strong profane English. After awhile the old policeman caught on that he was being made the target of abuse which he could not understand, so one day changed beats with a big native Argentino policeman who was of Irish extraction. At evening Mr. Woody came along, as usual, much under the influence of liquor. The fumes of alcohol having dimmed his eyesight, he was oblivious of the shift that had been made. Seeing the policeman, he opened up with his tirade. The Irishman let him continue until Woody was weak from lack of breath and exhausted vocabulary.
"Have yez finished?" the cop then asked him.
Woody astounded at hearing the policeman thus address him, stammered an affirmative.
"Then, by Jaysus, come with me!"