“Well, that’s just about the size of it,” he replied. “I’ve got the money, and mean to keep it. You may have all the wine you want, but I’m not going to corrupt you with money, and you may call me what you d—n please. Have some more wine, boys; have some more wine.”
The boys were in no mood for drinking just then. They went away sorrowing, and they all cursed him in all the epithets known to the language. It is even said that they offered liberal premiums to anybody who would invent fresh forms of swearing, so that they could speak their minds fairly. Common profanity wouldn’t do.
AN UNDERTAKING COMMISSION.
Few persons have any idea of the extent of this commission business in ordinary affairs. I mean those unconnected with politics. It would be difficult to name any branch of business where commissions are not paid to somebody. Lawyers give commissions to those who send them clients; doctors pay those who recommend them to patients; grocers, butchers, bakers, and candlestick makers pay commissions to those who send them patronage; tailors, milliners, haberdashers, confectioners, florists, bar-keepers, taverners—in fact, nearly all persons who buy, or sell, or fill orders, are obliged to pay commissions to somebody. Railway companies, steamship companies, and dozens of other corporations—reputed to be without souls—pay commissions, and will continue to pay them to the end of time. Even undertakers are not exempt. I know of two cases wherein they have paid for the business which came to them, and have heard of several others. One that was told me a few weeks ago was as follows: A woman in a fashionable boarding-house died suddenly, and her husband asked the landlady to send for an undertaker. She did so, and the job proved a good one, as the bereaved husband was possessed of considerable money, and wished to do the thing up in style. He told the undertaker to make the funeral a swell one, and not to stand on expense. The undertaker obeyed orders, and the affair was the envy of the remaining boarders in the house. A day or two after the payment of the bill, the landlady called at the coffin shop, and quietly hinted that a death in a house is a sad thing, especially in a boarding-house. The undertaker assented, and without further parley drew a check for fifty dollars, which consoled the unhappy matron, and turned her sorrow into delight. When another boarder dies she will not forget this slight testimonial of the undertaker’s respect and esteem.
TAILORS AND THE BILLS THEY PAY.
Many a nice young man about town is clothed free of expense by fashionable tailors who have an eye to business, and know it is to their advantage to keep the much viewed swells in fine garments. Grocers, butchers, bakers, and all men of their ilk, pay commissions to house servants much oftener than their employers imagine. The custom has become very general in New York in the past few years, and in some households the wages of the servants are the smallest part of their incomes. On New Year’s day the grocers send presents to the servants, generally a bottle of whiskey or gin to each cook or kitchen maid, and the result is, that, in a good many houses, the servants below stairs, on the first day of January, are quite as drunk as the majority of the visitors and entertainers in the parlors above. At the railway and steamboat landings, the hackmen frequently pay commissions to the policemen who allow them good places in the line, and do not press them to move on. Policemen, by the way, make a great many commissions—when their consciences are flexible—from gin-shops, gambling-houses, and other establishments which may as well be nameless, and in the same way hotel clerks and hackmen are enabled to add materially to their regular incomes. The hotel clerks come in for commissions on the tailors, and the same is the case with others who come in contact with strangers. For example, there is a tailor in New York who is understood to have friendly relations with one of the consulates,—I don’t mean with the consul, but with some of the subordinates. When a foreign traveller drops into this consulate, and says, “I want some clothes, you know, and I want to know, you know, where I can find a good tailor, you know,” some one is moved to say, “My dear fellow, you know, go to ——‘s; here’s his card; awful nice tailor, you know; will just suit you, my boy.” The traveller goes, and remarks to the tailor that they told him at the consulate that this was the place. Is it anybody’s business if somebody gets the handsome thing done for him?
INTRODUCTION TO GAMBLERS.
There is one trick in the business which has been adopted by many people, but the point of it is rarely seen by the victim. It is that of giving a letter of introduction by way of holding a tighter grip on the party to be skinned, and also of avoiding a dispute as to the validity of the claim for a commission. Jones, from the country, is stopping at the Bangup Hotel, and asks the clerk to direct him to a good, respectable gambling-house, or something of the sort, as he is a stranger in town, and doesn’t know the ropes. Clerk tells him, for instance, that Heenan’s or Morrissey’s is just what he wants, and draws from his pocket a card, on which is printed the name of the clerk of the Bangup. Then he writes on the back thereof, “This is my particular friend, Mr. Jones: treat him kindly; show him every attention, and charge it to me.” “Be sure and hand him this card,” the clerk enjoins; “otherwise he won’t know you, and won’t show you any more attention than anybody else.” Jones delivers the card, is treated politely, and often leaves a hundred dollars or so in the house, and is satisfied. So also is the clerk when he receives his share of the proceeds.
A few years ago there were two hotels, one in New York, and the other in a western city, which were run in a sort of half-way partnership. Suppose you were a patron of the New York concern, and were about going to the other city: mine host of Manhattan would say, “Let me give you a letter to my cousin,” and forthwith he wrote a warm letter, in which you were represented as a particular friend,—you will always find a “particular” in the letter,—one of the best of men, a gentleman in the true sense of that word, and one whose acquaintance would be an honor of which the President of the United States and the Emperor of Russia might be proud. You would be deserving the highest respect, and should receive the very best the house could afford.
A MODEL LETTER OF INTRODUCTION.