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Discovering Diverse Content Through
Random Scribd Documents
 The most popular game played in the city, however, is draw poker,
and this game is not confined to the gambler’s den or the club room.

IN A FRAUDULENT GAME
there are generally two or more confederates playing in with each
other as the opportunity occurs so as to rob the strangers at the
table. If the victim be very fresh the gambler simply “stacks” the
cards, which is readily accomplished by placing them in a desired
position while putting the hands that have been played in the pack.
They also pass cards from one to the other to strengthen each
other’s hands, deal from the bottom where they have cards
prepared, ring in cold decks—that is, a pack of cards all arranged to
suit the gambler, and exactly similar in appearance to the ones in
use—utilize the false cut, and make “strippers” out of, say, four aces
and four tens, so that the gambler is always sure of a “full” hand or
four of a kind; but the most ingenious method of fleecing a young
player is by using “marked” cards. To all appearances the backs of
these cards are covered simply by a fancy pattern, but the gambler
can read them off as he deals as readily as if he were looking at
their faces, so that he knows the other players’ hands before the
player himself can read them off. It requires but seventeen different
marks to a pack, four marks to designate the suits, and thirteen to
designate the cards in each suit. The mark will generally be found in
the shape of a heart, diamond, spade, or club worked ingeniously
into the scroll work, but some times an old hand at cheating will buy
a pack with marks that require a “key” before they can be
deciphered.
 CHAPTER VII.
THE WORK OF THE “CAPPERS.”

Standing at the entrance to a prominent hotel on King street one

summer evening some years ago were two stylishly-dressed young
men, each with nobby canes, which they twirled carelessly as they
nonchalantly puffed away the smoke from their cheroots, gorgeous
jewelry and moustaches waxed out to a point as fine as a needle. To
the envious and hard-worked store clerk they appeared to be
gentlemen in looks, thoughts, actions, and living. To the detective,
who was watching them, they were known as miserable stool-
pigeons, “cappers” for a notorious gambling hell, situated in rear of
a King street building, on the lookout for victims. And it was these
vile, heartless scoundrels that caused George Reynott’s ruin. His
father was a well-to-do merchant in a country town near Guelph
who had sent George to the city to gain a metropolitan experience in
a wholesale dry goods house, but it would have been better had
George been satisfied to remain at home with his father in the town
where he was such a favorite. He was barely twenty-four years of
age, frank in manner and pleasing in address, with a temperament
not suited to withstand the temptations of city life. He came to the
city with a light heart, full of energy and with bright hopes for the
future. Now he is a broken down gambler, inebriate and burglar,
serving out a ten years’ term in Joliet prison, while his aged father
lies in a grave prepared for him by his son’s follies and crimes. The
writer knows not when the “cappers” first made George’s
acquaintance, but the detective states that he had seen the trio
together several times in saloons and billiard parlors, where they
occasionally played a five-cent game of “shell out.” Gradually George
became imbued with a desire to see more of the world, and his wily
companions, knowing that his father kept him well supplied with
money, gave impetus to this desire by relating surprising stories of
midnight escapades, card parties and champagne suppers. When the
poor deluded victim first commenced to handle the ivory chips is not
known, but in a very short time he became one of the most constant
visitors to the luxuriously furnished hell. His repeated requests for
money alarmed his father, and his frequent absences from work
annoyed his employers to such an extent that they finally wrote to
the father. The letter had its effect. Mr. Reynott came to the city, and
after a conversation with the wholesale firm consulted a detective,
who explained just how far George had gone.

THE SCENE BETWEEN FATHER AND SON

was a painful one, but it ended happily, the latter having promised
never to touch a card again. He meant at the time to keep his word,
but in less than a month the “cappers” regained their old influence
over him, and he became more fascinated than ever with gaming.
When he was unable to get more money from his father he pawned
his jewelry, until one night he took the second decided step in the
downward path. There were five seated at a table, George among
them, two being strangers, and the other two being regular “skins,”
when the writer entered the room, but they were so engrossed with
their play that they paid no attention to the visitor. It was draw
poker, twenty-five-cent ante and five dollars limit, and much to the
surprise of at least one person in the room, George was away
winner, having half a dozen stacks of chips in front of him, along
with a roll of bills and a pile of silver. His face was deeply flushed, his
eyes sparkled, and his whole frame quivered with the intense
excitement that consumed him, but when the “luck” commenced to
turn, and he saw his chips and bills gradually fading away, a ghastly
pallor spread over his face, driving back the gambler’s blood to his
heart. The “skins” had been utilizing a pack of “markers,” and in
order to rob the strangers had first dealt George the winners, so as
to more securely hide their villainy, and had then fleeced him at their
leisure. When the unhappy young man found himself completely
ruined, with his I.O.U. for $25 in the hands of one of the gamblers,
he was filled with a great remorse, and wept like the child he really
was. He felt that he must pay the debt of “honor” contracted over
the poker table or be

DISGRACED AMONG HIS “FRIENDS.”

And he did pay it, but at the expense of his honesty and his
employers. He stole goods from the store, pawned them to pay his
gambling debt, was found out, and would have been sent to jail but
for the respect the employers had for the father. After this exploit
the reckless young man went headlong to the devil. He became a
frequenter of the lowest gambling dens in the city, practised “skin”
games till he became as skilful as his old-time “cappers,” and his
passion for the card table became so strong that when he could find
no other game he would take a hand at “nigger loo” with the most
notorious colored gang in the city. By this time his stakes had
dwindled down from a $10 bet to one cent ante and fifty cents limit.
He needed the balance of his cash for whisky! Three months ago the
writer saw George Reynott making his way with “kindly curves” to a
gambling house on King street. Last week a dispatch announced that
he had been sent to Joliette prison for ten years for burglary.

Such is the brief history, and a true one it is, of a young man who,
but for those miserable scoundrels known as “cappers,” might have
become a respectable member of society. Nor is this a solitary case.
The gambling hells are nightly visited by young men well connected
and refined in manner, but they are unable to resist the fascination
of a game at poker. They play, and play high. They are on small
salaries; where do they get the money?
 CHAPTER VIII.
NIGGER LOO.

There are gamblers and gamblers, but in the expressed opinion of

his Worship they are all thieves. Some affect good manners, society,
and clothes, wear genuine diamonds, and claim for themselves the
credit of never taking part in a “crooked” transaction, either over the
table or away from it. They do not even openly associate with their
“cappers,” but leave these sneaks to do the dirty work, paying them
a small percentage of the winnings therefor. They follow the “circuit,”
attend all the race meetings on both sides of the line, and are looked
upon with favor by sporting men. They are lavish in their
expenditure and generous to a fault with each other on the street.
But alas for their good impulses! Every generous thought fades away
more completely than a misty dream when they face each other at
the poker table, and when they succeed in roping in a wealthy
“sucker,” they become night-hawks indeed, and swoop down on their
unsuspecting prey with a force and ferocity that cannot be resisted.
All thieves? Aye, cruel, heartless thieves.
There are other gamblers who affect—nothing. Too strongly in
love with whisky to have much money, they simply drift on and on
until the drunkard’s grave or a government prison affords them a
harbor of refuge. And yet, even these poor whisky-soaked half-
crazed wretches, who are not possessed of spirit enough to look an
honest man in the face, are thieves. They cannot play poker in the
“gentleman” gambler’s den, so they repair to the house of a colored
man and by their superior skill in manipulating the cards fleece their
darker-skinned, but not blacker-hearted brethren, out of the few
pieces of silver they succeed in earning during the day.
Yet it is hardly a step from the gambler’s palace to the drunken
crook’s den, and when the visitor passes in his tour of inspection
from one to the other no feeling of surprise comes over him. The
same kind of people are in attendance, are playing poker, and if they
have not pat hands lying on their laps it is because they keep them
concealed in their vests or down the back of their necks. You know
even a gambler is allowed to smooth his shirt-front or adjust his
collar when he wishes. The same kind of people, with faces a little
more bloated and blotched, perhaps, and the lines showing more
clearly the unmistakable

SIGNS OF DISSIPATION
and debauchery, but the very same kind of people. There is no place
in the world better adapted for the study of human nature than in
the poker room. So the reader may accompany a detective and the
writer to one of the most notorious “nigger dives” in the city. It is a
queer-looking attic about the size of a large cupboard, and is
illuminated in daylight by a four-pane window that commands a
picturesque view of outhouses and filthy yards. It is one of those
noisome chambers upon the very threshold of which a sensitive
person will probably recoil in natural disgust. The paper on the wall,
or what remains of it, is discolored and greasy, and the table, once a
light oak, has been blackened by the action of time and dirt, the
unbrushed sleeves of the gamesters, tobacco smoke, and beer
stains. There were five people, two white men and three “coons,”
seated at the table when the visitors managed to overcome their
first feeling of disgust, and enter the room. Phew! It was worse than
executing a search-warrant in a York street junk-shop. They were
playing poker, and paid no attention to the detective, when they
found he was not followed by a posse of police.
“It’s all right, Slick; only showing a friend of mine around a bit.”
“Good enough, boss; thought as you’se gwine to pull de ranch.
Make y’seff to hum.”
That being impossible in so small and filthy a hole, the visitors
squeezed themselves as near to the open window as possible, and
watched the game. It was evident at a glance that the white men
were proficients in the art of cheating, and that the “coons” knew
they were exercising their arts, but

THE FASCINATION THAT LED THEM

to the table kept them still in their seats. The deals go on, and as
piece after piece of silver crosses from the stakes of the blacks to
the whites, the silence becomes still more ominous, and the glitter of
three pairs of rolling black eyes becomes more dangerous. The first
coon deals the cards and all pass out, the next taking up the pack
with a like result. Coon No. 3 clumsily shuffles the pasteboards, but
does his “stacking” so poorly that every one gets on to his racket, to
use a gambler’s phrase, and passes out. Now comes a jack-pot,
where every one antes till the game is opened. The pack circulates
three times, and no one will open it, although the onlookers see a
pair of aces in one hand which disappear in a most mysterious
manner. The expression on the faces of the whites differs widely.
One is as cool as if he were engaged in a game of euchre for the
drinks; the lips of the other twitch nervously, his face is as pale as
the whisky blotches will allow it to be, and his eyes have a peculiar
shifting motion, as if he apprehended danger. But look at the coons!
Their wooly heads are pushed forward till their necks look as long as
a plumber’s bill, their protruding eyes are as stationary as a
fascinated gamester at a faro table, and their great flat nostrils are
dilated so as to almost engulph their mobile lips, from which no
sounds are issued. The pot is a large one for such a small game, and
when the imperturbable white leans over and calmly observes, “I’ll
open it for a dollar,” there is a dead silence, followed by a sudden
move on the part of the largest coon, who leaps to his feet, and with
flaming eyes, yells,
“No you don’t, honey; you squidged dose keerds.”
Every man makes a grab at the pile in the center of the table,
which is overturned with the lamp, and in the
 EGYPTIAN DARKNESS
that ensues a general fight occurs. The writer cannot say who got
hurt; he got his body out of danger by changing venue to the roof.
When he returned the crowd were equally dividing the money and
the imperturbable white was disgorging aces and kings from behind
his neck and out of his vest and sleeves.

If it were possible to confine gambling at cards to the professional

gamblers, there would be no cause for complaint, but as this is an
impossibility, the Police Commissioners should take steps to protect
young men who are first innocent victims and afterwards by their
experience become villainous cheats. It is a well-known fact that
poker is largely played in private houses and at some of the clubs,
but with these cases the police are powerless to deal, and it is only
public sentiment that will break them up. In some of the hotels, too,
rooms are set apart for card-playing, but as the Magistrate has
stated that, on a hotelkeeper being convicted of such an offence, he
will annul the liquor license, it is safe to conclude that the business is
not carried on on a very large scale. The Police Commissioners have
it in their power to keep many young men from being decoyed
headlong to destruction. Will they exert that power by arresting
these “cappers” and unscrupulous night-hawks as vagrants, if they
cannot catch them gambling, and give them a term of imprisonment
without a fine after the first conviction?
In conclusion it may be remarked that gambling is not the only
offence of the gambler against public morals. Many of them shun
drink, and only indulge in occasional excesses in this direction, but
all of them, without exception, are frequenters of immoral houses.
When a gambler makes a haul his first impulse is to repair to the
bagnio, where he finds creatures who will welcome him when he is
flush. The debasing nature of gaming is shown in the one fact that
the money won is largely spent in the indulgence of guilty pleasures.
 CHAPTER IX.
THE NIGHT POLICEMAN.

“Come along Teraulay street,” said a night policeman the other

night to me, “you may as well go that way to the office as any
other.” It was after one o’clock in the morning, it was a starless
night, our footsteps echoed strangely from the houses, millions of
unseen spirits were opening with noiseless fingers the swelling buds
of the horse-chestnuts over head, and, in short, the night policeman
by my side wanted to chat and thus pass some of the time away. I
was not slow in taking advantage of the humor he was in.
“I suppose you have some queer experiences patrolling through
the ward at night,” I put in as a starter.
“Indeed I have,” he replied as he adjusted his cape over his
shoulders, “yes indeed. You would hardly believe me if I told you
some of them. See here, Kate,” addressing a woman who was
slinking past in the shadows, “You had best get under cover
somewhere. If I see you again I’ll run you in, mind that.” The
woman scuttled away in the darkness, and the policeman, catching
step with me again, continued, “Yes, it’s a queer life we lead out in
the street at night, and it’s queer things we hear and it’s queer
people we see. Why, it’s not half an hour ago that I was seeing
down that street yonder when I heard a woman’s screams and cries
of murder. I could hear the sound of vicious blows, and was not long
in locating the house.
“The screams grew louder, and, drawing my baton, I made a rush
against the door and burst it open. As I entered the little hall the
light in a back room was put out. I struck a match, and going
through lit a lamp on the table. Well, sir, it was
 A QUEER SIGHT.
A woman was crouching on the floor in her nightdress. Her face was
swollen and bleeding, and there was a cut on her head. Her white
garment was spotted with blood, and she was groaning with pain. In
the corner stood her husband, a big, ugly fellow half dressed.
“What are you killing your wife for, Bill?” says I, “You’ll have to
come with me.”
“I never struck her,” says he.
“Indeed that’s true, sir,” said the woman, “I fell down the cellar
stairs in the dark.”
“But I heard you yelling murder outside.”
“Sir, you must have been mistaken, I never cried murder. Did I,
Bill. ’Pon my word, sor, it was by falling down the stairs I got hurt.”
“‘Show me the stairs,’ says I, and would you believe it, there isn’t
a cellar in the place, nor stairs neither!”
“Did you arrest him?”
“Naw! where would be the use? She would come up in the
morning and swear a hole through a brick wall that he never put a
hand on her, and where would I be?—I’d look like a fool, and I
would be reprimanded for bringing a case like that into court. Yes, I
left them there, and as I was goin’ out, what do you think but the
fellow followed me and threatened to have me before the
commissioners for breaking in his door. There are lots of scenes like
that, lots of ’em. Why I have heard the devil’s own ruction going on
in a house, and when I went in there they were all sitting among a
lot of broken furniture, as mum as mice and ready to swear that
they hadn’t opened their mouths to speak for twenty-four hours.”
“What about burglars?”
“I have had some queer experiences. Ha! ha! One moonlight night
I was pacing on my beat, when I saw a dark figure leap over a fence
that surrounded the handsome premises of a wealthy lawyer. I went
to the fence and looked over, but it was dark on the terrace and I
could see nothing. In a few minutes, however, I saw

THE DARK FIGURE OF A MAN

crawling stealthily along the veranda and enter through an open
window, and in a few minutes a faint light shone out. Fortunately I
could hear in the distance a footstep which I rightly judged was the
policeman on the other beat. I went up a block, called him, and the
two of us returned to the scene of operations. After consultation I
put my comrade to watch the window while I went round the house.
I found a room on the ground floor dimly lit. I tapped on the window
and in almost a moment I heard a man get out of bed and come to
the window. It was the man of the house. He recognized me at
once. I whispered to him that I had seen a man climbing through
one of his up-stair windows. He never said a word, but beckoned me
round to the front of the house and let me in. I told him what part of
the house it was in, and we went softly up stairs. We could hear no
noise nor did we meet anyone. We went in softly through a long
corridor, and descending three steps entered what I took to be the
servants’ quarters. Suddenly my companion touched me on the arm
and pointed to a strip of light under a door. We both came closer,
and could hear a whispering inside. I asked him if I would burst the
door, and he nodded. I drew back as far as I could, and then
launched myself with all my force against the door, which gave way
easily, and we both sprang into the room.”
“Did you catch the burglar?” I inquired, as the policeman started
to wipe his lips and look up at the sky.
“You bet we did. He was easy caught. In fact, he and the
housemaid were—well, this is a queer world.

SUCH A SCENE
I never saw. The girl wept, implored, prayed and finally went into a
fit. The “burglar” got down on his knees and begged for mercy, and
the lawyer stormed and swore and finally laughed. The whole house
was roused, and some of the women came in and cared for the
wretched girl.”
“Did you arrest the fellow?”
“No, the lawyer was satisfied with kicking the fellow into the
street, and bundling the girl after him on the next morning, and that
was the whole of it. It turned out that he had been in the habit of
visiting her in this way for months, and he would not have been
caught that time had it not been for the bright moonlight. He might
have known better, but when a fellow makes up his mind to see his
girl he will undergo any risk no matter what it is. I often meet him,
and he looks mighty sheepish, I can tell you. See that high door-
step?”
“Which, this one?” “Yes.”
“Well, one frightfully cold night last winter I sat down on that
door-step a moment to make an entry in my book. I had hardly
seated myself when

I THOUGHT I HEARD BREATHING.

I was puzzled for a moment, and looked all around, but couldn’t
make out where the sound came from. Finally I decided it was under
the door-step. I got down, reached under and pulled out two little
children, a boy and a girl, half naked and nearly frozen. I took them
to the station, where we thawed them out and saved their lives.
They had been put out half-dressed by their drunken step-father, the
poor little things had crept under the door-step for shelter, and if I
had not found them when I did they would have been frozen to
death as sure as fate. See that lane?”
“Yes.”
 “Caught a burglar in there in great shape. I was coming along
very quietly one night when I ran against a fellow coming out of the
lane. He made some excuse and hurried away as quick as he could,
and after he got some distance he gave a loud and peculiar whistle.
I felt that something was wrong, and went down the lane a little
piece to where there was a high board fence. Some one called out,
‘Are you there Flight?’ I answered ‘yes,’ and then he said ‘look out
and catch,’ and the next moment he threw a bundle of stuff over the
fence, and it fell right into my arms. He threw over another bundle,
and then he climbed over himself, when I collared him. He was the
most surprised burglar you ever saw. I took both him and the
bundles to the station, and he got two years. I never found out who
the other fellow was, but he was no good anyhow, or he would have
risked himself to warn his mate in some fashion.
“Yes,” said the policeman, as he went softly up a couple of steps,
tried a door, and then resumed his walk. “We have some mighty
unpleasant experiences. ‘Pulling a house,’ as they call it, is not to my
taste, but we’ve got to do it, all the same. We never know anything
about it till we are paraded at twelve o’clock and marched away in a
body. The house to be raided is then surrounded, men being placed
in the rear and at all points of exit, the rest accompanying the
sergeant into the house. Sometimes there is a great hullabaloo, but
generally they keep mighty quiet. The last house I helped to raid
was on ⸺ street. It was a mighty cold night, and they had no
suspicion of what was going to happen. The house was pretty full
and so were the inmates, and they were dancing and raising
particular Cain. When the sergeant rang the bell they didn’t stop, but
after the woman of the house had peeped out and seen the police
she gave one yell, and that settled it. We pushed in, and could see
them dashing up stairs and flying for the rear of the house on all
sides. One young fellow took it quite philosophically, lighting a fresh
cigar and awaiting further developments. Those who ran out the
back way were netted easily, and were brought back looking mighty
crestfallen. None of the girls tried the escape dodge—they simply
broke for their rooms to secure their valuables. Two who had never
been arrested before set up a most lugubrious howling. They threw
themselves down on the floor, tore their hair, and cut up bad.
Another girl swore a steady stream of oaths for half an hour, while
the rest cut jokes with us to cover their chagrin. The sergeant found
one man under the bed. He hauled him out by the heels, and the
expression on that fellow’s face when the sergeant yanked him to his
feet by the collar, would make a dog laugh. Another fellow had been
hid his girl in a narrow closet, and when found he was bleeding at
the nose. In a little while he would have been smothered. It was
rather a queer procession back to the station. Some of them were
singing, others crying, while the rest of them were swearing like
dock-wollopers.”

A CUTE GIRL.
“One morning about two o’clock I was pacing my beat in a
neighborhood where a large number of wealthy people resided. All
at once I saw a female figure coming swiftly towards me, and when
she reached me she proved to be a young and very handsome girl.
She was all out of breath and greatly excited. She could hardly
speak for a moment, and then she gasped out that some one had
broken into her house and was raising a disturbance. ‘He threatened
to kill me, sir; come along and arrest him.’ I never hesitated to go
with the woman, and I started off. She took me away three or four
blocks, and brought me into a house where a dim light was burning.
There were a few dishes smashed on the floor, and some of the
furniture was overturned, but that was all. We searched the house
and the premises, but could find nobody, and after wasting about an
hour I returned to my beat. Would you believe it? Two of them
houses had been burglarized during my absence, and over $3,000
worth of stuff carried off.”
“And the woman—?”
“The woman steered me away from the spot while they went for
the swag—you bet I’m not fooled like that again.”
 “Did you have her arrested?”
“Pooh! what good would that do, man? She would have stuck to
her story, and that would settle it. There would be simply a suspicion
that her little yarn to me that night was made up, but no jury or
magistrate would convict her.”

THE FINDERS.
“Hullo!” said my policeman friend as he glanced across at a house
where a light suddenly appeared in one of the windows, “the finders
are getting up.”
“Finders; what are finders?” I inquired.
“It’s no wonder you ask the question. It’s astonishing the different
ways that some people do make their living in this city. A finder is a
man who makes his living by finding things.”
“Go on.”
“The finders are chiefly colored people, living in the Ward. They
sally out just at daybreak, and dividing up into squads, slowly patrol
Yonge, King and Queen streets on both sides. As they stroll along
they carefully scrutinize the sidewalks, alley entrances, door ways
and the gutter in search of lost articles, money, etc.”
“I wouldn’t think they would make much at that kind of work?”
“Yes, but they do. You have no idea of the amount of things lost
on these streets at night. A drunken man may sprawl into the gutter
and lose his watch, purse or some other valuable. He gathers
himself up and goes on. In the dark the article is not noticed, but
the first break of dawn reveals it to the professional finder. A
drunken man may stumble into an alley and lose his hat, the
professional finder gets it at daylight. Thieves arrested on the streets
often stealthily throw valuables they have stolen into the gutter, and
there they are sure to become the prey of the finder. A thief being
pursued will throw away his revolver that would tell against him and
the finder gets it in the morning. Oh, I tell you they sometimes come
home with quite a boodle, and no one can say but they get it honest
enough.
“Strange things occur on the streets, and some robberies have
their funny side. One night a couple of crooks met a lawyer from a
country town not a thousand miles from Toronto, very drunk in
Osgoode lane. He was sitting down on a heap of stones, and wasn’t
able to get on his feet. He implored them to take him where he
could sleep. They took him up the lane a piece and then told him
that he was in their room, and that he was to undress and get into
bed. He with many protestations of gratitude prepared himself for
rest, and his two friends bidding him good-night, and hoping that he
would sleep well, and further promising to call him early, walked off
with his hat, clothes, and boots, which were found in a pawn-shop
next morning, where they had got $2 on them. The stranger
wandered around till a good-natured laborer going early to work
discovered him and took him into his house. The lawyer repaid him
well for it afterwards. I know the fellows who did the deed, but they
were never arrested, as the lawyer did not wish it, and by the way
he has never drank a drop of liquor since.”
 CHAPTER X.
THE SERVANT GIRL’S “FELLER”

The millionaire and the shivering beggar at his gates may differ in
every other respect, but they have one feeling in common. Both
desire to live, and to live one must eat. The most important concern
of mankind, then, is to get something to eat. It is open to all to
secure this desideratum by labor of one kind or another. Men choose
different avocations to this end. One goes down in a drain at 7
o’clock in the morning and throws dirt till six at night, and gets a
dollar and a quarter for it. Another creeps down to a store in the
dark and silent hours of the morning, and by the aid of a jimmey
and a bit and brace secures a sum varying in amount from a few
dollars up to several thousands. These are representatives of two
great classes in the community—the toilers of the day and the
prowlers of the night. There are all degrees of prosperity in the
ranks of the former and all depths of vileness and degradation in
those of the latter. During the day they are distinctly apart. The
banker, the lawyer, and the shop-man pass the gambler and the
procuress on the streets and know them not. But when night
assumes his dim dominion over the world smug respectability may
be seen watching with bated breath

THE RATTLING OF THE DICE

upon the table or dallying with sin in the by-ways of the city.
Thus they sometimes mingle, surreptitiously and fearfully.
The night hawks! They are to be found in every great city. They
are the excrescences of civilization. In cities of great population they
are a constant menace to the public peace. Toronto is, perhaps, no
worse or no better in this respect than other cities of equal
population. That we have a sufficient number of these birds of
darkness the police assert, and the newspaper man, whose duties
take him occasionally to their haunts, knows. They are a strange
race with a terrible philosophy.
“Why don’t you brace up?” was asked of a young man who looked
pretty miserable in the early morning. He was evidently suffering
from the effects of his last night’s orgies.
“I wish somebody would give me a chance to brace up,” was the
answer given, with a weary smile. “I know a nice bar where we
could both brace up.”
“Well, now, joking aside, you know your present life is killing you.
You are still a young man; you have a good trade. Why don’t you get
to work and avoid all this trouble. Compare yourself with that young
fellow on the other side of the street with his dinner can. His eye is
clear; his tongue is clean and his lips are moist. Are yours?”
“That’s very well put, but that story has got two sides. I’m feelin’ a
little tough now; but by noon I wouldn’t change places with
Vanderbilt. Ten minutes after I get my first rye I’ll be in as good
shape as the coon with the dinner-pail; then he’ll have to sweat and
work all day while I lay off beside a cool keg of lager or other choice
stimilants. You can’t preach to me about

THE ADVANTAGES OF HONEST LABOR.

I have tried it. You work nine hours a day and get spoken to like a
dog. For this you get three meals a day and a bunk to sleep in at
night. Your first meal you haven’t time to eat, the second is cold and
tastes of the tin pail in which it is carried, and the third is a mess
made up of what was left by your boardin’-house missus and her
youngsters at their last meal. I tell you I may not get my meals
reg’lar, but they’re daisies when I do.”
 It was hard to decide what to say to talk like this. It was
suggested, however, that in one plan of existence there was a
prospect of long life and the respect of your fellowmen; in the other
there was simply death and disgrace.
“Respect be d⸺d. The kind of respect a man gets who has no
money is not worth much. If I cracked a bank safe, and snaked a
million dollars out of it, I’d get all the respect from my neighbors
that any man gets. As for long life, I wouldn’t want to live long if I
had to work 60 hours a week for the pleasure of eating three poor
meals a day.”
This, or something similar, is the philosophy of the hawks. It is
summed up in the phrase “a short life and a merry one.” It is a rule
of life which makes a man, presumably civilized, more dangerous
than a savage. He has the instincts of the savage combined with
more knowledge and power for evil. It is a philosophy which every
right-thinking man should do his little all to combat. It aims at the
foundations of society, and if its falsity could be made apparent in
words of fire, the human family would be a gainer thereby.
It is surely not making too bold an assertion to say that the most
hardened enemy of society was

ONCE A GUILELESS CHILD.

He or she must have at some particular time taken his or her first
step on the road to infamy. Some particular form of allurement must
have caught the youthful eye and dazzled the foolish brain. What are
these allurements? Can our youth be made to recognize them and
see whereunto they lead? We think they can. It would be well to
show that the roses of sin bear fearful thorns, that the fruits of mere
worldly pleasure turn to bitter ashes on the lips. The series of
articles which are being published in these columns have this end in
view. By showing how the vicious live we expect to show that the
person who chooses to tread the way of vice will find it broad
enough in all conscience with a-plenty of wayfarers in it, but he will
also find that the thorns and cruel stones increase with each mile,
until its final pages are trodden with bleeding feet and washed with
unavailing tears. It can be shown, we think, that all the vicious
classes simmer down at last to the same shuffling, shambling level.
The young gambler, his tailor’s pride, degenerates into the sniveling
aged tramp, who in fluttering rags begs for a crust of bread at the
poorhouse door, or else his elegant limbs wear penitential uniform
behind the prison bars. The descent of the wicked woman is still
more awful, still more shocking.
In these sketches our readers may hope, not for cooked reports to
support any particular view of life and its relations, but for actual
facts witnessed by our own staff, or else the views of people having
knowledge or experience of the things whereof they speak. It is
better in these things to speak so plainly that everybody may see
where the disease lies, and thereby form a better idea of how a
remedy may be applied.
 CHAPTER XI.
ALL NIGHT IN THE CELLS.

The numerous police stations of the city, and especially the

Central station are on account of the news and incidents which
surround them, favorite fishing grounds for the reporters. There is
scarcely an hour of the day or night, that a reporter alert, watchful
and ever ready for business, may not be found in the Central station
ready to pick up the slightest item of news and bear it in all haste to
the paper he represents. The reporters know the working of each
station almost as well as the officer on duty. I was standing one
night on the corner of Jordan and King streets when I observed four
young men coming from the direction of Bay street. They were all
more or less intoxicated, but one of them, a young man whom I
knew well and who I was aware seldom touched liquor was the
drunkest of the lot. He was quarrelsome and very noisy, and it was
not long before I saw the dark figures of two policemen crossing
from the corner of King and Yonge towards the group. One of them
expostulated with the young man, but he became indignant, then
abusive, and was finally arrested and taken to No. 1 station. I
followed the party, and when we entered the inspector’s office I
could see by the bewildered look in the unfortunate young man’s
eyes that he had never been there before. He was led to the railing
round the inspector’s desk, and that officer studied him coolly for a
moment through the little wicket, and then demanded his name. The
young man gave it mechanically, and in the same way told the place
of his birth, his age, religion and employment. Then the orderly on
duty went through his pockets, took from him his knife, watch and
chain, money, papers, pipe and tobacco, and other articles, and then
with a gruff “Come on, here,” led him down. His arrest, his march
through the gaping crowd in the brightly lit streets, his search
upstairs, the subdued remarks of the police on duty, and the bitter
clang of the iron door behind him had evidently sobered him. His
heart is like water in him, and he feels his blood course chilly in his
veins as he stands aghast, gazing about him in the strange place.
The concrete floor, the row of iron doors, and oh, horror! worse than
all, the battered old drunk, who comes reeling towards him with a
“Hello, old feller, you in too? Shake!” fills him with a convulsive
dread, a nameless terror that sets the cold sweat oozing from every
pore in his clammy skin.
He shrinks from the repugnant old drunk with a shiver of loathing
and flings himself down on a bench in a paroxysm of bitter tears.
Yes, weep poor wretch! Down on your knees—down on your knees
in this foul place and float your prayers to heaven. You are a young
man yet, yours may not be unavailing tears, the best years of your
life are before you—down on your knees!
The old drunk comes stumbling forward. “Wash yer cryin’ for?
Brash up, brash up—it’s all in a life time, look at me.” Yes, look at
him! He’s a dandy! His face is gray with drink, there are blood lines
in the yellowish white of his dim, dry eyes, his beard and hair
unkempt, his clothes muddy and tattered, and his shoes all broken.
But the miserable old creature means well with the youth. “Brash up
I shay, the world owes ush a living, an’ we’re goin’ through the world
for the lash time.”
Going through the world for the last time! Ah!
The young man leaps to his feet with a fresh sensation of horror.
What means that sound of struggling on the stairway—those fearful
curses and frenzied cries of helpless rage that make his muscles
quiver? The officers are dragging a fresh victim to the cells. He
struggles with his captors every inch of the way. The door is flung
violently open, and the wretch is thrown into the room. Is this a man
or a lower species of beast? Its face is covered with blood, its
matted hair stands stiff about its head, its eyes flash fire, and its
covering is in tatters. The police drag it to a cell, shut it in, lock it up,
and then, flushed and panting, stand looking in at it with an
expression on their faces that we might expect to see on that of a
hunter who had meshed a lion. Yes, it is a man—no other animal can
curse. He springs to his feet with a hoarse roar, and taking the bars
in his hands, shakes the gate with the strength of a maniac. He
paces up and down his narrow cell, uttering wild cries of vengeance,
till at last he falls upon his bench exhausted, and his labored
breathing tells that he is asleep. More drunks! all noisy, all battered.
One of them wants to embrace the young man, who springs from
him with a cry of downright fear. Then the affectionate drunk
becomes indifferent and wants to thump him, but, fortunately, he is
too drunk to carry it out. The door opens, and a man comes in
quietly this time. His hat is pulled down over his evil eyes and as he
slinks to a corner “common thief” is marked on every inch of him.
The affectionate drunk wants to embrace him also, but the thief
rises with a growl and threatens to hit him a crack on the nose if he
doesn’t go and lie down and give him a rest. The door opens again,
and a fashionably-dressed gambler comes in, whose last word to the
officer at the door is to “Send for Tommy; he’ll bail me out.” The
affectionate drunk stands in awe of the newcomer’s good clothes,
and the thief, with a side glance at his stylish pin, shrugs his
shoulders, pulls his slouch hat further down over his eyes, and
settles himself for a sleep. The gambler goes into an open cell and
lies down, but I the young man paces the room with clenched hands
and fevered heart. And so the weary night wears on, and as the gray
morning touches the windows with its cool fingers one by one the
drunks rouse themselves from their sleep and shuffle over to the
water tap to quench the burning thirst that consumes their throats.
Even these wretches can joke in their misery.
“That was a surprise party to your stomach, I bet,” says one, as
he watches another take his first eager gulp of water, which fairly
turns to steam as it goes hissing down his fevered throat.
“Wouldn’t a big John Collins go good now, eh?”
“Or a brandy and soda, yum, yum!”
 “Water’s a good thing to wash with,” says another boozer, as he
lays down the cup and shakes his head, “but it’s no good to drink,
not much.”
Then they get sympathetic and friendly.
“What do you expect to get?” says one.
“Oh, sixty days this crack, nothing less.”
“Been up before?”
“Have I? Humph! The old man’ll spot me as soon as I get into the
bull-pen.”
“What kind ov a police magistrate have yez in this blasted town?”
asks a boozer from the bench.
They all look at him admiringly, enviously.
“Never up before?”
“Never struck the darn town in my life till last night, and betcher
life I’ll git outen it, too, as soon as I git out o’ jail.”
“You’ll git off on yer fust offence,” chorus the rest, and they look
upon him as a company of paupers would look on one of their
number who had been left a legacy. By this time the sun fills the
streets, the tide of life roars past, and the group of wretches await
the peal in St. James’ steeple announcing a quarter to ten.
 CHAPTER XII.
THE POLICE COURT.

My experience as a police court reporter is considerable, and in

this sketch I propose to give the readers of The News a sketch of the
Magistrate’s morning levee, in which those of the night who hawks
come to grief during the hours of darkness appear to explain their
shortcomings.
In the first place a description of the surroundings of the Police
Court might, and doubtless will, be of interest to those who have
neither the opportunity nor the inclination to visit the place and
inspect it for themselves. The court room is not unlike court rooms
all over the world. There is the raised dais for the presiding
magistrate, there is the little pen in front and immediately below it
for the clerk of the court. There is the table in front of that for the
lawyers, the table for the reporters, the prisoners’ dock facing the
magistrate, and the railing through the center of the room to keep
back the great unwashed. To the right of and below the magistrate,
behind a little screened desk, sits the deputy-chief or the inspector
on duty, with the prisoners’ docket before him. And that is about all.
The court opens with the regularity of clock-work at ten a.m.
precisely, but the doors are unlocked at about half-past nine. Shortly
afterwards

THE REGULAR HABITUES

of the court begin to arrive. People slip in by degrees and take their
seats in that portion of the room reserved for the public. Here comes
a poor, pale-faced woman, meanly clad and sick-looking, who with
her thin, trembling hand vainly tries to conceal the mark over her
eye dealt by her husband’s brutal fist. She has come to appear
against him. There, as she sits nursing her griefs and wrongs, she
unconsciously falls into that swaying motion peculiar to a woman
who is nursing her child to sleep. Here comes a middle-aged man,
whose hairs are already white, and whose face is seamed with lines.
The sorrow and shame that he feels does not obliterate the
expression of stern justice on his face. He has come to see what can
be done for his rascal of a son who is charged with burglary. He
would not have come of his own accord, he would have let justice
take its course, but the cries and moanings of the nearly-crazed wife
and mother, whom he has left at home, has driven him here. He has
come for her poor sake. Here comes a plainly dressed and modest
looking girl, who is sueing for her wages that she earned in the
mean kitchen of some meaner man. The quarter to ten rings out
and as Micky Free’s father would say “now the pop’lace” comes
pouring in. They have been feasting their eyes on the Black Maria,
which has just discharged its contents into the station below. They
are white, speckled, saddle-colored and black. They are well and
poorly dressed.

ALL OF THEM ARE UNSAVORY.

Meanwhile a more interesting class of habitues are fast arriving. The
deputy chief walks in with a dignified mien with his docket under his
arm, lays it on his little table, opens it, scrutinizes it, makes an
alteration here and there, and then sits down. A few lawyers come
through a side door in a great hurry, fling their bags down on the
table, glance at the clock, look very much relieved, give the crowd
behind the rail a sharp, shrewd glance which takes them in one and
all, even to the gurgling baby in the arms of that woman with the
wet red mouth and the big moist eye. The reporters come rushing
in, glance over the docket, nod to the lawyers, whisper with a
policeman, fling their paper on the table, borrow somebody’s knife
and set about industriously sharpening their pencils. A couple of
sergeants from the other stations arrive and consult with the deputy-
chief. Three or four detectives come in briskly and confer with them.
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