D’ fact is I’ve got company over be me joint; he’s a dead good fr’end of mine, see! Leastwise he has been; an’ more’n onct, when I’m in d’ hole, he’s reached me his mit an’ pulled me out. Now he’s down on his luck I’m goin’ to make good, an’ for an even break on past favours, see if I can’t straighten up his game.”
“Who is your friend?” I asked. “Does he live here?”
“Naw,” retorted Chucky; “he’s a crook, an’ don’t live nowhere. His name’s Mollie Matches, an ‘d’ day was when Mollie’s d’ flyest fine-woiker on Byrnes’s books. An’ say! that ain’t no fake neither.”
“What did he do?” I inquired.
“Leathers, supers an’ rocks,” replied Chucky. “Of course, d’ supers has to be yellow; d’ w’ite kind don’t pay; an’ d’ rocks has to be d’ real t’ing. In d’ old day, Mollie was d’ king of d’ dips, for fair! Of all d’ crooks he was d’ nob, an’ many’s d’ time I’ve seen him come into d’ Gran’ Central wit’ his t’ree stalls an’ a Sheeny kid to carry d’ swag, an’ all as swell a mob as ever does time.
“But he’s fell be d’ wayside now, an’ don’t youse forget it! Not only is he broke for dough, but his healt’ is busted, too.”
“That’s one of the strange things to me, Chucky,” I said, for I was disposed to detain him if I could, and hear a bit more of his devious friend; “one of the very strange things! Here’s your friend Mollie, who has done nothing, so you say, but steal watches, diamonds and pocket-books all his life, and yet to-day he is without a dollar.”
“Oh! as for that,” returned Chucky wisely, “a crook don’t make so much. In d’ foist place, if he’s nippin’ leathers, nine out of ten of ‘em’s bound to be readers – no long green in ‘em at all; nothin’ but poi-pers, see! An’ if he’s pinchin’ tickers an’ sparks, a fence won’t pay more’n a fort’ what dey’s wort’ – an’ there you be, see! Then ag’in, it costs a hundred plunks a day to keep a mob on d’ road; an’ what wit’ puttin’ up to d’ p’lice for protection, an’ what wit’ squarin’ a con or brakey if youse are graftin’ on a train, there ain’t, after his stalls has their bits, much left for Mollie. Takin’ it over all, Mollie’s dead lucky to get a hundred out of a t’ousand plunks; an’ yet he’s d’ mug who has to put his hooks on d’ stuff every time; do d’ woik an’ take d’ chances, see!
“But I’ll tip it off to youse,” continued Chucky, at the same time lowering his tone confidentially; “I’ll put you on to what knocks Mollie’s eye out just now. He’s only a week ago toined out of one of de western pens, an’ I reckon he was bad wit’ ‘em at d’ finish – givin’ ‘em a racket. Anyhow, dey confers on Mollie d’ Hummin’ Boid, an dey overplays. Mollie’s gettin’ old, and can’t stand for what he could onct; an’, as I says, these prison marks gives him too much of ‘d Hummin’ Boid and it breaks his noive.
“Sure! Mollie’s now what youse call hyster’cal; got bats in his steeple half d’ time. If it wasn’t for d’ hop I shoots into him wit’ a dandy little hypodermic gun me Rag’s got, he’d be in d’ booby house. An’ all for too much Hummin’ Boid! Say! on d’ level! there ought to be a law ag’inst it.”
“What in heaven’s name is the Humming Bird?” I queried.
“It’s d’ prison punishment,” replied Chucky. “Youse see, every pen has its punishment. In some, it’s d’ paddles, an’ some ag’in don’t do a t’ing but hang a guy up be a pair of handcuffs to his cell door so his toes just scrapes d’ floor. In others dey starves you; an’ in others still, dey slams you in d’ dark hole.
“Say! if youse are out to make some poor mark nutty for fair, just give him d’ dark hole for a week. There he is wit’ nothin’ in d’ cell but himself, see! an* all as black as ink. Mebby if d’ guards is out to keep him movin’, dey toins d’ hose in an’ wets down d’ floor before dey leaves him. But honest to God! youse put a poor sucker in d’ dark hole, an’ be d’ end of ten hours it’s apples to ashes he ain’t onto it whether he’s been in a day or a week. Keep him there a week, an’ away goes his cupolo – he ain’t onto nothin’. On d’ square! at d’ end of a week in d’ dark, a mut don’t know lie’s livin’.
“D’ cat-o’nine-tails, which dey has at Jeff City, ain’t a marker to d’ dark hole! D’ cat’ll crack d’ skin all right, all right, but d’ dark hole cracks a sucker’s nut, see! His cocoa never is on straight ag’in, after he’s done a stunt or two in d’ dark hole.”
“But the Humming Bird?” I persisted. “What is it like?”
“Why! as I relates,” retorted Chucky, “d’ Hummin Boid is what dey does to a guy in d’ pen where Mollie was to teach him not to be too gay. It’s like this: Here’s a gezebo doin’ time, see! Well, he gets funny. Mebby he soaks some other pris’ner; or mebby he toins loose and gives it to some guard in d’ neck; or mebby ag’in he kicks on d’ lock-step. I’ve seen a heap of mugs who does d’ last.
“Anyhow, whatever he does, it gets to be a case of Hummin’ Boid, an’ dey brings me gay scrapper or kicker, whichever he is, out for punishment. An’ this is what he gets ag’inst:
“Dey sets him in a high trough, same as dey waters a horse wit’, see! Foist dey shucks d’ mark – peels off his make-up down to d’ buff. An’ then dey sets him in d’ trough, like I says, wit’ mebby its eight inches of water in it.
“Then he’s strapped be d’ ankles, an’ d’ fins, and about his waist, so he can’t do nothin’ but stay where he is. A sawbones gets him be d’ pulse, an’ one of them ‘lectrical stiffs t’rows a wire, which is one end of d’ battery, in d’ water. D’ wire, which is d’ other end, finishes in a wet sponge. An’ say! hully hell! when dey touches a poor mark wit’ d’ sponge end on d’ shoulder, or mebby d’ elbow, it completes d’ circuit, see! an’ it’ll fetch such a glory hallelujah yelp out of him as would bring a deef an’ dumb asylum into d’ front yard to find out what d’ row’s about.
“It’s d’ same t’ing as d’ chair at Sing Sing, only not so warm. It’s enough, though, to make d’ toughest mug t’row a fit. No one stands for a secont trip; one touch of d’ Hummin’ Boid! an’ a duck’ll welch on anyt’ing you says – do anyt’ing, be anyt’ing; only so youse let up and don’t give him no more. D’ mere name of Hummin’ Boid’s good enough to t’run a scare into d’ hardest an’ d’ woist of ‘em, onct dey’s had a piece.
“As I says about Mollie: it seems them Indians gives him d’ Hummin’ Boid; an’ dey gives him d’ gaff too deep. But I’ve got to chase meself now, and pump some dope into him. I ought to land Mollie right side up in a week. An’ then I’ll bring him over to this boozin’ ken of ours, an’ cap youse a knock-down to him. Ta! ta!”
GASSY THOMPSON, VILLAIN
WESTERN humour is being severely spoken of by the close personal friends of Peter Dean. Less than a year ago, Peter Dean left the paternal roof on Madison Avenue and plunged into the glowing West. On the day of his departure he was twenty-three; not a ripe age. He had studied mining and engineering, and knew in those matters all that science could tell. His purpose in going West was to acquire the practical part of his chosen profession. Peter Dean believed in knowing it all; knowing it with the hands as well as with the head.
Thus it befell that young Peter Dean, on a day to be remembered, tossed a careless kiss to his companions and fled away into the heart of the continent. Then his hair was raven black. Months later, when he returned, it was silver white. Western humour had worked the change; therefore the criticism chronicled. Peter Dean tells the following story of the bleaching:
“At Creede I met a person named Thompson; ‘Gassy’ Thompson he was called by those about him, in testimony to his powers as a conversationist. A barkeeper, who seemed the best-informed and most gentlemanly soul in town, told me that Gassy Thompson was a miner