Read Ebook: You can't win by Black Jack Herrick Robert Author Of Introduction Etc

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Ebook has 1902 lines and 121221 words, and 39 pages

One day when I was waiting for the mail I heard a nice old lady ask the postmaster whose boy I was.

He said, "That's one of the boys from the convent. You can tell them a block away. They are all perfect little gentlemen. They say 'Please' and 'Thank you.' I do not know how the Sisters do it, but they can surely bring boys up. I wish I could do it with mine."

When I returned with the mail I told the Superior what I heard the postmaster say about her and her boys. She seemed very much pleased, smiled, and said: "Boys are good when they are taught to say their prayers and to fear God." Shortly after, I was appointed "mailman." I went to the village every day after school. When the weather was fine I walked; if it was bad, I rode in or on the coach with Tommy. This was the first and only "appointment" of my life. I did not think it over then, but I know now I was not given it because I said "please" or my prayers--I got it because I had told the Superior the nice things the postmaster said. "Please" is a good word in its place; but it does not get one appointed to anything. It has a proper place in a small boy's vocabulary. And it is also much used by a certain class of prisoners and supplicants who are always "pleasing" somebody and are never pleasant to anybody.

Your capable beggar on the street does not say "please." He rips off his spiel in such exact and precise language that he gets your dime without it. You so admire his "art" that you do not miss the "please." His is an art. He omits the "please" because he knows you do not use it except when you want the mustard.

Looking back, it seems to me that our life in the convent was not properly balanced. We had none of the rough, boisterous times so dear to the small boy, no swimming, baseball, football. We were a little too cloistered, too quiet, too subdued. There was no wrestling, no boxing, no running and jumping and squabbling and shuffling and shouldering about. Of course I learned all those later. But I learned them quickly, too quickly--all in a bunch. That put me out of balance again. Those exercises should have been mixed in with my studies and prayers.

One stormy day I came out of the post office and as usual handed up the paper to Tommy, whose habit it was to glance at the headlines and return it to me. This day, however, he found something that interested him. He put the horses' lines between his legs and crossed his knees on them. I sat beside him on the box and shivered in the wind. He read on and on, column after column, then turned to an inner page, fighting the paper in the wind.

At last, and it seemed an hour, he folded it up carefully and returned it to me. "Good news to-day, Tommy?" "No, boy, no good news. Bad news, awful news, terrible news." He spoke in an awed voice, a voice that carried reverence. "Terrible news --Jesse James has been murdered, murdered in cold blood and by a traitor."

He fell silent and spoke to me no more that day. Later he told me many things about Jesse James. He worshiped him, and like many other good people of Missouri firmly believed that neither of the James boys ever fired a shot except in defense of their rights.

I delivered the mail and hastened to tell the other boys that Jesse James was dead, "murdered." Many of the older boys knew all about him--he was their hero, too--and the things they told me made me decide to get the paper and read his story myself. The next day, strangely enough, I passed the Superior's office when she was out to lunch. The paper was folded neatly, lying on some older papers on the corner of her neat desk. I walked in and took it. I put it away carefully, but many days passed before I got to the reading of it. I was so occupied with my duties as altar boy, and so busy with preparing for my first communion and learning new prayers, that the James boys and all other worldly things had no place in my mind.

Those were intense days. I lived in another world.

At last I found time to read my paper. On my way for the mail I slowly dug out the story of Jesse James' life and death, word by word. How I studied the picture of this bearded and be-pistoled hero! And the sketches of his shooting and the house in which it was done. Then came the story of his bereaved mother. How my boyish sympathy went out to her, as she wept for her loss and told the story of the lifelong persecution of her boys, Jesse and Frank, and how she feared that the hunted fugitive, Frank James, would also be dealt with in the same traitorous fashion. How I loathed the traitor, Bob Ford, one of the James boys gang, who shot Jesse when his back was turned, for a reward! How I rejoiced to read that Ford was almost lynched by friends and admirers of Jesse, and had to be locked in the strongest jail in the state to protect him from a mobbing. I finished the story entirely and wholly in sympathy with the James boys, and all other hunted, outlawed, and outraged men.

When I had done with the paper I passed it along to the other boys, who read it and handed it about till it was finally captured by the Superior. It was limp and ragged from usage. The Superior promptly traced it back to me. When asked where I got it, I told her I had taken it from her desk. I was lectured severely on the wrong of taking things without asking for them. I told her I did not ask for it because I was afraid she might refuse me. She said nothing, and did not offer to give me any, from which I understood that we were not to have papers. I was also relieved of my job as mailman. I was no longer to be trusted.

My teacher heard of my disgrace. She took me into her study, and we talked the thing over. The loss of my job was nothing; I would be going home soon, anyway. I must not feel bad about the lecture, I had done nothing wrong. I would have returned the paper, only the other boys wanted to read it. I discovered that she looked at it the same way I did.

She asked me if I wanted more papers. I was on fire for papers and told her so. She promised to get me one every day, and did. When I read it I returned it to her.

The James boys' story ran on for days and I followed it word for word, sympathizing with the hunted fugitive, Frank, wishing I were old enough and strong enough to find him and help him escape his pursuers and avenge his brother's death.

When that story was over I turned to other crime stories and read nothing else in the papers. Burglaries, robberies, murders--I devoured them all, always in sympathy with the adventurous and chance-taking criminals. I reconstructed their crimes in my boyish mind and often pictured myself taking part in them. I neglected my studies and prayers to rove about in fancy with such heroes as Jimmy Hope, Max Shinburn, and "Piano Charlie," famous "gopher men," who tunneled under banks like gophers and carried away their plunder after months of dangerous endeavor.

Looking back now I can plainly see the influence the James boys and similar characters had in turning my thoughts to adventure and later to crime.

At last the day came for me to go home, for I had passed my fourteenth birthday and was too old to stay at the Sisters' School.

I wanted to kiss my favorite teacher good-by, but didn't quite dare do it. So I rode down to the station with Tommy, who bought me a fifty-cent knife, out of his salary, only twelve dollars a month, and went away to join my father.

Father took me back to the same hotel, to the same room. He had occupied it during the three years I had been away, and the only change was that he put a small bed in it for me. Everything was new and strange to me. Men coming and going all day, eating and drinking. Everything was noise and bustle, and it took me a few days to get used to this new life.

I found lots of papers lying around--some cheap novels, Police Gazettes, etc.--and I read them all, everything I could get hold of. I saw my father only at night, and occasionally we would take a walk then for an hour.

One evening as we were returning from our walk, we came upon a man whose team of horses was stalled in a mud hole. He was beating the horses, and cursing them with the most fearful oaths. I stopped still in my tracks and began praying for him. Father looked back, saw me standing still, and said: "What are you doing, John, listening to that mule skinner swear?"

I finished my prayer and caught up with him.

"You will learn to swear soon enough, John, without stopping to listen to these teamsters," he said a little severely.

In self-defense I told him I was not listening to the man, but praying for him. "The Sisters taught us to do that," I said. "They taught us to pray for all sinners."

Father wore a long beard, the custom of his day. When he was very thoughtful or vexed with some problem, he had a habit of twisting up the end of his beard into a pigtail. He would then put the pigtail between his teeth and chew on it.

After I explained what I had been doing, he looked at me strangely, twisted up his beard, put the end in his mouth, and began chewing. He took my hand, something he never did before, and we walked home in silence. He went straight upstairs, and I found some fresh papers, which I read downstairs. When I went up to go to bed he was sitting in his chair, staring at the wall and still chewing his beard. My coming aroused him. He said, "Good night, John," and we went to bed.

The next evening he came in as usual. He read his paper and I read whatever came to my hand. When we went upstairs, he said: "John, the Sisters taught you many prayers, did they?" "Yes, sir, all the prayers. I know them all," I said proudly.

"How about reading?" he asked. I read him a piece from a newspaper fairly well.

"And writing, John? Yes, I know you learned to write and spell. Your letters to me were very good. How's your arithmetic, John? How many are eight times nine, John?"

I was stuck. I hesitated and blushed. He saw my confusion and gave me an easier one. "Seven times six, John?"

I was stuck again and got more confused. "Start at the beginning, John, maybe you can get it that way."

I started at seven times one, got as far as seven times four, and fell down. This was torture. I think he saw it, too, for he said, "Oh, well, John, that will come to you later. Don't worry about it; just keep on trying."

He was a sharp at mathematics, and I think my failure to learn multiplication hurt him more than if he had caught me spelling bird with a "u," or sugar with two "gs." After a month of idleness it was decided that I should go to the district school, which had been built in our town while I was at the Sisters'. I got a new set of books and started bravely off.

We had a woman teacher, very strict, but fair to us all. I learned rapidly everything but arithmetic, which did not seem to agree with me, nor does it yet, for that matter. I also learned to play ball, football, marbles, and, I must admit, hooky, the most fascinating of all small-boy games. These new games, and so many other interesting new things, soon crowded the prayers into the background of my mind, but not entirely out of it. I said them no more at night and morning, nor any other time. But I still remember them, and I believe now, after forty prayerless years, I could muster a passable prayer if the occasion required it and there were not so many people about who could do it so much better.

After school, having no chores to do, I loitered around the hotel office. One day I found a dime novel entitled, "The James Boys." I seized upon it and devoured it. After that I was always on the lookout for dime novels. I found a place where they were sold. I would buy one and trade with some other boy when it was read. If I could not trade it, I took it back to the store and the woman gave me a five-cent one for it. The nickel one was just as thrilling, but shorter. I read them all. "Old Sleuth," "Cap Collier," "Frank Reade," "Kit Carson." Father saw me with them, but never bothered me. One day he brought me one of Fenimore Cooper's Leatherstocking tales. I read it and was cured of the five- and ten-cent novels.

Between going to school and to the depot in the evening to see the train come in, and hanging around the hotel bar watching the town's celebrated ones, especially the "bad men" who had killed or shot somebody somewhere some time, I put in fairly busy days. The time flew.

I got to be quite looked up to by the other boys of my age. I "lived at the hotel," had "nobody to boss me around," didn't have to "run errands and chop kindling and go after the groceries and carry milk." When a new boy showed up, I was the one to show him around. I remember distinctly, now, that in less than a year after I left the Sisters, I was going down the street with a new boy when we came upon one of the town drunkards and bad men. I pointed him out with pride. "See that old fellow? That's old Beverly Shannon. He's been out to Leadville. He killed a man out there and nearly got hung. You ought to hear him swear when he gets drunk and falls down and nobody will help him up."

"Lord, Lord," she said, "are those awful things here yet? I thought they had been thrown away years ago. Johnnie, take them out and bury them somewhere. Throw them away so I will never see them again."

These two old pistols made me feel important, established. I began to look about me. It was time I began to be somebody. My latest hero was the man that kept the bar in the hotel. He owned the building, leased the hotel, and ran the bar himself. He was a fat man, and he wore a fancy striped vest with a heavy gold watch chain across it and a twenty-dollar gold piece dangled from the chain for a charm. He had been out to California. It was the only twenty-dollar piece in the town. He was a small politician, the town fixer. When anybody got into any trouble and had to go before the justice of the peace, he went down to the hotel and saw "Cy" Near. Cy would say, "Leave it to me, that's all, leave it to me." When it was all over the fellow would come down to "Cy's" and order drinks for everybody in sight, several times. Then he would say, "What do I owe you, Cy?"

"Owe me? Owe me for what?"

"Why, you know, Cy, for fixing up that little trouble."

"Oh, that's what you mean. Say, you don't owe me a thin dime, not a greasy nickel." Cy would wave a fat arm in the air. "I don't take money for helping my friends. I sell licker, good licker; that's my business."

The chap would buy a few more rounds of drinks, thank Cy again, and start for the door. Cy would shout, "Hey, George, I forgot to tell you. I'm rafflin' off a hoss an' buggy and you'd better take a half dozen tickets. You stand to win a good rig."

Around election time Cy would round up all the fellows he could, remind them that he had befriended them, and say, "What do we care who's President of the United States? What we want is a decent justice of the peace and town marshal."

I decided to pattern my life after Cy's. He was a popular, successful man. I began swinging my arms about, talking in a loud, hoarse voice, wearing my hat on the back of my head. Cy smoked big cigars. I tried one, and gave up the notion of smoking, at least for a while.

It was not long till my fancy for the saloon keeper changed. One evening when the train came in a single traveler got off. He was a tall, lean man, who walked like a soldier, erect and with a confident step. He had a short, stubby, gray mustache. He wore a gray suit, a gray hat, and held a pair of gloves in his hand. He walked quickly toward the front of the train and waited by the baggage car till a trunk was tossed out. An express man near by was told to take the trunk over to the hotel.

I followed the gray man to the hotel. Presently the trunk was left in front and I went to inspect it. It was a leather trunk, with brass fittings, plastered over with stickers from many hotels and steamship lines. It was scratched and battered and travel-stained. The thing fascinated me. I stood around and felt it, read the stickers, some of them from foreign parts of the world, and wondered what kind of man he could be that possessed such a wonderful trunk.

I was restless and disturbed when the porter took it upstairs out of my sight. It had roused strange thoughts and longings in my mind that I did not understand then. I know now that it suggested travel, adventure by land and sea--the world.

I now pulled my hat down from the back of my head and wore it properly. I straightened up, kept my hands out of my pockets, walked with a quick step, and assumed a confident, positive manner. I even began to think about a mustache, bristly, cut down like the gray man's. I must have a gray suit, gray hat, gloves, and a leather trunk. A big problem for a boy with no income.

I determined to earn some money and looked about for after-school work. After my father, I thought the saloon man, Cy, was the wisest man in our town. For some reason which I never could figure out, I did not submit the matter to my father, but went to the saloon man. Maybe it was because he was easier to talk to. We went over the situation carefully. There was no job in sight that either of us could think of. At last Cy said, "Well, if you're so crazy about a job, I'll make one for you."

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