Cast Adrift

T >> T. S. Arthur >> Cast Adrift

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There being no public sale of lottery tickets in Northern cities,
this weak and infatuated woman found out where some of the
"policy-shops" were kept, and instead of buying tickets, as before,
risked her money on numbers that might or might not come out of the
wheel in lotteries said to be drawn in certain Southern States, but
chiefly in Kentucky. The numbers rarely if ever came out. The
chances were too remote. After her husband's death she began
fretting over the smallness of her income. It was not sufficient to
give her daughters the advantages she desired them to have, and she
knew of but one way to increase it. That way was through the
policy-shops. So she gave her whole mind to this business, with as
much earnestness and self-absorption as a merchant gives himself to
trade. She had a dream-book, gotten up especially for policy buyers,
and consulted it as regularly as a merchant does his price-current
or a broker the sales of stock. Every day she bet on some "row" or
series of "rows," rarely venturing less than five dollars, and
sometimes, when she felt more than usually confident, laying down a
twenty-dollar bill, for the "hit" when made gave from fifty to two
hundred dollars for each dollar put down, varying according to the
nature of the combinations. So the more faith a policy buyer had in
his "row," the larger the venture he would feel inclined to make.

Usually it went all one way with the infatuated lady. Day after day
she ventured, and day after day she lost, until from hundreds the
sums she was spending had aggregated themselves into thousands. She
changed from one policy-shop to another, hoping for better luck. It
was her business to find them out, and this she was able to do by
questioning some of those whom she met at the shops. One of these
was in a building on a principal street, the second story of which
was occupied by a milliner. It was visited mostly by ladies, who
could pass in from the street, no one suspecting their errand.
Another was in the attic of a house in which were many offices and
places of business, with people going in and coming out all the
while, none but the initiated being in the secret; while another was
to be found in the rear of a photograph gallery. Every day and often
twice a day, as punctually as any man of business, did this lady
make her calls at one and another of these policy-offices to get the
drawings or make new ventures. At remote intervals she would make a
"hit;" once she drew twenty dollars, and once fifty. But for these
small gains she had paid thousands of dollars.

After a "hit" the betting on numbers would be bolder. Once she
selected what was known as a "lucky row," and determined to double
on it until it came out a prize. She began by putting down fifty
cents. On the next day she put down a dollar upon the same
combination, losing, of course, Two dollars were ventured on the
next day; and so she went on doubling, until, in her desperate
infatuation, she doubled for the ninth time, putting down two
hundred and fifty-six dollars.

If successful now, she would draw over twenty-five thousand dollars.
There was no sleep for the poor lady during the night that followed.
She walked the floor of her chamber in a state of intense nervous
excitement, sometimes in a condition of high hope and confidence and
sometimes haunted by demons of despair. She sold five shares of
stock on which she had been receiving an annual dividend of ten per
cent., in order to get funds for this desperate gambling venture, in
which over five hundred dollars had now been absorbed.

Pale and nervous, she made her appearance at the breakfast-table on
the next morning, unable to take a mouthful of food. It was in vain
that her anxious daughters urged her to eat.

A little after twelve o'clock she was at the policy-office. The
drawn numbers for the morning were already in. Her combination was
4, 10, 40. With an eagerness that could not be repressed, she caught
up the slip of paper containing the thirteen numbers out of
seventy-five, which purported to have been drawn that morning
somewhere in "Kentucky," and reported by telegraph--caught it up
with hands that shook so violently that she could not read the
figures. She had to lay the piece of paper down upon the little
counter before which she stood, in order that it might be still, so
that she could read her fate.

The first drawn number was 4. What a wild leap her heart gave! The
next was 24; the next 8; the next 70; the next 41, and the next 39.
Her heart grew almost still; the pressure as of a great hand was on
her bosom. 10 came next. Two numbers of her row were out. A quiver
of excitement ran through her frame. She caught up the paper, but it
shook as before, so that she could not see the figures. Dashing it
back upon the counter, and holding it down almost violently, she
bent over, with eyes starting from their sockets, and read the line
of figures to the end, then sank over upon the counter with a groan,
and lay there half fainting and too weak to lift herself up. If the
40 had been there, she would have made a hit of twenty-five thousand
dollars. But the 40 was not there, and this made all the difference.

"Once more," said the policy-dealer, in a tone of encouragement, as
he bent over the miserable woman. Yesterday, 4 came out; to-day, 4,
10; tomorrow will be the lucky chance; 4, 10, 40 will surely be
drawn. I never knew this order to fail. If it had been 10 first, and
then 4, 10, or 10, 4, I would not advise you to go on. But 4, 10, 40
will be drawn to-morrow as sure as fate."

"What numbers did you say? 4, 10, 40?" asked an old man, ragged and
bloated, who came shuffling in as the last remarks was made.

"Yes," answered the dealer. "This lady has been doubling, and as the
chances go, her row is certain to make a hit to-morrow."

"Ha! What's the row? 4, 10, 40?"

"Yes."

The old man fumbled in his pocket, and brought out ten cents.

"I'll go that on the row. Give me a piece."

The dealer took a narrow slip of paper and wrote on it the date, the
sum risked and the combination of figures, and handed it to the old
man, saying,

"Come here to-morrow; and if the bottom of the world doesn't drop
out, you'll find ten dollars waiting for you."

Two or three others were in by this time, eager to look over the
list of drawn numbers and to make new bets.

"Glory!" cried one of them, a vile-looking young woman, and she
commenced dancing about the room.

All was excitement now. "A hit! a hit!" was cried. "How much? how
much?" and they gathered to the little counter and desk of the
policy-dealer.

"1, 2, 3," cried the girl, dancing about and waving her little slip
of paper over her head. "I knew it would come--dreamed of them
numbers three nights hand running! Hand over the money, old chap!
Fifteen dollars for fifteen cents! That's the go!"

The policy-dealer took the girl's "piece," and after comparing it
with the record of drawn numbers, said, in a pleased voice,

"All right! A hit, sure enough. You're in luck to-day."

The girl took the money, that was promptly paid down, and as she
counted it over the dealer remarked,

"There's a doubling game going on, and it's to be up to-morrow,
sure."

"What's the row?" inquired the girl.

"4, 10, 40," said the dealer.

"Then count me in;" and she laid down five dollars on the counter.

"Take my advice and go ten," urged the policy-dealer.

"No, thank you! shouldn't know what to do with more than five
hundred dollars. I'll only go five dollars this time."

The "writer," as a policy-seller is called, took the money and gave
the usual written slip of paper containing the selected numbers;
loudly proclaiming her good luck, the girl then went away. She was
an accomplice to whom a "piece" had been secretly given after the
drawn numbers were in.

Of course this hit was the sensation of the day among the
policy-buyers at that office, and brought in large gains.

The wretched woman who had just seen five hundred dollars vanish
into nothing instead of becoming, as under the wand of an enchanter,
a great heap of gold, listened in a kind of maze to what passed
around her--listened and let the tempter get to her ear again. She
went away, stooping in her gait as one bearing a heavy burden.
Before an hour had passed hope had lifted her again into confidence.
She had to make but one venture more to double on the risk of the
day previous, and secure a fortune that would make both herself and
daughters independent for life.

Another sale of good stocks, another gambling venture and another
loss, swelling the aggregate in this wild and hopeless "doubling"
experiment to over a thousand dollars.

But she was not cured. As regularly as a drunkard goes to the bar
went she to the policy-shops, every day her fortune growing less.
Poverty began to pinch. The house in which she lived with her
daughters was sold, and the unhappy family shrunk into a single room
in a third-rate boarding-house. But their income soon became
insufficient to meet the weekly demand for board. Long before this
the daughters had sought for something to do by which to earn a
little money. Pride struggled hard with them, but necessity was
stronger than pride.

We finish the story in a few words. In a moment of weakness, with
want and hard work staring her in the face, one of the daughters
married a man who broke her heart and buried her in less than two
years. The other, a weak and sickly girl, got a situation as day
governess in the family of an old friend of her father's, where she
was kindly treated, but she lived only a short time after her
sister's death.

And still there was no abatement of the mother's infatuation. She
was more than half insane on the subject of policy gambling, and
confident of yet retrieving her fortunes.

At the time Pinky Swett and her friend in evil saw her come gliding
up from the restaurant in faded mourning garments and closely
veiled, she was living alone in a small, meagrely furnished room,
and cooking her own food.

Everything left to her at her husband's death was gone. She earned a
dollar or two each week by making shirts and drawers for the
slop-shops, spending every cent of this in policies. A few old
friends who pitied her, but did not know of the vice in which she
indulged, paid her rent and made occasional contributions for her
support. All of these contributions, beyond the amount required for
a very limited supply of food, went to the policy-shops. It was a
mystery to her friends how she had managed to waste the handsome
property left by her husband, but no one suspected the truth.

CHAPTER X.

"_WHO'S_ that, I wonder?" asked Nell Peter as the dark, close-veiled
figure glided past them on the stairs.

"Oh, she's a policy-drunkard," answered Pinky, loud enough to be
heard by the woman, who, as if surprised or alarmed, stopped and
turned her head, her veil falling partly away, and disclosing
features so pale and wasted that she looked more like a ghost than
living flesh and blood. There was a strange gleam in her eyes. She
paused only for an instant, but her steps were slower as she went on
climbing the steep and narrow stairs that led to the policy-office.

"Good Gracious, Pinky! did you ever see such a face?" exclaimed Nell
Peter. "It's a walking ghost, I should say, and no woman at all."

"Oh, I've seen lots of 'em," answered Pinky. "She's a
policy-drunkard. Bad as drinking when it once gets hold of 'em. They
tipple all the time, sell anything, beg, borrow, steal or starve
themselves to get money to buy policies. She's one of 'em that's
starving."

By this time they had reached the policy-office. It was in a small
room on the third floor of the back building, yet as well known to
the police of the district as if it had been on the front street.
One of these public guardians soon after his appointment through
political influence, and while some wholesome sense of duty and
moral responsibility yet remained, caused the "writer" in this
particular office to be arrested. He thought that he had done a good
thing, and looked for approval and encouragement. But to his
surprise and chagrin he found that he had blundered. The case got no
farther than the alderman's. Just how it was managed he did not
know, but it was managed, and the business of the office went on as
before.

A little light came to him soon after, on meeting a prominent
politician to whom he was chiefly indebted for his appointment. Said
this individual, with a look of warning and a threat in his voice,

"See here, my good fellow; I'm told that you've been going out of
your way and meddling with the policy-dealers. Take my advice, and
mind your own business. If you don't. it will be all day with you.
There isn't a man in town strong enough to fight this thing, so
you'd better let it alone."

And he did let it alone. He had a wife and three little children,
and couldn't afford to lose his place. So he minded his own
business, and let it alone.

Pinky and her friend entered this small third-story back room.
Behind a narrow, unpainted counter, having a desk at one end, stood
a middle-aged man, with dark, restless eyes that rarely looked you
in the face. He wore a thick but rather closely-cut beard and
moustache. The police knew him very well; so did the criminal
lawyers, when he happened to come in their way; so did the officials
of two or three State prisons in which he had served out partial
sentences. He was too valuable to political "rings" and associations
antagonistic to moral and social well-being to be left idle in the
cell of a penitentiary for the whole term of a commitment.
Politicians have great influence, and governors are human.

On the walls of the room were pasted a few pictures cut from the
illustrated papers, some of them portraits of leading politicians,
and some of them portraits of noted pugilists and sporting-men. The
picture of a certain judge, who had made himself obnoxious to the
fraternity of criminals by his severe sentences, was turned upside
down. There was neither table nor chair in the room.

The woman in black had passed in just before the girls, and was
waiting her turn to examine the drawn numbers. She had not tasted
food since the day before, having ventured her only dime on a
policy, and was feeling strangely faint and bewildered. She did not
have to wait long. It was the old story. Her combination had not
come out, and she was starving. As she moved back toward the door
she staggered a little. Pinky, who had become curious about her,
noticed this, and watched her as she went out.

"It's about up with the old lady, I guess," she said to her
companion, with an unfeeling laugh.

And she was right. On the next morning the poor old woman was found
dead in her room, and those who prepared her for burial said that
she was wasted to a skeleton. She had, in fact, starved herself in
her infatuation, spending day after day in policies what she should
have spent for food. Pinky's strange remark was but too true. She
had become a policy-drunkard--a vice almost as disastrous in its
effects as its kindred, vice, intemperance, though less brutalizing
and less openly indulged.

"Where now?" was the question of Pinky's friend as they came down,
after spending in policies all the money they had received from the
sale of Flora Bond's clothing. "Any other game?"

"Yes."

"What?"

"Come along to my room, and I'll tell you."

"Round in Ewing street?"

"Yes. Great game up, if I can only get on the track."

"What is it?"

"There's a cast-off baby in Dirty Alley, and Fan Bray knows its
mother, and she's rich."

"What?"

"Fan's getting lots of hush-money."

"Goody! but that is game!"

"Isn't it? The baby's owned by two beggar-women who board it in
Dirty Alley. It's 'most starved and frozen to death, and Fan's awful
'fraid it may die. She wants me to steal it for her, so that she may
have it better taken care of, and I was going to do it last night,
when I got into a muss."

"Who's the woman that boards it?"

"She lives in a cellar, and is drunk every night. Can steal the brat
easily enough; but if I can't find out who it belongs to, you see it
will be trouble for nothing."

"No, I don't see any such thing," answered Nell Peter. "If you can't
get hush-money out of its mother, you can bleed Fanny Bray."

"That's so, and I'm going to bleed her. The mother, you see, thinks
the baby's dead. The proud old grandmother gave it away, as soon as
was born, to a woman that Fan Bray found for her. Its mother was out
of her head, and didn't know nothing. That woman sold the baby to
the women who keep it to beg with. She's gone up the spout now, and
nobody knows who the mother and grandmother are but Fan, and nobody
knows where the baby is but me and Fan. She's bleeding the old lady,
and promises to share with me if I keep track of the baby and see
that it isn't killed or starved to death. But I don't trust her. She
puts me off with fives and tens, when I'm sure she gets hundreds.
Now, if we have the baby all to ourselves, and find out the mother
and grandmother, won't we have a splendid chance? I'll bet you on
that."

"Won't we? Why, Pinky, this is a gold-mine!"

"Didn't I tell you there was great game up? I was just wanting some
one to help me. Met you in the nick of time."

The two girls had now reached Pinky's room in Ewing street, where
they continued in conference for a long time before settling their
plans.

"Does Fan know where you live?" queried Nell Peter.

"Yes."

"Then you will have to change your quarters."

"Easily done. Doesn't take half a dozen furniture-cars to move me."

"I know a room."

"Where?"

"It's a little too much out of the way, you'll think, maybe, but
it's just the dandy for hiding in. You cart keep the brat there, and
nobody--"

"Me keep the brat?" interrupted Pinky, with a derisive laugh.
"That's a good one! I see myself turned baby-tender! Ha! ha! that's
funny!"

"What do you expect to do with the child after you steal it?" asked
Pinky's friend.

"I don't intend to nurse it or have it about me."

"What then?"

"Board if with some one who doesn't get drunk or buy policies."

"You'll hunt for a long time."

"Maybe, but I'll try. Anyhow, it can't be worse off than it is now.
What I'm afraid of is that it will be out of its misery before we
can get hold of it. The woman who is paid for keeping it at night
doesn't give it any milk--just feeds it on bread soaked in water,
and that is slow starvation. It's the way them that don't want to
keep their babies get rid of them about here."

"The game's up if the baby dies," said Nell Peter, growing excited
under this view of the case. "If it only gets bread soaked in water,
it can't live. I've seen that done over and over again. They're
starving a baby on bread and water now just over from my room, and
it cries and frets and moans all the time it's awake, poor little
wretch! I've been in hopes for a week that they'd give it an
overdose of paregoric or something else."

"We must fix it to-night in some way," answered Pinky. "Where's the
room you spoke of?"

"In Grubb's court. You know Grubb's court?--a kind of elbow going
off from Rider's court. There's a room up there that you can get
where even the police would hardly find you out."

"Thieves live there," said Pinky.

"No matter. They'll not trouble you or the baby."

"Is the room furnished?"

"Yes. There's a bed and a table and two chairs."

After farther consultation it was decided that Pinky should move at
once from her present lodgings to the room in Grubb's court, and
get, if possible, possession of the baby that very night. The moving
was easily accomplished after the room was secured. Two small
bundles of clothing constituted Pinky's entire effects; and taking
these, the two girls went quietly out, leaving a week's rent unpaid.

The night that closed this early winter day was raw and cold, the
easterly wind still prevailing, with occasional dashes of rain. In a
cellar without fire, except a few bits of smouldering wood in an old
clay furnace, that gave no warmth to the damp atmosphere, and with
scarcely an article of furniture, a woman half stupid from drink sat
on a heap of straw, her bed, with her hands clasped about her knees.
She was rocking her body backward and forward, and crooning to
herself in a maudlin way. A lighted tallow candle stood on the floor
of the cellar, and near it a cup of water, in which was a spoon and
some bread soaking.

"Mother Hewitt!" called a voice from the cellar door that opened on
the street. "Here, take the baby!"

Mother Hewitt, as she was called, started up and made her way with
an unsteady gait to the front part of the cellar, where a woman in
not much better condition than herself stood holding out a bundle of
rags in which a fretting baby was wrapped.

"Quick, quick!" called the woman. "And see here," she continued as
Mother Hewitt reached her arms for the baby; "I don't believe you're
doing the right thing. Did he have plenty of milk last night and
this morning?"

"Just as much as he would take."

"I don't believe it. He's been frettin' and chawin' at the strings
of his hood all the afternoon, when he ought to have been asleep,
and he's looking punier every day. I believe you're giving him only
bread and water."

But Mother Hewitt protested that she gave him the best of new milk,
and as much as he would take.

"Well, here's a quarter," said the woman, handing Mother Hewitt some
money; "and see that he is well fed to-night and to-morrow morning.
He's getting 'most too deathly in his face. The people won't stand
it if they think a baby's going to die--the women 'specially, and
most of all the young things that have lost babies. One of these--I
know 'em by the way they look out of their eyes--came twice to-day
and stood over him sad and sorrowful like; she didn't give me
anything. I've seen her before. Maybe she's his mother. As like as
nor, for nobody knows where he came from. Wasn't Sally Long's baby;
always thought she'd stole him from somebody. Now, mind, he's to
have good milk every day, or I'll change his boarding-house. D'ye
hear!"

And laughing at this sally, the woman turned away to spend in a
night's debauch the money she had gained in half a day's begging.

Left to herself, Mother Hewitt went staggering back with the baby in
her arms, and seated herself on the ground beside the cup of bread
and water, which was mixed to the consistence of cream. As she did
so the light of her poor candle fell on the baby's face. It was
pinched and hungry and ashen pale, the thin lips wrought by want and
suffering into such sad expressions of pain that none but the most
stupid and hardened could look at them and keep back a gush of
tears.

But Mother Hewitt saw nothing of this--felt nothing of this. Pity
and tenderness had long since died out of her heart. As she laid the
baby back on one arm she took a spoonful of the mixture prepared for
its supper, and pushed it roughly into its mouth. The baby swallowed
it with a kind of starving eagerness, but with no sign of
satisfaction on its sorrowful little face. But Mother Hewitt was too
impatient to get through with her work of feeding the child, and
thrust in spoonful after spoonful until it choked, when she shook it
angrily, calling it vile names.

The baby cried feebly at this. when she shook it again and slapped
it with her heavy hand. Then it grew still. She put the spoon again
to its lips, but it shut them tightly and turned its head away.

"Very well," said Mother Hewitt. "If you won't, you won't;" and she
tossed the helpless thing as she would have tossed a senseless
bundle over upon the heap of straw that served as a bed, adding, as
she did so, "I never coaxed my own brats."

The baby did not cry. Mother Hewitt then blew out the candle, and
groping her way to the door of the cellar that opened on the street,
went out, shutting down the heavy door behind her, and leaving the
child alone in that dark and noisome den--alone in its foul and wet
garments, but, thanks to kindly drugs, only partially conscious of
its misery.

Mother Hewitt's first visit was to the nearest dram-shop. Here she
spent for liquor five cents of the money she had received. From the
dram-shop she went to Sam McFaddon's policy-office. This was not
hidden away, like most of the offices, in an upper room or a back
building or in some remote cellar, concealed from public
observation, but stood with open door on the very street, its
customers going in and out as freely and unquestioned as the
customers of its next-door neighbor, the dram-shop. Policemen passed
Sam's door a hundred times in every twenty-four hours, saw his
customers going in and out, knew their errand, talked with Sam about
his business, some of them trying their luck occasionally after
there had been an exciting "hit," but none reporting him or in any
way interfering with his unlicensed plunder of the miserable and
besotted wretches that crowded his neighborhood.

From the whisky-shop to the policy-shop went Mother Hewitt. Here she
put down five cents more; she never bet higher than this on a "row."
From the policy-shop she went back to the whisky-shop, and took
another drink. By this time she was beginning to grow noisy. It so
happened that the woman who had left the baby with her a little
while before came in just then, and being herself much the worse for
drink, picked a quarrel with Mother Hewitt, accusing her of getting
drunk on the money she received for keeping the baby, and starving
it to death. A fight was the consequence, in which they were
permitted to tear and scratch and bruise each other in a shocking
way, to the great enjoyment of the little crowd of debased and
brutal men and women who filled the dram-shop. But fearing a visit
from the police, the owner of the den, a strong, coarse Irishman,
interfered, and dragging the women apart, pushed Mother Hewitt out,
giving her so violent an impetus that she fell forward into the
middle of the narrow street, where she lay unable to rise, not from
any hurt, but from sheer intoxication.

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