Chapter 3

Twist, in whom abode the rudiments of a savage diplomacy, proposed a
conference. Fitzpatrick at that conference was shot to death, and
Kid Dahl, a near friend of Twist, stood for the collar. Dahl was thus
complacent because Fitzpatrick had not died by his hand.

The police, the gangs and the politicians are not without a sinister
wisdom. When life has been taken, and to punish the slayer would be an
inconvenience, some one who didn't do the killing submits to arrest.
This covers the retreat of the guilty. Also, the public is appeased.
Later, when the public's memory sleeps, the arrested one--for lack of
evidence--is set at liberty.

When Fitzpatrick was killed, to clear the path to gang leadership
before the aspiring feet of Twist, the police took Dahl, who all but
volunteered for the sacrifice. Dahl went smilingly to jail, while the
real murderer of Fitzpatrick attended that dead personage's wake, and
later appeared at the funeral. This last, however, by the nicer tastes
of Gangland, was complained of as bordering upon vulgarity.

Fitzpatrick was buried with a lily in his hand, and Twist was hailed
chief of the Eastmans. Dahl remained in the Tombs a reasonable number of
weeks, and then resumed his position in society. It was but natural, and
to the glory of stumbling human nature, that Dahl should dwell warmly in
the grateful regard of Twist.

Twist, now chief of the Eastmans, cast about to establish Dahl. There
was the Bottler, with his stuss Golconda in Suffolk Street. Were not his
affiliations with the Five Points? Was he not therefore the enemy? The
Bottler was an Egyptian, and Twist resolved to spoil him in the interest
of Dahl.

Twist, with Dahl, waited upon the Bottler. Argument was short and to
the point. Said Twist: “Bottler, the Kid”--indicating the expectant
Dahl--“is in wit' your stuss graft from now on. It's to be an even
break.”

The news almost checked the beating of the Bottler's heart. Not that he
was astonished. What the puissant Twist proposed was a commonest step in
Gangland commerce--Gangland, where the Scotch proverb of “Take what you
may; keep what you can!” retains a pristine force. For all that, the
Bottler felt dismay. The more since he had hoped that his hooking up
with the Five Points would have kept him against such rapine.

Following the Twist fulmination, the Bottler stood wrapped in thought.
The dangerous chief of the Eastmans lit a cigar and waited. The poor
Bottler's cogitations ran off in this manner. Twist had killed six men.
Also, he had spared no pains in carrying out those homicides, and could
laugh at the law, which his prudence left bankrupt of evidence. Dahl,
too, possessed a past as red as Twist's. Both could be relied upon to
kill. To refuse Dahl as a partner spelled death. To acquiesce called for
half his profits. His friends of the Five Points, to be sure, could come
at his call. That, however, would not save his game and might not save
his life. Twist's demand showed that he had resolved, so far as he, the
Bottler, was concerned, to rule or ruin. The latter was easy. Any dozen
of the Eastmans, picking some unguarded night, could fall upon his
establishment, confiscate his bankroll, and pitch both him and his
belongings into the street. The Five Points couldn't be forever at
his threatened elbow. They would avenge him, certainly; but vengeance,
however sweet, comes always over-late, and possesses besides no value
in dollars and cents. Thus reasoned the Bottler, while Twist frowningly
paused. The finish came when, with a sickly smile, the Bottler bowed to
the inevitable and accepted Dahl.

All Suffolk Street, to say nothing of the thoroughfares roundabout, knew
what had taken place. The event and the method thereof did not provoke
the shrugging of a shoulder, the arching of a brow. What should there be
in the usual to invite amazement?

For six weeks the Bottler and Dahl settled up, fifty-and-fifty, with the
close of each stuss day. Then came a fresh surprise. Dahl presented his
friend, the Nailer, to the Bottler with this terse remark:

“Bottler, youse can beat it. The Nailer is goin' to be me partner now.
Which lets you out, see?”

The Bottler was at bay. He owned no stomach for battle, but the
sentiment of desperation, which the announcement of Dahl provoked, drove
him to make a stand. To lose one-half had been bad. To lose all--to be
wholly wiped out in the annals of Suffolk Street stuss--was more than
even his meekness might bear. No, the Bottler did not dream of going to
the police. That would have been to squeal; and even his friends of the
Five Points had only faces of flint for such tactics of disgrace.

The harassed Bottler barred his doors against Dahl. He would defend his
castle, and get word to the Five Points. The Bottler's doors having been
barred, Dahl for his side at once instituted a siege, despatching
the Nailer, meanwhile, to the nearest knot of Eastmans to bring
reinforcements.

At this crisis O'Farrell of the Central Office strolled into the
equation. He himself was hunting a loft-worker; of more than common
industry, and had no thought of either the Bottler or Dahl. Happening,
however, upon a situation, whereof the elemental features were Dahl
outside with a gun and the Bottler inside with a gun, he so far recalled
his oath of office as to interfere.

“Better an egg to-day than a hen to-morrow,” philosophized O'Farrell,
and putting aside for the moment his search for the loft-worker, he
devoted himself to the Bottler and Dahl.

With the sure instinct of his Mulberry Street caste, O'Farrell opened
negotiations with Dahl. He knew the latter to be the dangerous
angle, and began by placing the muzzle of his own pistol against that
marauder's back.

“Make a move,” said he, “and I'll shoot you in two.”

The sophisticated Dahl, realizing fate, moved not, and with that the
painstaking O'Farrell collected his armament.

Next the Bottler was ordered to come forth. The Bottler obeyed in a
sweat and a tremble. He surrendered his pistol at word of the law, and
O'Farrell led both off to jail. The two were charged with Disturbance.

In the station house, and on the way, Dahl ceased not to threaten the
Bottler's life.

“This pinch'll cost a fine of five dollars,” said Dahl, glaring round
O'Farrell at the shaking Bottler. “I'll pay it, an' then I'll get square
wit' youse. Once we're footloose, you won't last as long as a drink of
whiskey!”

The judge yawningly listened, while O'Farrell told his tale of that
disturbance.

“Five an' costs!” quoth the judge, and called the next case.

The Bottler returned to Suffolk Street, Dahl sought Twist, while
O'Farrell again took the trail of the loft-worker.

Dahl talked things over with Twist. There was but one way: the Bottler
must die. Anything short 'of blood would unsettle popular respect for
Twist, and without that his leadership of the Eastmans was a farce.

The Bottler's killing, however, must be managed with a decent care for
the conventionalities. For either Twist or Dahl to walk in upon that
offender and shoot him to death, while feasible, would be foolish. The
coarse extravagance of such a piece of work would serve only to pile
needless difficulties in the pathway of what politicians must come to
the rescue. It was impertinences of that character which had sent Monk
Eastman to Sing Sing. Eastman had so far failed as to the proprieties,
when as a supplement to highway robbery he emptied his six-shooter up
and down Forty-second Street, that the politicians could not save
him without burning their fingers. And so they let him go. Twist had
justified the course of the politicians upon that occasion. He would
not now, by lack of caution and a reasonable finesse, force them into
similar peril. They must and would defend him; but it was not for him to
render their labors too up-hill and too hard.

Twist sent to Williamsburg for his friend and ally, Cyclone Louie.
The latter was a bull-necked, highly muscled individual, who was a
professional strong man--so far as he was professionally anything--and
earned occasional side-show money at Coney Island by bending iron bars
about his neck and twisting pokers into corkscrews about his brawny
arms.

Louie, Twist and Dahl went into council over mutual beer, and Twist
explained the imperative call for the Bottler's extermination. Also, he
laid bare the delicate position of both himself and Dahl.

In country regions neighbors aid one another in bearing the burdens of
an agricultural day by changing work. The custom is not without what
one might call gang imitation and respect. Only in the gang instance the
work is not innocent, but bloody. Louie, having an appreciation of what
was due a friend, could not do less than come to the relief of Twist and
Dahl. Were positions reversed, would they not journey to Williamsburg
and do as much for him? Louie did not hesitate, but placed himself at
the disposal of Twist and Dahl. The Bottler should die; he, Louie, would
see to that.

“But when?”

Twist, replying, felt that the thing should be done at once, and
mentioned the following evening, nine o'clock. The place should be the
Bottler's establishment in Suffolk Street. Louie, of whom the
Bottler was unafraid and ignorant, should experience no difficulty in
approaching his man. There would be others present; but, practiced in
gang moralities, slaves to gang etiquette, no one would open his mouth.
Or, if he did, it would be only to pour forth perjuries, and say that he
had seen nothing, heard nothing.

Having adjusted details, Louie, Twist and Dahl compared watches.
Watches? Certainly. Louie, Twist and Dahl were all most fashionably
attired and--as became members of a gang nobility--singularly full and
accurate in the important element of a front, _videlicet_, that list of
personal adornments which included scarf pin, ring and watch. Louie,
Dahl and Twist saw to it that their timepieces agreed. This was so that
Dahl and Twist might arrange their alibis.

It was the next evening. At 8.55 o'clock Twist was obtrusively in the
Delancey Street police station, wrangling with the desk sergeant over
the release of a follower who had carefully brought about his own
arrest.

“Come,” urged Twist to the sergeant, “it's next to nine o'clock now. Fix
up the bond; I've got a date over in East Broadway at nine-thirty.”

While Twist stood thus enforcing his whereabouts and the hour upon the
attention of the desk sergeant, Dahl was eating a beefsteak in a Houston
street restaurant.

“What time have youse got?” demanded Dahl of the German who kept the
place.

“Five minutes to nine,” returned the German, glancing up at the clock.

“Oh, t'aint no such time as that,” retorted Dahl peevishly. “That
clock's drunk! Call up the telephone people, and find out for sure.”

“The 'phone people say it's nine o'clock,” reported the German, hanging
up the receiver.

“Hully gee! I didn't think it was more'n halfpast eight!” and Dahl
looked virtuously corrected.

While these fragments of talk were taking place, the Bottler was
attending to his stuss interests. He looked pale and frightened, and
his hunted eyes roved here and there. Five minutes went by. The clock
pointed to nine. A slouch-hat stranger entered. As the clock struck the
hour, he placed the muzzle of a pistol against the Bottler's breast, and
fired twice. Both bullets pierced the heart, and the Bottler fell--dead
without a word. There were twenty people in the room. When the police
arrived they found only the dead Bottler.

O'Farrell recalled those trade differences which had culminated in the
charge of disturbance, and arrested Dahl.

“You ain't got me right,” scoffed Dahl.

And O'Farrell hadn't.

There came the inquest, and Dahl was set free. The Bottler was buried,
and Twist and Dahl sent flowers and rode to the grave.

The law slept, a bat-eyed constabulary went its way, but the gangs knew.
In the whispered gossip of Gangland every step of the Bottler's murder
was talked over and remembered. He must have been minus ears and eyes
and understanding who did not know the story. The glance of Gangland
turned towards the Five Points. What would be their action? They were
bound to avenge. If not for the Bottler's sake, then for their own. For
the Bottler had been under the shadow of their protection, and gang
honor was involved. On the Five Points' part there was no stumbling of
the spirit. For the death of the Bottler the Five Points would exact the
penalty of blood.

Distinguished among the chivalry of the Five Points was Kid Pioggi. Only
a paucity of years--he was under eighteen--withheld Pioggi from topmost
honors. Pioggi was not specifically assigned to avenge the departed
Bottler. Ambitious and gallantly anxious of advancement, however, he of
his own motion carried the enterprise in the stomach of his thoughts.

The winter's snow melted into spring, spring lapsed into early summer.
It was a brilliant evening, and Pioggi was disporting himself at Coney
Island. Also Twist and Cyclone Louie, following some plan of relaxation,
were themselves at Coney Island.

Pioggi had seated himself at a beer table in Ding Dong's. Twist and
Louie came in. Pioggi, being of the Five Points, was recognized as a foe
by Twisty who lost no time in mentioning it.

Being in a facetious mood, and by way of expressing his contempt for
that gentleman, Twist made Pioggi jump out of the window. It was no
distance to the ground, and no physical harm could come. But to be
compelled to leave Ding Dong's by way of the window, rubbed wrongwise
the fur of Pioggi's feelings. To jump from a window stamps one with
disgrace.

Twist and Louie--burly, muscular, strong as horses--were adepts of
rough-and-tumble. Pioggi, little, light and weak, knew that any thought
of physical conflict would have been preposterous. And yet he was no one
to sit quietly down with his humiliation. That flight from Ding Dong's
window would be on every tongue in Gangland. The name of Pioggi would
become a scorning; the tale would stain the Pioggi fame.

Louie and Twist sat down at the table in Ding Dong's, from which Pioggi
had been driven, and demanded refreshment in the guise of wine. Pioggi,
rage-swollen as to heart, busied himself at a nearby telephone. Pioggi
got the ear of a Higher Influence of his clan. He told of his abrupt
dismissal from Ding Dong's, and the then presence of Louie and Twist.
The Higher Influence instructed Pioggi to keep the two in sight. The
very flower of the Five Points should be at Coney Island as fast as
trolley cars could carry them.

“Tail 'em,” said the Higher Influence, referring to Twist and Louie;
“an' when the fleet gets there go in wit' your cannisters an' bump 'em
off.”

While waiting the advent of his promised forces, Pioggi, maintaining
the while an eye on Twist and Louie to the end that they escape not and
disappear, made arrangements for a getaway. He established a coupé, a
fast horse between the shafts and a personal friend on the box, where
he, Pioggi, could find it when his work was done.

By the time this was accomplished, Pioggi's recruits had put in an
appearance. They did not descend upon Coney Island in a body, with
savage uproar and loud cries. Much too military were they for that.
Rather they seemed to ooze into position around Pioggi, and they could
not have made less noise had they been so many ghosts.

The campaign was soon laid out. Louie and Twist still sat over their
wine at Ding Dong's. Now and then they laughed, as though recalling the
ignominious exit of Pioggi. Means must be employed to draw them into
the street. That accomplished, the Five Points' Danites were to drift up
behind them, and at a signal from Pioggi, empty their pistols into their
backs. Pioggi would fire a bullet into Twist; that was to be the signal.
As Pioggi whispered his instructions, there shone a licking eagerness
in the faces of those who listened. Nothing so exalts the gangster like
blood in anticipation; nothing so pleases him as to shoot from behind.

Pioggi pitched upon one whose name and face were unknown to Twist and
Louie. The unknown would be the bearer of a blind message--it
purported to come from a dancer in one of the cheap theaters of the
place--calculated to bring forth Twist and Louie.

“Stall 'em up this way,” said Pioggi, indicating a spot within touching
distance of that coupé. “It's here we'll put 'em over the jump.”

The place pitched upon for the killing was crowded with people. It was
this very thronged condition which had led to its selection. The crowd
would serve as a cover to Five Points operations. It would prevent a
premature recognition of their assailants by Twist and Louie; it would
screen the slayers from identification by casual citizens looking on.

Pioggi's messenger did well his work, and Twist and Louie moved
magnificently albeit unsteadily into the open. They were sweeping the
walk clear of lesser mortals, when the voice of Pioggi arrested their
attention.

“Oh, there, Twist; look here!”

The voice came from the rear and to the right; Pioggi's position was one
calculated to place the enemy at a double disadvantage.

Twist turned his head. A bullet struck him above the eye! He staggered!
The lead came in a storm! Twist went down; Louie fell across him! There
were twelve bullets in Twist and eight in Louie. The coroner said that
they were the deadest people of whom he owned official recollection.

As the forethoughtful Pioggi was dashing away in his coupé, a policeman
gave chase. Pioggi drove a bullet through the helmet of the law. It
stopped pursuit; but Gangland has ever held that the shot was an error.
A little lower, and the policeman would have been killed. Also, the
death of a policeman is apt to entail consequences.

Pioggi went into hiding in Greenwich, where the Five Points had a
hold-out. There were pullings and haulings and whisperings in dark
political corners. When conditions had been whispered and hauled and
pulled into shape satisfactory, Pioggi sent word to a favorite officer
to come and arrest him.

Pioggi explained to the court that his life had been threatened; he had
shot only that he himself might live. His age was seventeen. Likewise
there had been no public loss; the going of Twist and Louie had but
raised the average of all respectability. The court pondered the
business, and decided that justice would be fulfilled by sentencing
Pioggi to the Elmira Reformatory.

The best fashion of the Five Points visited Pioggi in the Tombs on the
morning of his departure.

“It's only thirteen months, Kid,” came encouragingly from one. “You
won't mind it.”

“Mind it!” responded Pioggi, in disdain of the worst that Elmira might
hold for him; “mind it! I could do it standin' on me head.”

IV.--IKE THE BLOOD

Whenever the police were driven to deal with him officially, he called
himself Charles Livin, albeit the opinion prevailed at headquarters
that in thus spelling it, he left off a final ski. The police, in
the wantonness of their ignorance, described him on their books as a
burglar. This was foolishly wide. He should have been listed as a simple
Strong-Arm, whose methods of divorcing other people from their money,
while effective, were coarse. Also, it is perhaps proper to mention that
his gallery number at the Central Office was 10,394.

It was during the supremacy of Monk Eastman that he broke out, and he
had just passed his seventeenth birthday. Being out, he at once attached
himself to the gang-fortunes of that chief; and it became no more than
a question of weeks before his vast physical strength, the energy of his
courage and a native ferocity of soul, won him his proud war-name of Ike
the Blood. Compared with the herd about him, in what stark elements made
the gangster important in his world, he shone out upon the eyes of folk
like stars of a clear cold night.

Ike the Blood looked up to his chief, Monk Eastman, as sailors look up
to the North Star, and it wrung his soul sorely when that gang captain
went to Sing Sing. In the war over the succession and the baton of gang
command, waged between Ritchie Fitzpatrick and Kid Twist, Ike the Blood
was compelled to stand neutral. Powerless to take either side, liking
both ambitious ones, the trusted friend of both, his hands were tied;
and later--first Fitzpatrick and then Twist--he followed both to the
grave, sorrow not only on his lips but in his heart.

It was one recent August day that I was granted an introduction to Ike
the Blood. I was in the company of an intimate friend of mine--he holds
high Central Office position in the police economy of New York. We
were walking in Henry Street, in the near vicinity of that vigorous
organization, the Ajax Club--so called, I take it, because its members
are forever defying the lightnings of the law. My Central Office friend
had mentioned Ike the Blood, speaking of him as a guiding light to such
difficult ones as Little Karl, Whitey Louie, Benny Weiss, Kid Neumann,
Tomahawk, Fritzie Rice, Dagley and the Lobster.

Even as the names were in his mouth, his keen Central Office glance went
roving through the open doorway of a grogshop.

“There's Ike the Blood now,” said he, and tossed a thumb, which had
assisted in necking many a malefactor with tastes to be violent, towards
the grogshop.

Since to consider such pillars of East Side Society was the great reason
of my ramble, we entered the place. Ike the Blood was sitting in state
at a table to the rear of the unclean bar, a dozen of his immediate
followers--in the politics of gang life these formed a minor order of
nobility--with him.

Being addressed by my friend, he arose and joined us; none the less
he seemed reticent and a bit disturbed. This was due to the official
character of my friend, plus the fact that the jealous eyes of those
others were upon him. It is no advantage to a leader, like Ike the
Blood, to be seen in converse with a detective. Should one of his
adherents be arrested within a day or a week, the arrested one reverts
to that conversation, and imagines vain things.

“Take a walk with us, Ike,” said my friend.

Ike the Blood was obviously reluctant. Sinking his voice, and giving a
glance over his shoulder at his myrmidons--not ten feet away, and every
eye upon him--he remonstrated.

“Say, I don't want to leave th' push settin' here, to go chasin' off
wit' a bull. Fix it so I can come uptown sometime.”

“Very well,” returned my friend, relenting; “I don't want to put you in
Dutch with your fleet.”

There was a whispered brief word or two, and an arrangement for a meet
was made; after which Ike the Blood lapsed into the uneasy circle he had
quitted. As we left the grogshop, we could hear him loudly calling for
beer. Possibly the Central Office nearness of my friend had rendered
him thirsty. Or it may have been that the beer was meant to wet down
and allay whatever of sprouting suspicion had been engendered in the
trustless breasts of his followers.

It was a week later.

The day, dark and showery, was--to be exact--the eighth of August.
Faithful to that whispered Henry Street arrangement, Ike the Blood sat
awaiting the coming of my friend and myself in the Bal Tabarin. He
had spoken of the stuss house of Phil Casey and Paper Box Johnny, in
Twenty-ninth Street, but my friend entered a protest. There was his
Central Office character to be remembered. A natural embarrassment must
ensue were he brought face to face with stuss in a state of activity.
Stuss was a crime, by surest word of law, and he had taken an oath
of office. He did not care to pinch either Paper Box or Casey, and
therefore preferred not to be drawn into a situation where the only
alternative would be to either pull their joint or lay the bedplates of
complaint against himself.

“It's no good time to be up on charges,” remonstrated my friend, “for
the commish that's over us now would sooner grab a copper than a crook.”

Thus instructed, and feeling the delicacy of my friend's position, Ike
the Blood had shifted suggestion to the Bal Tabarin. The latter house of
entertainment, in Twenty-eighth Street, was innocent of stuss and indeed
cards in any form. Kept by Sam Paul, it possessed a deserved popularity
with Ike and the more select of his acquaintances.

Ike the Blood appeared to better advantage in the Bal Tabarin than on
that other, Henry Street, grogshop occasion. Those suspicious ones, of
lowering eye and doubtful brow, had been left behind, and their absence
contributed to his relief, and therefore to his looks. Not that he had
been sitting in the midst of loneliness at the Bal Tabarin; Whitey Dutch
and Slimmy were with him, and who should have been better company than
they? Also, their presence was of itself an honor, since they were of
his own high caste, and many layers above a mere gang peasantry. They
would take part in the conversation, too, and, if to talk and touch
glasses with a Central Office bull were an offense, it would leave them
as deep in the police mud as was he in the police mire.

Ike the Blood received us gracefully, if not enthusiastically, and
was so polite as to put me on a friendly footing with his companions.
Greetings over, and settled to something like our ease, I engaged myself
mentally in taking Ike's picture. His forehead narrow, back-sloping at
that lively angle identified by carpenters as a quarter-pitch, was not
the forehead of a philosopher. I got the impression, too, that his small
brown eyes, sad rather than malignant, would in any heat of anger
blaze like twin balls of brown fire. Cheek-bones high; nose beaky,
predatory--such a nose as Napoleon loved in his marshals; mouth coarsely
sensitive, suggesting temperament; the broad, bony jaw giving promise
of what staying qualities constitute the stock in trade of a bulldog; no
mustache, no beard; a careless liberality of ear--that should complete
the portrait. Fairly given, it was the picture of one who acted more
than he thought, and whose atmosphere above all else conveyed the
feeling of relentless force--the picture of one who under different
circumstances might have been a Murat or a Massena.

My friend managed the conversation, and did it with Central Office tact.
Knowing what I was after, he brought up Gangland and the gangs,
upon which topics Whitey Dutch, seeing no reasons for silence, spoke
instructively. Aside from the great gangs, the Eastmans and the Five
Points, I learned that other smaller yet independent gangs existed.
Also, from Whitey's discourse, it was made clear that just as countries
had frontiers, so also were there frontiers to the countries of the
gangs. The Five Points, with fifteen hundred on its puissant muster
rolls, was supreme--he said--between Broadway and the Bowery, Fourteenth
Street and City Hall Park. The Eastmans, with one thousand warriors,
flourished between Monroe and Fourteenth Streets, the Bowery and the
East River. The Gas House Gang, with only two hundred in its nose count,
was at home along Third Avenue between Eleventh and Eighteenth Streets.
The vivacious Gophers were altogether heroes of the West Side. They
numbered full five hundred, each a holy terror, and ranged the
region bounded by Seventh Avenue, Fourteenth Street, Tenth Avenue and
Forty-second Street. The Gophers owned a rock-bottom fame for their
fighting qualities, and, speaking in the sense militant, neither the
Eastmans nor the Five Points would care to mingle with them on slighter
terms than two to one. The fulness of Whitey Dutch, himself of the Five
Points, in what justice he did the Gophers, marked his splendid breadth
of soul.

Ike the Blood, overhung by some cloud of moodiness, devoted himself
moderately to beer, taking little or less part in the talk. Evidently
there was something bearing him down.

“I ain't feelin' gay,” he remarked; “an' at that, if youse was to ast
me, I couldn't tell youse why.”

As though a thought had been suggested, he arose and started for the
door.

“I won't be away ten minutes,” he said.

Slimmy looked curiously at Whitey Dutch.

“He's chased off to one of them fortune-tellers,” said Whitey.

“Do youse take any stock in them ginks who claims they can skin a deck
of cards, or cock their eye into a teacup, an' then put you next to
everyt'ing that'll happen to you in a year?”

Slimmy aimed this at me.

Upon my assurance, given with emphasis, that I attached no weight to
so-called seers and fortunetellers, he was so magnanimous as to indorse
my position.

“They're a bunch of cheap bunks,” he declared. “I've gone ag'inst
'em time an' time, an' there's nothin' in it. One of 'em gives me his
woid--after me comin' across wit' fifty cents--th' time Belfast Danny's
in trouble, that Danny'll be toined out all right. Two days later Danny
gets settled for five years.”

“Ike's stuck on 'em,” remarked Whitey.

Slimmy and Whitey Dutch, speaking freely and I think veraciously, told
me many things. Whitey explained that, while he and Slimmy were shining
lights of the Five Points, yet to be found fraternizing with Ike the
Blood--an Eastman--was in perfect keeping with gang proprieties.