CHAPTER XVIII
AN EPISODE BY THE WAY
It was Pugsy Maloney who, on the following morning, brought to theoffice the gist of what is related in this chapter. Pugsy's versionwas, however, brief and unadorned, as was the way with hisnarratives. Such things as first causes and piquant details heavoided, as tending to prolong the telling excessively, thuskeeping him from perusal of his cowboy stories. The way Pugsy putit was as follows. He gave the thing out merely as an item ofgeneral interest, a bubble on the surface of the life of a greatcity. He did not know how nearly interested were his employers inany matter touching that gang which is known as the Three Points.Pugsy said: "Dere's trouble down where I live. Dude Dawson's mad atSpider Reilly, an' now de Table Hills are layin' for de T'reePoints. Sure." He had then retired to his outer fastness, yieldingfurther details jerkily and with the distrait air of one whose mindis elsewhere.
Skilfully extracted and pieced together, these details formedthemselves into the following typical narrative of East Side lifein New York.
The really important gangs of New York are four. There are otherless important institutions, but these are little more than merefriendly gatherings of old boyhood chums for purposes of mutualcompanionship. In time they may grow, as did Bat Jarvis's coterie,into formidable organisations, for the soil is undoubtedlypropitious to such growth. But at present the amount of ice whichgood judges declare them to cut is but small. They "stick up" anoccasional wayfarer for his "cush," and they carry "canisters" andsometimes fire them off, but these things do not signify thecutting of ice. In matters political there are only four gangswhich count, the East Side, the Groome Street, the Three Points,and the Table Hill. Greatest of these by virtue of their numbersare the East Side and the Groome Street, the latter presided overat the time of this story by Mr. Bat Jarvis. These two arecolossal, and, though they may fight each other, are immune fromattack at the hands of lesser gangs. But between the other gangs,and especially between the Table Hill and the Three Points, whichare much of a size, warfare rages as briskly as among the republicsof South America. There has always been bad blood between the TableHill and the Three Points, and until they wipe each other out afterthe manner of the Kilkenny cats, it is probable that there alwayswill be. Little events, trifling in themselves, have alwaysoccurred to shatter friendly relations just when there has seemed achance of their being formed. Thus, just as the Table Hillites werebeginning to forgive the Three Points for shooting the redoubtablePaul Horgan down at Coney Island, a Three Pointer injudiciouslywiped out another of the rival gang near Canal Street. He pleadedself-defence, and in any case it was probably mere thoughtlessness,but nevertheless the Table Hillites were ruffled.
That had been a month or so back. During that month things had beensimmering down, and peace was just preparing to brood when thereoccurred the incident to which Pugsy had alluded, the regrettablefalling out of Dude Dawson and Spider Reilly at Mr. Maginnis'sdancing saloon, Shamrock Hall, the same which Bat Jarvis had beencalled in to protect in the days before the Groome Street gangbegan to be.
Shamrock Hall, being under the eyes of the great Bat, was, ofcourse, forbidden ground; and it was with no intention of spoilingthe harmony of the evening that Mr. Dawson had looked in. He wasthere in a purely private and peaceful character.
As he sat smoking, sipping, and observing the revels, there settledat the next table Mr. Robert ("Nigger") Coston, an eminent memberof the Three Points.
There being temporary peace between the two gangs, the great menexchanged a not unfriendly nod and, after a short pause, a word ortwo. Mr. Coston, alluding to an Italian who had just pirouettedpast, remarked that there sure was some class to the way that wophit it up. Mr. Dawson said Yup, there sure was. You would have saidthat all Nature smiled.
Alas! The next moment the sky was covered with black clouds and thestorm broke. For Mr. Dawson, continuing in this vein of criticism,rather injudiciously gave it as his opinion that one of the ladydancers had two left feet.
For a moment Mr. Coston did not see which lady was alluded to.
"De goil in de pink skoit," said Mr. Dawson, facilitating theother's search by pointing with a much-chewed cigarette. It was atthis moment that Nature's smile was shut off as if by a tap. Forthe lady in the pink skirt had been in receipt of Mr. Coston'srespectful devotion for the past eight days.
From this point onwards the march of events was rapid.
Mr. Coston, rising, asked Mr. Dawson who he thought he, Mr. Dawson,was.
Mr. Dawson, extinguishing his cigarette and placing it behind hisear, replied that he was the fellow who could bite his, Mr.Coston's, head off.
Mr. Coston said: "Huh?"
Mr. Dawson said: "Sure."
Mr. Coston called Mr. Dawson a pie-faced rubber-neckedfour-flusher.
Mr. Dawson called Mr. Coston a coon.
And that was where the trouble really started.
It was secretly a great grief to Mr. Coston that his skin was of soswarthy a hue. To be permitted to address Mr. Coston face to faceby his nickname was a sign of the closest friendship, to which onlySpider Reilly, Jack Repetto, and one or two more of the gang couldaspire. Others spoke of him as Nigger, or, more briefly,Nig--strictly behind his back. For Mr. Coston had a wide reputationas a fighter, and his particular mode of battling was to descend onhis antagonist and bite him. Into this action he flung himself withthe passionate abandonment of the artist. When he bit he bit. Hedid not nibble.
If a friend had called Mr. Coston "Nig" he would have been runninggrave risks. A stranger, and a leader of a rival gang, whoaddressed him as "coon" was more than asking for trouble. He waspleading for it.
Great men seldom waste time. Mr. Coston, leaning towards Mr.Dawson, promptly bit him on the cheek. Mr. Dawson bounded from hisseat. Such was the excitement of the moment that, instead ofdrawing his "canister," he forgot that he had one on his person,and, seizing a mug which had held beer, bounced it vigorously onMr. Coston's skull, which, being of solid wood, merely gave out aresonant note and remained unbroken.
So far the honours were comparatively even, with perhaps a slightbalance in favour of Mr. Coston. But now occurred an incidentwhich turned the scale, and made war between the gangs inevitable.In the far corner of the room, surrounded by a crowd of admiringfriends, sat Spider Reilly, monarch of the Three Points. He hadnoticed that there was a slight disturbance at the other side ofthe hall, but had given it little attention till, the dancingceasing suddenly and the floor emptying itself of its crowd, he hada plain view of Mr. Dawson and Mr. Coston squaring up at eachother for the second round. We must assume that Mr. Reilly was notthinking what he did, for his action was contrary to all rules ofgang-etiquette. In the street it would have been perfectlylegitimate, even praiseworthy, but in a dance-hall belonging to aneutral power it was unpardonable.
What he did was to produce his "canister" and pick off theunsuspecting Mr. Dawson just as that exquisite was preparing to getin some more good work with the beer-mug. The leader of the TableHillites fell with a crash, shot through the leg; and SpiderReilly, together with Mr. Coston and others of the Three Points,sped through the doorway for safety, fearing the wrath of BatJarvis, who, it was known, would countenance no such episodes atthe dance-hall which he had undertaken to protect.
Mr. Dawson, meanwhile, was attended to and helped home. Willinginformants gave him the name of his aggressor, and before morningthe Table Hill camp was in ferment. Shooting broke out in threeplaces, though there were no casualties. When the day dawned thereexisted between the two gangs a state of war more bitter than anyin their record; for this time it was no question of obscurenonentities. Chieftain had assaulted chieftain; royal blood hadbeen spilt.
* * *
"Comrade Windsor," said Psmith, when Master Maloney had spoken hislast word, "we must take careful note of this little matter. Irather fancy that sooner or later we may be able to turn it to ourprofit. I am sorry for Dude Dawson, anyhow. Though I have nevermet him, I have a sort of i
nstinctive respect for him. A man suchas he would feel a bullet through his trouser-leg more than one ofcommon clay who cared little how his clothes looked."