by Frank Norris
The beggars of the Seven Houses are genuine miserables. Perhaps they have an organisation and a president, I don’t know. But I do know that Leander and I came very near demoralising the whole lot of them.
More strictly speaking, it was Leander who did the deed, I merely looked on and laughed, but Leander says that by laughing I lent him my immoral support, and am therefore party to the act.
Leander and I had been dining at the “Red House,” which is a wine-shop that Gelett Burgess discovered in an alley not far from the county jail. Leander and I had gone there because we like to sit at its whittled tables and drink its Vin Ordinaire (très ordinaire) out of tin gill measures; also we like its salad and its thick slices of bread that you eat after you have rubbed them with an onion or a bit of garlic. We always go there in evening dress in order to impress the Proletariat.
On this occasion after we had dined and had come out again into the gas and gaiety of the Mexican quarter we caromed suddenly against Cluness. Cluness is connected with some sort of a charitable institution that has a house somewhere in the “Quarter.” He says that he likes to alleviate distress wherever he sees it; and that after all, the best thing in life is to make some poor fellow happy for a few moments.
Leander and I had nothing better to do that evening so we went around with Cluness, and watched him as he gave a month’s rent to an infirm old lady on Stockton street, a bundle of magazines to a whining old rascal at the top of a nigger tenement, and some good advice to a Chinese girl who didn’t want to go to the Presbyterian Mission House.
“That’s my motto,” says he, as we came away from the Chinese girl, “alleviate misery wherever you see it and try and make some poor fellow happy for a few moments.”
“Ah, yes,” exclaimed this farceur Leander, sanctimoniously, while I stared, “that’s the only thing worth while,” and he sighed and wagged his head.
Cluness went on to tell us about a deserving case he had — we were going there next — in fact, innocently enough, he described the Seven Houses to us, never suspecting they were the beggar’s headquarters. He said there was a poor old paralytic woman lived there, who had developed an appetite for creamed oysters.
“It’s the only thing,” said Cluness, “that she can keep on her stomach.”
“She told you so?” asked Leander.
“Yes, yes.”
“Well, she ought to know.”
We arrived at the Seven Houses and Cluness paused before the tallest and dirtiest.
“Here’s where she lives; I’m going up for a few moments.”
“Have a drink first,” suggested Leander, fixing his eyes upon the saloon under the brick house.
We three went in and sat down at one of the little round zinc tables — painted to imitate marble — and the Kanaka woman herself brought us our drinks. While we were drinking, one of the beggars came in. He was an Indian, totally blind, and in the day time played a mouth-organ on Grant Avenue near a fashionable department store.
“Tut, tut,” said Cluness, “poor fellow, blind, you see, what a pity, I’ll give him a quarter.”
“No, let me,” exclaimed Leander.
As he spoke the door opened again and another blind man groped in. This fellow I had seen often. He sold lavender in little envelopes on one of the corners of Kearny street. He was a stout, smooth-faced chap and always kept his chin in the air.
“What misery there is in this world,” sighed Cluness as his eye fell upon this latter, “one half the world don’t know how—”
“Look, they know each other,” said Leander. The lavender man had groped his way to the Indian’s table — evidently it was their especial table — and the two had fallen a-talking. They ordered a sandwich apiece and a small mug of beer.
“Let’s do something for ‘em,” exclaimed Cluness, with a burst of generosity. “Let’s make ’em remember this night for years to come. Look at ’em trying to be happy over a bit of dry bread and a pint of flat beer. I’m going to give ’em a dollar each.”
“No, no,” protested Leander. “Let me fix it, I’ve more money than you. Let me do a little good now and then. You don’t want to hog all the philanthropy, Cluness, I’ll give ’em something.
“It would be very noble and generous of you, indeed,” cried Cluness, “and you’ll feel better for it, see if you don’t. But I must go to my paralytic. You fellows wait for me. I’ll be down in twenty minutes.”
I frowned at Leander when Cluness was gone. “Now what tom-foolery is it this time?” said I.
“Tom-foolery,” exclaimed Leander, blankly. “It’s philanthropy. By Jove, here’s another chap with his lamps blown out. Look at him.”
A third unfortunate, blind as the other two, had just approached the Indian and the lavender man. The three were pals, one could see that at half a glance. No doubt they met at this table every night for beer and sandwiches. The last blind man was a Dutchman. I had seen him from time to time on Market street, with a cigar-box tied to his waist and a bunch of pencils in his fist.
“Eins!” called the Dutchman to the Kanaka, as he sat down with the lavender man and the Indian. “Eins — mit a hem sendvidge.”
“Excuse me,” said Leander, coming up to their table.
What was it? Did those three beggars, their instinct trained by long practice, recognise the alms-giver in the sound of Leander’s voice, or in the step. It is hard to say, but instantly each one of them dropped the mildly convivial and assumed the humbly solicitous air, turning his blind head towards Leander, listening intently. Leander took out his purse and made a great jingling with his money. Now, I knew that Leander had exactly fifteen dollars — no more, no less — fifteen dollars, in three five-dollar gold pieces — not a penny of change. Could it be possible that he was going to give a gold piece to the three beggars? It was, evidently, for I heard him say:
“Excuse me. I’ve often passed you fellows on the street, in town, and I guess I’ve always been too short of change, or in too much of a hurry to remember you. But I’m going to make up for it now, if you’ll permit me. Here—” and he jingled his money, “here is a five dollar gold piece that I’d like to have you spend between the three of you to-night, and drink my health, and — and — have a good time, you know. Catch on?”
They caught on.
“May God bless you, young man!” exclaimed the old lavender man.
The Indian grunted expressively.
The Dutchman twisted about in his place and shouted in the direction of the bar:
“Mek ut er bottle Billzner und er Gotha druffle, mit ein im-borted Frankfooter bei der side on.”
The Kanaka woman came up, and the Dutchman repeated his order. The lavender man paused reflectively tapping his brow, then he delivered himself: “A half spring chicken,” he said with profound gravity, “rather under done, and some chicory salad and a bottle of white wine — put the bottle in a little warm water for about two minutes — and some lyonnaise potatoes with onions, and —
“Donner wetter,” shouted the Dutchman, “genuch!” smiting the table with his fist.
The other subsided. The Kanaka woman turned to the Indian.
“Whiskey,” he grunted, “plenty whiskey, big beefsteak, soh,” and he measured off a yard on the table.
“Leander,” said I, when he rejoined me, “that was foolishness, you’ve thrown away your five dollars and these fellows are going to waste it in riotous living. You see the results of indiscriminate charity.”
“I’ve not thrown it away. Cluness would say that if it made them happier according to their lights it was well invested. I hate the charity that means only medicines, clean sheets, new shoes and sewerage. Let ’em be happy in their own way.” There could be no doubt that the three blind men were happy. They loaded their table with spring chickens, Gotha truffles, beefsteaks, and all manner of “alcoholic beverages,” till the zinc disappeared beneath the accumulation of plates and bottles. They drank each other’s health and they pledged that of Leander,
standing up. The Dutchman ordered: “Zwei Billzner more alreatty.” The lavender man drank his warmed white wine with gasps of infinite delight, and after the second whiskey bottle had been opened, the Indian began to say strange and terrible things in his own language.
Cluness came in and beamed on them.
“See how happy you’ve made them, Leander,” he said gratefully. “They’ll always remember this night.”
“They always will,” said Leander solemnly.
“I’ve got to go though,” said Cluness. I made as if to go with him but Leander plucked my coat under the table. I caught his eye.
“I guess we two will stay,” said I. Cluness left, thanking us again and again.
“I don’t know what it is,” said I seriously to Leander, “but to-night you seem to me to be too good to be wholesome.”
“I,” said Leander, blankly. “But I suppose I should expect to be misjudged.”
Just then the Kanaka woman came over to give us our check.
“This is on me,” said Leander, but he was so slow in fumbling for his purse that I was obliged, in all decency, to pay.
After she left us, the Kanaka went over to the blind men’s table, and, check-pad in hand, ran her eye over the truffles, beer, chicken, beefsteak, wine and whiskey, and made out her check.
“Four dollars, six bits,” she announced.
There was a silence, not one of the blind men moved.
“Watch now,” said Leander.
“Four, six bits,” repeated the Kanaka, her hand on her hip.
Still none of the blind men moved.
“Vail, den,” cried the Dutchman, “vich von you two vellars has dose money, pay oop. Fier thalers und sax beets.”
“I haven’t it,” exclaimed the lavender man, “Jim has it,” he added, turning to the Indian.
“No have got, no have got,” grunted the Indian. “You have got, you or Charley.”
I looked at Leander.
“Now, what have you done?”
For answer Leander showed me three five dollar gold pieces in the palm of his hand.
“Each one of those chaps thinks that one of the other two has the gold piece. I just pretended to give it to one of ‘em, jingled my coin, and then put it back, I didn’t give ’em a cent. Each one thought I had given it to the other two. How could they tell, they were blind, don’t you see.”
I reached for my hat.
“I’m going to get out of here.”
Leander pulled me back.
“Not just yet, wait a few moments. Listen.”
“Vail, vail,” cried the Dutchman, beginning to get red. “You doand vants to cheats Missus Amaloa, den berhaps — yes, Zhim,” he cried to the Indian, “pay oop, or ees ut you den, Meest’r Paites, dat hab dose finf thalers?”
“No have got,” gurgled the Indian, swaying in his place as he canted the neck of the whiskey bottle towards his lips.
“I thought you had the money,” protested Mr. Bates, the lavender man, “you or Jim.”
“No have got,” whooped the Indian, beginning to get angry. “Hug-gh! You got money. He give you money,” and he turned his face towards the Dutchman.
“That’s what I thought,” asserted Mr. Bates.
“Tausend Teufels no,” shouted the other. “I tell you no.”
“You, you,” growled the Indian, plucking at Mr. Bates’ coat sleeve, “you have got.”
“Yah, soh,” cried the Dutchman, shaking his finger at the lavender man, excitedly, “pay dose finf thalers, Meest’r Paites.”
“Pay yourself,” exclaimed the other, “I haven’t touched them. I’ll be any name, I’ll be any name if I’ve touched them.”
“Well, I ain’t going to wait here all night,” shrilled the Kanaka woman impatiently. The Dutchman shook his finger solemnly towards where he thought the Indian was sitting.
“It’s der Indyun. It’s Zhim. Get ut vrom Zhim.”
“Lie, lie,” vociferated the Indian, “white man lie. No have got. You hav got, or you.”
“I’ll turn my pockets inside out,” exclaimed Mr. Bates.
“Schmarty,” cried the Dutchman. “Can I see dose pocket?”
“Thief, thief,” exclaimed the Indian, shaking his long black hair. “You steal money.”
The other two turned on him savagely.
“There aint no man going to call me that.”
“Vat he say, vait, und I vill his het mit der boddle demolisch. Who you say dat to, mee, or Meest’r Bates?”
“Oh, you make me tired,” cried the lavender man, “you two. One of you two, pay Missus Amaloa and quit fooling.”
“Come on,” cried the Kanaka, “pay up or I’ll ring for the police.”
“Vooling, vooling,” shouted the Dutchman, dancing in his rage. “You sheats Missus Amaloa und you gall dot vooling.”
“Who cheats,” cried the other two simultaneously.
“Vail, how do I know,” yelled the Dutchman, purple to the eyes. “How do I know vich.”
The Kanaka turned to Leander.
“Say, which of these fellows did you give that money to?”
Leander came up.
“Ah-h, now we vill know,” said the Dutchman.
Leander looked from one to the other. Then an expression of perplexity came into his face. He scratched an ear.
“Well, I thought it was this German gentleman.”
“Vat!”
“Only it seems to me I had the money in my left hand, and he, you see, is on the right hand of the table. It might have been him, and then again it might have been one of the other two gentlemen. It’s so difficult to remember. Wasn’t it you,” turning to Mr. Bates, “or no, wasn’t it you,” to the Indian. “But it couldn’t have been the Indian gentleman, and it couldn’t have been Mr. Bates here, and yet I’m sure it wasn’t the German gentleman, and, however, I must have given it to one of the three. Didn’t I lay the coin down on the table and go away and leave it.” Leander struck his forehead. “Yes, I think that’s what I did. I’m sorry,” he said to the Kanaka, “that you are having any trouble, it’s some misunderstanding.”
“Oh, I’ll get it all right,” returned the Kanaka, confidently. “Come on, one of you fellows dig up.”
Then the quarrel broke out afresh. The three blind men rose to their feet, blackguarding and vilifying one another till the room echoed. Now it was Mr. Bates and the Dutchman versus the Indian, now the Indian and Dutchman versus Mr. Bates, now the Indian and Mr. Bates versus the Dutchman. At every instant the combinations varied with kaleidoscopic swiftness. They shouted, they danced, and they shook their fists towards where they guessed each other’s faces were. The Indian, who had been drinking whiskey between intervals of the quarrel, suddenly began to rail and howl in his own language, and at times even the Dutchman lapsed into the vernacular. The Kanaka woman lost her wits altogether, and declared that in three more minutes she would ring for the police.
Then all at once the Dutchman swung both fists around him and caught the Indian a tremendous crack in the side of the head. The Indian vented an ear-splitting war-whoop and began pounding Mr. Bates who stood next to him. In the next instant the three were fighting all over the room. They lost each other, they struck furious blows at the empty air, they fell over tables and chairs, or suddenly came together with a dreadful shock and terrible cries of rage. The Dutchman bumped against Leander and before he could get away had smashed his silk hat down over his ears. The noise of their shouting could have been heard a block.
“Thief, thief.”
“Teef yourselluf, pay oop dose finf thalers.”
“No have got, no have got.”
And then the door swung in and four officers began rounding them up like stampeded sheep. Not until he was in the wagon could the Dutchman believe that it was not the Indian and Mr. Bates who had him by either arm, and even in the wagon, as they were being driven to the precinct station-house, the quarrel broke out from time to time.
As we heard the rattle o
f the patrol-wagon’s wheels growing fainter over the cobbles, we rose to go. The Kanaka stood with her hands on her hips glaring at the zinc table with its remnants of truffle, chicken and beefsteak and its empty bottles. Then she exclaimed, “And I’m shy four dollars and six bits.”
On the following Saturday night Leander and I were coming from a Mexican dinner at Luna’s. Suddenly some one caught our arms from behind. It was Cluness.
“I want to thank you fellows again,” he exclaimed, “for your kindness to those three blind chaps the other night. It was really good of you. I believe they had five dollars to spend between them. It was really fine of you, Leander.”
“Oh, I don’t mind five dollars,” said Leander, “if it can make a poor fellow any happier for a few moments. That’s the only thing that’s worth while in this life.”
“I’ll bet you felt better and happier for doing it.”
“Well, it did make me happy.”
“Of course, and those three fellows will never forget that night.”
“No, I guess they won’t,” said Leander.
SON OF A SHEIK
The smell of the warm slime on the Jeliffe River and the sweet, heavy and sickening odour that exhaled into the unspeakable heat of the desert air from the bunches of dead and scorched water-reeds are with me yet; also the sight of the long stretch of dry mud bank, rising by shallow and barely perceptible degrees to the edge of the desert sands, and thus disclosed by the shrinkage of the Jeliffe during the hot months. The mud banks were very broad and very black except where they touched the desert; here the sand had sifted over them in light transparent sprinklings. In rapidly drying under the sun of the Sahara, they had cracked and warped into thousands of tiny concave cakes that looked, for all the world, like little saucers in which Indian ink has been mixed. (If you are an artist, as was Thévenot, you will the better understand this.)