The Boss, and How He Came to Rule New York. Lewis Alfred Henry

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      “Your honor, it was the Dead Rabbit,” said Sheeny Joe.

      “Is the Dead Rabbit,” observed the magistrate, to the captain, who was still lounging about, “is the Dead Rabbit a place of good repute?”

      “It aint no Astor House,” replied the captain, “but no one expects an Astor House in Water Street.”

      “Is it a resort for thieves?”

      The magistrate still advanced his queries in a fashion apologetic and subdued. The reputable old gentleman impressed him as one he would not like to offend. Then, too, there was my father – an honest working-man by plain testimony of his face. On the other hand stood Sheeny Joe, broken of nose, bandaged, implacable. Here were three forces of politics, according to our magistrate, who was thinking on a re-election; he would prefer to please them all. Obviously, he in no sort delighted in his present position, since whichever way he turned it might be a turn toward future disaster for himself.

      “Is the Dead Rabbit a resort for thieves?” again asked the magistrate.

      “Well,” replied the captain judgmatically, “even a crook has got to go somewhere. That is,” he added, “when he aint in hock.”

      Where this criss-cross colloquy of justice or injustice might have left me, and whether free or captive, I may only guess. The proceedings were to gain another and a final interruption. This time it was the red-faced man, he who had called himself “Big Kennedy,” to come panting into the presence of the court. The red-faced man had hurried up the stairs, three steps at a time, and it told upon his breathing.

      The magistrate made a most profound bow to the red-faced man. Remembering the somber prophecy of him with the big key, should “Big Kennedy show up to Stall ag’inst me,” my hope, which had revived with the stand taken by the reputable old gentleman, sunk now to lowest marks.

      “What will you have, Mr. Kennedy?” purred the magistrate obsequiously.

      “Is the court going to dispose of the cases of this boy and this girl?” interrupted the reputable old gentleman warmly. “I demand a jury trial for both of them. I am a taxpayer and propose to have justice.”

      “Hold up, old sport, hold up!” exclaimed the redfaced man in cheerful tones. He was addressing the reputable old gentleman. “Let me get to work. I’ll settle this thing like throwin’ dice.”

      “What do you mean, sir, by calling me an old sport?” demanded the reputable old gentleman.

      The red-faced man did not heed the question, but wheeled briskly on the magistrate.

      “Your honor,” said the red-faced man, “there’s nothin’ to this. Sheeny Joe there has made a misdeal, that’s all. I’ve looked the case over, your honor; there’s nothin’ in it; you can let the girl an’ the boy go.”

      “But he said the Dead Rabbit was a drum for crooks!” protested Sheeny Joe, speaking to the redfaced man.

      “S’ppose he did,” retorted the other, “that don’t take a dollar out of the drawer.”

      “An’ he’s to break my nose an’ get away?” complained Sheeny Joe.

      “Well, you oughter to take care of your nose,” said the red-faced man, “an’ not go leavin’ it lyin’ around where a kid can break it.”

      Sheeny Joe was not to be shaken off; he engaged in violent argument with the red-faced man. Their tones, however, were now more guarded, and no one might hear their words beyond themselves. While this went forward, the magistrate, to save his dignity, perhaps, and not to have it look as though he were waiting for orders, pretended to be writing in his book of cases which lay open on his desk.

      It was Sheeny Joe to bring the discussion between himself and the red-faced man to an end. Throughout the whispered differences between them, differences as to what should be my fate, Sheeny Joe showed hot with fury, while the red-faced man was cool and conciliatory; his voice when one caught some sound of it was coaxing.

      “There’s been enough said!” cried Sheeny Joe, suddenly walking away from the red-faced man. “No duck is goin’ to break my nose for fun.”

      “The boy’s goin’ loose,” observed the red-faced man in placid contradiction. “An’ the girl goes to her friends, wherever they be, an’ they aint at the Dead Rabbit.” Then in a blink the countenance of the redfaced man went from calm to rage. He whirled Sheeny Joe by the shoulder. “See here!” he growled, “one more roar out of you, an’ I’ll stand you up right now, an’ it’s you who will take sixty days, or my name aint Big John Kennedy. If you think that’s a bluff, call it. Another yeep, an’ the boat’s waitin’ for you! You’ve been due at the Island for some time.”

      “That’s all right, Mr. Kennedy!” replied Sheeny Joe, his crest falling, and the sharpest terror in his face, “that’s all right! You know me? Of course it goes as you say! Did you ever know me to buck ag’inst you?”

      The red-faced man smiled ferociously. The anger faded from his brow, and leaving Sheeny Joe without further word, he again spoke to the magistrate.

      “The charges ag’inst these two children, your honor, are withdrawn.” He spoke in his old cool tones. “Captain,” he continued, addressing that dignitary, “send one of your plain-clothes people with this girl to find her friends for her. Tell him he mustn’t make any mistakes.”

      “The cases are dismissed,” said the magistrate, making an entry in his book. He appeared relieved with the change in the situation; almost as much, if that were possible, as myself. “The cases are dismissed; no costs to be taxed. I think that is what you desire, Mr. Kennedy?”

      “Yes, your honor.” Then coming over to where I sat, the red-faced man continued: “You hunt me up to-morrow – Big John Kennedy – that’s my name. Any cop can tell you where to find me.”

      “Yes, sir,” I answered faintly.

      “There’s two things about you,” said the red-faced man, rubbing my stubble of hair with his big paw, “that’s great in a boy. You can hit like the kick of a pony; an’ you can keep your mouth shut. I aint heard a yelp out of you, mor’n if you was a Boston terrier.” This, admiringly.

      As we left the magistrate’s office – the red-faced man, the reputable old gentleman, my father, Apple Cheek, and myself, with Anne holding my hand as though I were some treasure lost and regained – the reputable old gentleman spoke up pompously to the red-faced man.

      “I commend what you have done, sir; but in that connection, and as a taxpayer, let me tell you that I resent your attitude towards the magistrate. You issued your orders, sir, and conducted yourself toward that officer of justice as though you owned him.”

      “Well, what of it?” returned the red-faced man composedly. “I put him there. What do you think I put him there for? To give me the worst of it?”

      “Sir, I do not understand your expressions!” said the reputable old gentleman. “And I resent them! Yes, sir, I resent them as a taxpayer of this town!”

      “Say,” observed the red-faced man benignantly, “there’s nothin’ wrong about you but your head. You had better take a term or two at night school an’ get it put on straight. You say you’re a taxpayer; you’ve already fired the fact at me about five times. An’ now I ask СКАЧАТЬ