Yet in spite of all this the policeman’s life is full of danger. He must patrol streets which are known to be dangerous, narrow alleys, where a well-delivered blow from a slung-shot, a skillfully aimed thrust from a knife, or a bullet from a revolver, would make an end of him before he could summon help. He is an object of hatred, as well as of fear, to the dangerous classes, and they do not hesitate to take advantage of him. Often some brave fellow is set upon by a gang of toughs and beaten or wounded. Yet, whatever danger, the policeman must face it all, and to the honor of the force be it said, he does not shirk. Whatever their faults may be, cowardice cannot be charged against the police of Chicago.
I remember well a tough basement saloon in Clark street; it had been growing worse and worse and one dismal November evening, hearing a disturbance, Captain Mulligan and the officer on that post went in. There were about fifty persons, men and women, of every color and nationality, all of the worst characters, and some notorious in crime. The captain took in the situation at a glance, and determined without a thought to arrest the whole party. Placing his back to the front door he covered the back door with his revolver, and threatened death to the first person who moved. Then he sent the patrolman to the station for help, and for fifteen long minutes held that crowd of desperadoes at bay. They glared at him, squirmed and twisted in their places, scowled and gritted their clenched teeth, and tried to get at their knives and tear him to pieces; but all the while the stern mouth of that revolver looked at them, and looked them out of countenance, and the steady nerve behind it held sway over their brutal ferocity. It was a trial of nerve and endurance. Captain Mulligan stood the test and saved his life. They could have shot him a hundred times. Certainly it was not because they had any scruples against it, for the first two prisoners sent to the station killed Officer Burns with a paving stone before they had gone two blocks. Captain Clare made an almost precisely similar single-handed raid on the famous “Burnt Rag” saloon in Boiler avenue one winter night in the Seventies.
Let us take our seat beside Sergeant Cameron. It is 10 o’clock and the night cold and keen without, but the room is brightly lighted, warm and comfortable. With the exception of a few early lodgers who have been given quarters, no one has put in an appearance, and we begin to wonder if it is to be a dull night after all. The sergeant smiles, and remarks that there will be business enough in the next three hours.
The door opens as he speaks, and a woman in a faded black dress, a battered bonnet, and a very dirty face, enters, and hesitatingly approaches the desk.
“Can I have a night’s lodging, sir” she asks.
The sergeant makes no reply for a minute, but gazes at her with curious interest, and then asks abruptly: “When did you wash your face last?”
“I washed it in Bridgeport, sir,” she answered, “an’ I come from there today, and never a drop o’ water have I seen.”
“Give her a lodging,” says the sergeant, nodding to an officer standing by. “But see here,” he added to the woman, “what are you doing in this district?”
“Ah! it’s a long story, sir,” she begins. “It was a man that was the cause of it, an’ bad luck to him. He left me after deceivin’ me, an’ I’ve come here to find him.”
“How did he deceive you?”