The glory of the house of Boyle was the quality of viands served there, and nowhere else in the world was it possible to find finer steaks and chops. These substantials were served with a liberality that would surely have astounded those who did not understand that the patrons of Billy Boyle's were men blest with long appetites and robust digestions. Spanish stew was one of the specialties; so were baked potatoes, and so were Spanish roasted onions. It was the custom to sit and smoke after the meal had been disposed of, and the quality of the cigars sold in the place was the best; at night particularly—say after the newspaper clans began to gather—Boyle's wore the aspect of a smoke-talk in full blast. Harmony invariably prevailed. If, perchance, any discordant note was sounded it was speedily hushed. Charlie, the man behind the bar, had a way of his own of preserving the peace. He was a gentleman of a few words, slow to anger, but sure of wrath. Experience had taught him that the best persuasive to respectful and reverential order was a spoke of a wagon-wheel. One of these weapons lay within reach, and it never failed to restore tranquillity when produced and wielded at the proper moment by Charlie. The consequence was that Charlie inspired all good men with respect and all evil men with terror, and the result was harmony of the most enjoyable character. Perhaps if Charlie had been on watch when that horrid sheriff arrived on his meddlesome errand, Billy Boyle's might still be open to the rich and the poor who now meet together in that historic alley and bemoan the passing of their old point of rendezvous. Perhaps—but why indulge in surmises? It is pleasanter to regard this whole disagreeable sheriff business as an episode that is soon to pass away and to be forgotten, if not forgiven.
Surely the clouds will roll by; surely you, Septimius, and you, Tuliarchus mine, will presently gather with others of the old cronies around the hospitable board of that genial host to renew once more the delights of days and nights endeared to us in memory!
Billy Boyle's succumbed to his love for the race-track and the abuse of his credit-check system. Field has mentioned gamblers as among the patrons of the place. After midnight they were his most liberal customers. Winning or losing, their appetites were always on edge and their tastes epicurean. Nothing the house could afford was too good for them, and, while Charlie was on deck, what the house could afford was good enough for them, whether they thought so or not. During the '80s Chicago was a gamblers' paradise. Everything was run "wide open," as the saying is, under police regulation and protection, and Billy Boyle's was in the very centre of the gambling district. If Billy had been paid cash, and could have been kept away from the race-tracks, he would have grown rich beyond the terrors of the sheriff. While the gamblers were winning they supped like princes and paid like goldsmiths. When they were losing their losses whetted their appetites, they ate to keep their spirits up, and Billy's spindles were not long enough to hold their waiters' checks. In flush times a goodly percentage of these checks were redeemed, but the reckoning of the bad ones at the bottom grew longer and dirtier and more hopeless, until it brought the sheriff.
We of the Morning News—Field, Stone, Ballantyne, Reilly, and I—frequented Boyle's until the war which the paper waged unceasingly upon the league between the city administration and the gamblers brought about a stricter surveillance of gaming, and we came to be regarded by our fellow-guests as interlopers, if not spies, upon their goings in and out. Neither Boyle nor the ever faithful Charlie ever by word or sign intimated that we were personæ non gratæ, but the atmosphere of the place became too chilly for the enjoyment of late suppers.
I have devoted so much space to Billy Boyle's because for several years Field found there the best opportunity of his life "to study human nature" and observe the "ambitions, hopes, purposes, and eccentricities" of his fellow-man.
After the "pernicious activity" of our newspaper work had "put the shutters up" against us in Calhoun Place, we transferred our midnight custom to the Boston Oyster House, on the corner of Clark and Madison streets, which Field selected because of the suggestion of baked beans, brown bread, and codfish in its name. Here we were assigned a special table in the corner near the grill range, and here we were welcomed along about twelve o'clock by the cheerful chirping of a cricket in the chimney, which Field had a superstition was intended solely for him. The Boston Oyster House had the advantage over Billy Boyle's that here we could bring "our women folks" after the theatre or concert. It was through a piece of doggerel, composed and recited by Field with great gusto on one of these occasions, that we first learned of the serious attentions of our managing editor to Mrs. Field's youngest sister. One of these stanzas ran thus:
A quart taken out of the ice-box,
A dozen broiled over the fire,
Then home from the show
With her long-legged beau,