Yet, withal, even loafers can be saved from their mockery of an existence, but different means from the stereotyped ones of the present day must be employed. Where is the harvest of the many millions sown on the East Side? The time, the day, the hour is ripe for a Messiah to the slums who will have much piety, more manhood and, most of all, common sense. Bring less talk and more muscle; less hymns and more work, and there will be an echo to your labor in every lane and alley.
My loaferish career ran along so evenly that I could not imagine such a thing as a break in it. Without a moment's warning, in the most ordinary way, the message from across the frontier of decency was brought to me by one whom I cannot call otherwise than one of God's own angels.
It had been a most quiet day. In the early forenoon "Skinny" McCarthy, one of my intimate pals, had informed me that "something would be doing" that day. I gave him my rogue's blessing and sped him on his way.
"Skinny" belonged to the class of meanest grafters. His graft consisted in walking miles and miles looking for trucks and wagons left temporarily without the driver's protection. To whip something from the vehicle and then to accelerate his steps, at the same time holding the stolen article before him, was only a moment's effort. Naturally, the proceeds of "Skinny's" expeditions were never very large, but he kept at it so constantly and spent his few dollars so quickly that he was a rather handy acquaintance for me.
It was about two o'clock in the afternoon of June the second when "Skinny" returned to Callahan's and, pulling me aside, whispered that he had done better than usual. I praised him for his zeal and luck, encouraged him to greater efforts, and then suggested that our thirst should find an immediate end. Forthwith, at a signal from me, several other birds of our feather joined us and we celebrated "Skinny's" safe and welcome return in the customary way.
The only serious fault I had to find with "Skinny" McCarthy was that he could not stand very much drink. Just when the others would begin to feel the mellowing influences of the drink "Skinny" was always so intoxicated as to lose all control over his speech and actions. He was a bit of a hero-worshipper, and I—mind you, I—was his hero. As soon as the fumes of the stuff consumed would befuddle his brains he would declare with howling, roaring emphasis that he was a thief and proud of it, that he didn't care for what anybody thought of him as long as I was his friend, and that he was always willing to share with me, because he knew that I would stick to him if he should happen to get into "stir."
All this was very flattering to me and sounded sweet to my ears, yet, being of limitless capacity, I never found myself sufficiently drunk to enjoy this too public endorsement.
On this occasion—June the second—"Skinny," elated over his markedly successful expedition, bought drinks so fast that, in a little over an hour, he was near a state of coma. I, as leader of the gang, was more or less responsible for the individual safety of my fellows, and, not caring to see "Skinny" utterly helpless so early in the afternoon, ordered a cessation of drinking and proposed an adjournment to the kegs at the curb, hoping the air would partly revive my ailing follower.
My suggestion was accepted, and I led the way to the sidewalk, closely followed by "Skinny."
Just as I had reached the curb and was about to seat myself on my keg I heard a slight commotion, followed by a muffled scream, behind me. Leisurely turning I saw what I had expected to see.