MOLLIE MATCHES

(Annals of the Bend)

It was clear and cold and dry – excellent weather, indeed, for a snowless Christmas. Everywhere one witnessed evidences of the season. One met more gay clothes than usual, with less of anxiety and an increase of smiling peace in the faces. Each window had its wreath of glistening green, whereof the red ribbon bow, that set off the garland, seemed than common a deeper and more ardent red. Or was the elevation in the faces, and the greenness of the wreaths, and the vivid sort of the ribbon, due to impressions, impalpable yet positive, of Christmas everywhere?

All about was Christmas. Even our Baxter Street doggery had attempted something in the nature of a bowl of dark, suspicious drink, to which the barkeeper – he was a careless man of his nomenclature, this barkeeper – gave the name of “apple toddy.” Apple toddy it might have been.

When Chucky came in, an uncertain shuffle which was company to his rather solid tread showed he was not alone. I looked up. Our acquaintance, Mollie Matches, expert pickpocket, – now helpless and broken, all his one time jauntiness of successful crime gone, – was with him.

“It was lonesome over be me joint,” vouchsafed Chucky, “wit’ me Bundle chased over to do her reg’lar anyooal confession to d’ priest, see! an’ so I fought youse wouldn’t mind an’ I bring Mollie along. Me old pal is still a bit shaky as to his hooks,” remarked Chucky, as he surveyed his tremulous companion, “an’ a sip of d’ booze wouldn’t do him no harm. It ain’t age; Mollie’s only come sixty spaces; it’s that Hum-min’ Boid about which I tells youse, that’s knocked his noive.”

Drinks were ordered; whiskey strong and straight for Matches. No; I’ve no apology for buying these folk drink. “Drink,” observed Johnson to the worthy Boswell, “drink, for one thing, makes a man pleased with himself, which is no small matter.” Heaven knows! my shady companions, for the reason announced by the sagacious doctor, needed something of the sort. Besides, I never molest my fellows in their drinking. I’ve slight personal use for breweries, distilleries, or wine presses; and gin mills in any form or phase woo me not; yet I would have nothing of interference with the cups of other men. In such behalf, I feel not unlike that fat, well-living bishop of Westminster who refused to sign a memorial to Parliament craving strict laws in behalf of total abstinence. “No,” said that sound priest, stoutly, “I will sign no such petition to Parliament. I want no such law. I would rather see Englishmen free than sober.”

It took five deep draughts of liquor, ardently raw, to put Matches in half control of his hands. What with the chill of the day, and what with the torn condition of his nerves, they shook like the oft-named aspen.

“Them don’t remind a guy,” said Matches, as he held up his quivering fingers, “of a day, twenty-five years ago, when I was d’ pick of d’ swell mob, an ‘d’ steadiest grafter that ever ringed a watch or weeded a leather! It would be safe for d’ Chief to take me mug out of d’ gallery now, an’ rub d’ name of Mollie Matches off d’ books. Me day is done, an’ I’ll graft no more.”

There was plaintiveness in the man’s tones as if he were mourning some virtue, departed with his age and weakness. Clearly Matches, off his guard and normal, found no peculiar fault with his past.

“How came you to be a thief?” I asked Matches bluntly. I had counted the sixth drink down his throat, which meant that he wouldn’t be sensitive.

“It’s too far off to say,” retorted Matches. “I can’t t’row back to d’ time when I wasn’t a crook. Do youse want to know d’ foist trick I loined? Well, it wasn’t t’ree blocks from here, over be d’ Bowery. I couldn’t be more’n five. There was a fakir, sellin’ soap. There was spec’ments of d’ long green all over his stand, wit’ cakes of soap on ‘em, to draw d’ suckers. Standin’ be me side was a kid; Danny d’ Face dey called him. He was bigger than me, an’ so I falls to his tips, see!”

“‘When you see him toin round,’ said Danny d’ Face, ‘swipe a bill, an’ chase yourself up d’ alley wit’ it.’

“Danny goes behint, an’ does a sneak on d’ fakir’s leg wit’ a pin. Of course, he toins an’ cuts loose a bluff at Danny, who’s ducked out of reach. As he toins, up goes me small mit, an’ d’ nex’ secont I’m sprintin’ up d’ alley wit ‘d’ swag.

“Nit; d’ mug wit’ d’ soap don’t chase. He never even makes a holler; I don’t t’ink he caught on. But Danny cuts in after me, an ‘d’ minute he sees we ain’t bein’ followed, or piped, he gives me d’ foot, t’rows me in a heap, an’ grabs off d’ bill. I don’t get a smell of it. An ‘d’ toad skin’s a fiver at that!

“D’ foist real graft I recalls,” continued Matches, as he took a meditative sip of the grog, “I’m goin’ along wit’ an old fat skirt, called Mother Worden, to Barnum’s Museum down be Ann Street an’ Broadway. Mebbe I’m seven or eight then. Mother Worden used to make up for d’ respectable, see! an’ our togs was out of sight. There was no flies on us when me an’ Mother Worden went fort’ to graft. What was d’ racket? Pickin’ women’s pockets. Mother Worden would go to d’ museum, or wherever there was a crush, an’ lead me about be me mit. She’d steer me up to some loidy, an’ let on she’s lookin’ at whatever d’ other party has her lamps on. Meanwhile, I’m shoved in between d’ brace of ‘em, an’ that’s me cue to dip in wit’ me free hook an’ toin out d’ loidy’s pocket, see! An’ say! it was a peach of a play; an’ a winner. We used to take in funerals, an’ theaytres, an’ wherever there was a gang. Me an’ Mother Worden was d’ whole t’ing; there was nobody’s bit to split out; just us. We was d’ complete woiks.

“Now an’ then there was a squeal. Once in a while I’d bungle me stunt, an’ d’ loidy I was friskin’ would tumble an’ raise d’ yell. But Mother Worden always ‘pologised, an’ acted like she’s shocked, an’ cuffed me an’ t’umped me, see! an’ so she’d woik us free. I stood for d’ t’umpin’, an’ never knocked. Mother Worden always told me that if we was lagged, d’ p’lice guys would croak me. An’ as d’ wallopin’s she gives me was d’ real t’ing, – bein’ she was hot under d’ collar for me failin’ down wit’ me graft, – d’ folks used to believe her, an’ look on me fin in their pocket, that way, as d’ caper of a kid. Oh, d’ old woman Worden was dead flossy in her day, an’ stood d’ acid all right, all right, every time.

“But like it always toins out, she finds her finish. One day she makes a side-play on her own account, somethin’ in d’ shopliftin’ line, I t’ink; an’ she’s pinched, an’ takes six mont’s on d’ Island. I never sees her ag’in; at which I don’t break no record for weeps. She’s a boid, was Mother Worden; an’ dead tough at that. She don’t give me none d’ best of it when I’m wit’ her, an’ I’m glad, in a kid fashion, when she gets put away.

“That’s d’ start I gets. Some other time I’ll unfold to youse how I takes me name of Mollie Matches. Youse can hock your socks! I’ve seen d’ hot end of many an alley! I never chases be Trinity buryin’ ground, but I t’inks of a day when I pitched coppers on one of d’ tombstones, heads or tails, for a saw-buck, wit’ a party grown, before I was old enough an’ fly enough to count d’ dough we was tossin’ for. But we’ll pass all that up to-night. It’s gettin’ late an’ I’ll just put me frame outside another hooker an’ then I’ll hunt me bunk. I can’t set up, an’ booze an’ gab like I onct could; I ain’t neither d’ owl nor d’ tank I was.”

THE ST. CYRS

CHAPTER I

François St. Cyr is a Frenchman. He is absent two years from La Belle France. He and his little wife, Bebe, live not far from Washington Square. They love each other like birds. Yet François St. Cyr is gay, and little Bebe is jealous. Once a year the Ball of France is held at the Garden. Bebe turns up a nose and will not so belittle herself. So François St. Cyr attends the Ball of France alone. However, he does not repine. François St. Cyr is permitted to be more de gage; the ladies more abandon. At least that is the way François St. Cyr explains it.

It is the night of the Ball of France. François St. Cyr is there. The Garden lights shine on fair women and brave men. It is a masque. The costumes are fancy, some of them feverishly so. A railroad person present says there isn’t enough costume on some of the participants to flag a hand-car. No one has any purpose, however, to flag a hand-car; the deficiency passes unnoticed. Had the railroader spoken of flagging a beer waggon —mon Dieu! that would have been another thing!

A prize, a casket of jewels, is to be given to the best dressed lady. A bacchante in white satin trimmed with swans’ down and diamonds the size and lustre of salt-cellars is appointed the beneficiary by popular acclaim. François St. Cyr, as one of the directors of the ball, presents the jewels in a fiery speech. The music crashes, the mad whirl proceeds. A supple young woman, whose trousseau would have looked lonely in a collar-box, kicks off the hat of François St. Cyr. Sapriste! how she charms him! He drinks wine from her little shoe!

CHAPTER II

The morning papers told of the beauty in swans’ down; the casket of jewels, and the presentation rhetoric of François St. Cyr, flowing like a river of oral fire. Bebe read it with the first light of dawn. Peste! Later, when François St. Cyr came home, Bebe hurled the clock at him from an upper window. Bebe followed it with other implements of light housekeeping. François St. Cyr fled wildly. Then he wept and drank beer and talked of his honour.

CHAPTER III

The supple person who kicked the hat of François St. Cyr was a chorus girl. The troop in whose outrages she assisted was billed to infuriate Newark that evening. François St. Cyr would seek surcease in Newark. He would bind a new love on the heart bruised and broken by the jealous Bebe. Mon Dieu! yes!

The curtain went up. François St. Cyr inhabited a box. He was very still; no mouse was more so. No one noticed François St. Cyr. At last the chorus folk appeared.

“Brava! mam’selle, brava!” shouted François St. Cyr, springing to his feet, and performing with his hands as with cymbals.

What merited this outburst? The chorus folk had done nothing; hadn’t slain a note, nor murdered a melody. The audience stared at the shouting François St. Cyr. What ailed the man? At last the audience admonished François St. Cyr.

“Sit down! Shut up!”

Those were the directions the public gave François St. Cyr.

“I weel not sit down! I weel not close up!” shouted François St. Cyr, bending over the box-rail and gesticulating like a monkey whose reason was suffering a strain. Then again to the chorus girl:

“Brava! mam’selle, brava!”

The other chorus girls looked disdainfully at the chorus girl whom François St. Cyr honoured, so as to identify her to the contempt of the public.

CHAPTER IV

Francois St. Cyr suddenly discharged a bouquet at the stage. It was the size of a butter tub. It mowed a swath through the chorus like a chain shot.

“Put him out!” commanded the public.

“Poot heem out!” repeated François St. Cyr with a shriek of sneering contempt. “Canaille! I def-fy you! I am a Frenchman; I do not fee-ar to die!”

Wafted to his duty on the breath of general opinion, a gend’arme of Newark acquired François St. Cyr, and bore him vociferating from the scene of his triumph.

As he was carried through the foyer, he raised his voice heroically:

“Vive le Boulanger!”

CHAPTER V

The next public appearance of François St. Cyr was in the Newark Police Court. He was pale and limp, and had thoughts of suicide. He was still clothed in his dress suit, which clung to him as if it, too, felt “des-pond.”

François St. Cyr was fined $20.

Bebe, the jealous, the faithful little Bebe, was there to pay the money. Mon Dieu! how he loved her! He would be her bird and sing to her all her life! Never would he leave his Bebe more! As for the false one of the chorus: François St. Cyr “des-spised” her.

Also Bebe had brought the week-day suit of François St. Cyr. Could an angel have had more forethought? François St. Cyr changed his clothes in a jury room, and Bebe and he came home cooing like turtle doves.

CHAPTER VI

By virtue of the every-day suit, the St. Cyrs were home by 4 o’clock in the afternoon. Otherwise, under the rules, being habited in a dress suit, François St. Cyr could not have returned until 6,

And they were happy!

McBRIDE’S DANDY

Albert Edward Murphy is a high officer in one of the departments of the city. He holds his position with credit to the administration, and to his own celebration and renown. He has a wife and a family of children; and sets up his Lares and Penates in a home of his own in Greenwich Village.