took him up.
Mack had some salt in the palm of his hand. He dampened the end of the egg and pretended to cleanse it in his hand. The salt adhered to the end of the egg, giving it a foundation the same as the legs on a table. The egg stood erect.
Mack collected the twenty-eight dollars and left. A few minutes afterward I retired to the bathhouse to spend the night. When Bathhouse John came in Chamale told him about the wager.
“Where was Weil?” asked Coughlin.
“He was standing at the bar, reading the comic paper.”
“You’ve been tricked, my boy,” said the Bath. “Weil is probably in league with Mack. They worked a con game on you.”
The next morning, when I went upstairs to the saloon, Coughlin said: “Were you here when Chamale made that wager?”
“Yes.”
“Did you and Hogan have anything to do with it?”
I denied this.
“Maybe,” said the Alderman, shaking his head, “but I don’t believe it. I think you and Hogan got part of that money.” His eye fell upon the comic sheet lying on the bar where I had left it. “Hogan’s Alley and the Yellow Kid,” he read aloud. “Hogan and Weil. From now on, you’re the Yellow Kid.”
That was in 1903. And from that time on, I was invariably known as the Yellow Kid. There have been many erroneous stories published about how I acquired this cognomen. It was said that it was due to my having worn yellow chamois gloves, yellow vests, yellow spats, and a yellow beard. All this was untrue. I had never affected such wearing apparel and I had no beard.
Bathhouse John was my friend until his death a few years ago. He began as a rubber in the bathhouse of the old Brevoort Hotel. Later he became the owner of this bathhouse and a protégé of “Hinky Dink” Kenna. He was a politician all his life, though he dabbled in horses and opened an insurance brokerage house on LaSalle Street. He was a big, hearty fellow, loved by all his friends, as well as by the voters who regularly returned him to the city council.
An impressive figure, he had a flair for brocaded vests, which made him even more a person to attract the eye. He gained a reputation as a poet and composer, but it was common knowledge that his stuff was ghost written. Perhaps the most famous of his songs was “Dear Midnight of Love.” This was composed by May de Sousa, the daughter of a detective at the headquarters of Mayor Carter Harrison.
The Bath befriended many underworld characters, but I don’t believe that he ever received a cent from any of their enterprises. He was the sort who would help anybody in need.
Frank Hogan and I dissolved partnership, and he went on to become a prominent investment broker, though the methods he used were shady. When the law was at his heels in 1907 he went to France, where he bought a villa outside of Paris. He never returned to the United States.
CHAPTER 3
A TIP FOR MR. MACALLISTER
One hot summer night I stood at the bar of Bathhouse John Coughlin’s Randolph Street saloon in Chicago, quaffing a glass of beer. I had spent a strenuous day at the racecourse. The saloon was crowded with men engaged in drinking and in animated conversation. It probably was as mixed a group as any ever assembled under one roof outside of a penal institution. Pickpockets, thieves, safecrackers, and thugs of every degree mingled with cardsharps, swindlers, gamblers, policemen, and politicians.
At the other end of the bar stood Alderman Coughlin, resplendent in a two-gallon silk hat, a mountain-green dress suit and a red vest with white buttons. He was talking to a blue-coated policeman named Fred Buckminster.
I had only a casual acquaintance with Buckminster. He was technically on the side of the law, although his chief duty was to collect tribute from the crooks on his beat and turn it over to the politicians. I doubt that Fred got much of the graft, because the politicians had a very good idea of who was paying off and how much.
However, I was operating pretty well within the law at that time and I had no reason to pay tribute. Not for several years did I really become acquainted with Buckminster, whose cherubic, extremely honest-looking face and portly bearing had earned him the sobriquet of “The Deacon.”
As I stood there a well-dressed man, several years older than I, approached the bar.
“Good evening,” he said. “Won’t you join me in a glass of beer?”
“Thank you,” I replied.
The bartender drew two glasses of beer, and we began to quench our thirst.
“My name,” offered my companion, “is William Wall.”
“Glad to know you, Mr. Wall,” I returned. “My name is Weil - Joe Weil.”
“The Yellow Kid!” he exclaimed. “I’ve heard about you. They say you’re a pretty sharp young fellow.”
Of course, I had heard of Billy Wall. He was known as one of Chicago’s leading confidence men. We conversed for some time, taking turns buying the drinks.
“There are many things to learn in this - ah - profession,” said Wall. “Besides having a sharp wit, you must be a smooth, polished actor. Maybe I can help you some time.”
I was flattered. But I was not yet ready to enter into an alliance. Our meeting broke up with my promise that I would think it over and get in touch with him.
One thing is very important to the successful con man: honor. That may sound strange, but it’s true. I don’t know how much truth there is to the old saying about honor among thieves, but it is an absolute necessity among con men.
Though a con man may conspire to fleece others, he must always be on the level with his associates. The victim’s cash is usually taken by one man, who disappears. And it would be a sorry day indeed if this man, who had taken the money, didn’t meet later with his associates to divide the spoils.
During the next few days, I made careful inquiries about Billy Wall. Everyone had the highest praise for him: he could be trusted. So I contacted Billy and we formed a partnership.
For a while we worked the old con games that were, even then, growing whiskers. Billy Wall was an accomplished actor, and I learned a great deal from him. But he lacked imagination. He never thought of anything new.
I was not satisfied. My mind was alert and full of fresh schemes. One day I proposed one to Bill, and he readily agreed to follow my lead.
My first step was to insert a blind ad in an evening newspaper:
WANTED - Man to invest $2,500. Opportunity to participate in very profitable venture. Must be reliable. Confidential, BoxW-62, care this paper.
That brought several replies, each of which was tucked away for future reference. The one that intrigued me most was from a man whom I will call Marcus Macallister, owner of the “Macallister” Theatre, one of Chicago’s leading playhouses, which offered the best in legitimate stage productions.
I knew also that Macallister was one of the principal backers of a new amusement project then in the planning stage. It later became White City, which included an arena for boxing and wrestling, bowling alleys, a dance hall, a roller-skating rink, and other recreational features. Macallister was our man. He not only had money, he was a plunger.
The day after I received his letter I called at his office. In those days I traveled under my own name.
“What is your proposition, Mr. Weil?” Macallister asked.
“My brother-in-law,” I confided, “is in desperate need of $2,500. If you will lend it to him, I will show you how to make a fortune.”
“What does he need $2,500 for?” he inquired.
“Well, he’s hopelessly addicted to betting on the horses. He began borrowing money to make