Lewis Alfred Henry - The Apaches of New York стр 6.

While discussion, like a pendulum, went swinging to and fro, Spanish possibly a-smart from what biting things were being said in his disfavor came to town, and grievously albeit casually shot an unknown. Following which feat he again disappeared. None knew where he had gone. His whereabouts was as much a mystery as the identity of the unknown whom he had shot, or the reason he had shot him. These two latter questions are still borne as puzzles upon the ridge of gang conjecture.

That this time he had hit his man, however, lifted Spanish somewhat from out those lower reputational depths into which missing Jigger had cast him. The unknown, to be sure, did not die; the hospital books showed that. But he had stopped a bullet. Which last proved that Spanish wasnt always rattled when he pulled a gun. The incident, all things considered, became a trellis upon which the reputation of Spanish, before so prone and hopeless, began a little to climb.

The strenuous life doesnt always blossom and bear good fruit. Balked in his intended partnership with Jigger, and subsequently missing Jigger to say nothing of the business of the little Rotin girl, dead and down under the grass roots Spanish not only failed to Get the Money! but succeeded in driving himself out of town. Many and vain were the gang guesses concerning him. Some said he was in Detroit, giving professional aid to a gifted booster. The latter was of the feminine gender, and, aside from her admitted genius for shoplifting, was acclaimed the quickest hand with a hanger by which you are to understand that outside pendant purse wherewith women equip themselves as they go forth to shop of all the gon-molls between the two oceans. Others insisted that Spanish was in Baltimore, and had joined out with a mob of poke-getters. The great, the disastrous thing, however and to this all Gangland agreed was that he had so bungled his destinies as to put himself out of New York.

Detroit! Baltimore! exclaimed the Dropper. Wy, its woisen bein in stir! A guy might as well be doin time as live in them burgs!

The Dropper, in his iron-fisted way, was sincere in what he said. Later, he himself was given eighteen spaces in Sing Sing, which exile he might have missed had he fled New York in time. But he couldnt, and didnt. And so the Central Office got him, the District Attorney prosecuted him, the jury convicted him, and the judge sentenced him to that long captivity. Living in New York is not a preference, but an appetite like drinking whiskey and the Dropper had acquired the habit.

What was the Dropper settled for?

Robbery.

Its too long to tell here, however, besides being another story. Some other day I may give it to you.

Spanish, having abandoned New York, could no longer bear Alma loving company at picnic, rout and racket. What was Alma to do? She lived for routs, reveled in rackets, joyed in picnics. Must these delights be swept away? She couldnt go alone it was too expensive. Besides, it would evince a lack of class.

Alma, as proud and as wedded to her social position as any silken member of the Purple and Fine Linen Gang that ever rolled down Fifth Avenue in her brougham, revolved these matters upon her wheel of thought. Also, she came to conclusions. She, an admitted belle, could not consent to social obliteration. Spanish had fled; she worshipped his black eyes, his high courage; she would keep a heart-corner vacant for him in case he came back. Pending his return, however, she would go into society; and, for those reasons of expense and class and form, she would not go alone.

Alma submitted her position to a beribboned jury of her peers. Their judgment ran abreast of her own.

A goil would be a mutt, they said, to stay cocked up at home. An yet a goil couldnt go chasin around be her lonesome. Alma this was their final word you must cop off another steady.

But what would Johnny say? asked Alma; for she couldnt keep her thoughts off Spanish, of whom she stood a little bit in fear.

Johnnys beat it, aint he? returned the advisory jury of friends. There aint no kick comin to a guy whats beat it. He aint no longer in th picture.

Alma, thus free to pick and choose by virtue of the absence of Spanish, picked the Dropper. The latter chieftain was flattered. Taking Alma proudly yet tenderly under his mighty arm, he led her to suppers such as she had never eaten, bought her drinks such as she had never tasted, revolved with her at rackets where tickets were a dollar a throw, the orchestra seven pieces, and the floor shone like glass. It was a cut or two above anything that Spanish had given her, and Alma, who thought it going some, failed not to say so.

Alma was proud of the Dropper; the Dropper was proud of her. She told her friends of the money he spent; and the friends warmed the cockles of her little heart by shrilly exclaiming at pleasant intervals:

Aint he th swell guy!

Betcher boots hes th swell guy, Alma would rejoin; an hes got money to boin a wet dog! Th only ting that worries me, Alma would conclude, is Johnny. Sppose he blows in some day, an lays for th Dropper?

Th Dropper could do him wit a wallop, the friends would consolingly return. Hed swing onct; an after that there wouldnt be no Johnny Spanish.

The Round Back Rangers it was, I think, the Round Backs gave an outdoor racket somewhere near Maspeth. The Dropper took Alma. Both were in high, exultant feather. They danced, they drank, they rode the wooden horses. No more gallant couple graced the grounds.

Cheese sandwiches, pigs knuckles and beer brought them delicately to the banquet board. They were among their friends. The talk was always interesting, sometimes educational.

Ike the Blood complained that certain annoying purists were preaching a crusade against the Raines Law Hotels. Slimmy, celebrated not only for his slimness, but his erudition, declared that crusades had been the common curse of every age.

Wat do youse know about it? sourly propounded the Humble Dutchman, who envied Slimmy his book-fed wisdom.

Wat do I know about it? came heatedly from Slimmy. Do youse think I aint got no education? Th last time Im in stir, that time I goes up for four years, I reads all th books in th prison library. Ask th warden if I dont. As to them crusades, its as I tells you. Theres always been crusades; its th way humanitys gaited. Every sport, even if he dont go round blowin about it, has got it tucked somewhere away in his make-up that he, himself, is th real thing. Every dub whos different from him he figgers is worsen him. In two moves hes out crusadin. In th old days its religion; th Paynims was th fall guys. Now its rum, or racin, or Raines Hotels, or some such stall. Once let a community get the crusade bug, an somethings got to go. Theres a village over in Joisey, an, there bein no grog shops an no vice mills to get busy wit, they ups an bounces an old geezer out of th only church in town for pitchin horse-shoes.

Slimmy called for more beer, with a virtuously superior air.

But about them Paynims, Slimmy? urged Alma.

Its hundreds of years ago, Slimmy resumed. Th Paynims hung out in Palestine. Bein theyre Paynims, the Christians is naturally sore on em; an so, when they feels like huntin trouble, th crusade spiritd flare up. Richard over in England would pass th woid to Philip in France, an th other lads wit crowns.

How about it? hed say. Cast your regal peepers toward Palestine. Dyou make them Paynims? Aint they th tough lot? They wont eat pork; they toe in when they walk; they dont drink nothin worsen coffee; theyve got brown skins. Also, says he, we can lick em for money, marbles or chalk. Wat dyouse say, me royal brothers? Lets get our gangs, an hand them Paynims a swift soak in behalf of the troo faith.