I had had misgivings as to whether we would be admitted at all - Imight almost say hopes - but the Gay Cat succeeded in getting a ready response at the basement door.The house itself was the dilapidated ruin of what had once been a fashionable residence in the days when society lived in the then suburban Bowery.The iron handrail on the steps was still graceful, though rusted and insecure.The stones of the steps were decayed and eaten away by time, and the front door was never opened.
As we entered the low basement door, I felt that those who entered here did indeed abandon hope.Inside, the evidences of the past grandeur were still more striking.What had once been a drawing-room was now the general assembly room of the resort.
Broken-down chairs lined the walls, and the floor was generously sprinkled with sawdust.A huge pot-bellied stove occupied the centre of the room, and by it stood a box of sawdust plentifully discoloured with tobacco-juice.
Three or four of the "guests " - there was no "register" in this yeggman's hotel - were seated about the stove discussing something in a language that was English, to be sure, but of a variation that only a yegg could understand.I noted the once handsome white marble mantel, now stained by age, standing above the unused grate.
Double folding-doors led to what, I imagine, was once a library.
Dirt and grime indescribable were everywhere.There was the smell of old clothes and old cooking, the race odours of every nationality known to the metropolis.I recalled a night I once spent in a Bowery lodging-house for "local colour." Only this was infinitely worse.No law regulated this house.There was an atmosphere of cheerlessness that a half-thickened Welsbach mantle turned into positive ghastliness.
Our guide introduced us.There was a dead silence as eight eyes were craftily fixed on us, sizing us up.What should I say? Craig came to the rescue.To him the adventure was a lark.It was novel, and that was merit enough.
"Ask about the slang," he suggested."That makes a picturesque story."It seemed to me innocuous enough, so I engaged in conversation with a man whom the Gay Cat had introduced as the proprietor.Much of the slang I already knew by hearsay, such as "bulls" for policemen, a "mouthpiece" for a lawyer to defend one when he is "ditched" or arrested; in fact, as I busily scribbled away I must have collected a lexicon of a hundred words or so for future reference.
"And names?" I queried."You have some queer nicknames.""Oh, yes," replied the man."Now here's the Gay Cat - that's what we call a fellow who is the finder, who enters a town ahead of the gang.Then there's Chi Fat - that means he's from Chicago and fat.
And Pitts Slim - he's from Pittsburgh and - ""Aw, cut it," broke in one of the others."Pitts Slim'll be here to-night.He'll give you the devil if he hears you talking to reporters about him."The proprietor began to talk of less dangerous subjects.Craig succeeded in drawing out from him the yegg recipe for making "soup.""It's here in this cipher," said the man, drawing out a dirty piece of paper."It's well known, and you can have this.Here's the key.
It was written by 'Deafy' Smith, and the police pinched it."Craig busily translated the curious document:
Take ten or a dozen sticks of dynamite, crumble it up fine, and put it in a pan or washbowl, then pour over it enough alcohol, wood or pure, to cover it well.Stir it up well with your hands, being careful to break all the lumps.Leave it set for a few minutes.Then get a few yards of cheesecloth and tear it up in pieces and strain the mixture through the cloth into another Vessel.Wring the sawdust dry and throw it away.The remains will be the soup and alcohol mixed.
Next take the same amount of water as you used of alcohol and pour it in.Leave the whole set for a few minutes.
"Very interesting," commented Craig."Safe-blowing in one lesson by correspondence school.The rest of this tells how to attack various makes, doesn't it?"Just then a thin man in a huge, worn ulster came stamping upstairs from the basement, his collar up and his hat down over his eyes.
There was something indefinably familiar about him, but as his face and figure were so well concealed, I could not tell just why Ithought so.
Catching a glimpse of us, he beat a retreat across the opposite end of the room, beckoning to the proprietor, who joined him outside the door.I thought I heard him ask: "Who are those men? Who let them in?" but I could not catch the reply.
One by one the other occupants of the room rose and sidled out, leaving us alone with the Gay Cat.Kennedy reached over to get a cigarette from my case and light it from one that I was smoking.
"That's=20our man, I think," he whispered - "Pitts Slim."I said nothing, but I would have been willing to part with a large section of my bank-account to be up on the Chatham Square station of the Elevated just then.
There was a rush from the half-open door behind us.Suddenly everything turned black before me; my eyes swam; I felt a stinging sensation on my head and a weak feeling about the stomach; I sank half-conscious to the floor.All was blank, but, dimly, I seemed to be dragged and dropped down hard.
How long I lay there I don't know.Kennedy says it was not over five minutes.It may have been so, but to me it seemed an age.
When I opened my eyes I was lying on my back on a very dirty sofa in another room.Kennedy was bending over me with blood streaming from a long deep gash on his head.Another figure was groaning in the semi-darkness opposite; it was the Gay Cat.
