THE COMING-OUT OF MAGGIE

Every Saturday night the Clover Leaf Social Club gave a hop in the

hall of the Give and Take Athletic Association on the East Side. In

order to attend one of these dances you must be a member of the Give

and Take--or, if you belong to the division that starts off with the

right foot in waltzing, you must work in Rhinegold's paper-box

factory. Still, any Clover Leaf was privileged to escort or be

escorted by an outsider to a single dance. But mostly each Give and

Take brought the paper-box girl that he affected; and few strangers

could boast of having shaken a foot at the regular hops.

Maggie Toole, on account of her dull eyes, broad mouth and left-handed

style of footwork in the two-step, went to the dances with Anna McCarty

and her "fellow." Anna and Maggie worked side by side in the factory,

and were the greatest chums ever. So Anna always made Jimmy Burns take

her by Maggie's house every Saturday night so that her friend could go

to the dance with them.

The Give and Take Athletic Association lived up to its name. The hall

of the association in Orchard street was fitted out with muscle-making

inventions. With the fibres thus builded up the members were wont to

engage the police and rival social and athletic organisations in joyous

combat. Between these more serious occupations the Saturday night hop

with the paper-box factory girls came as a refining influence and as an

efficient screen. For sometimes the tip went 'round, and if you were

among the elect that tiptoed up the dark back stairway you might see as

neat and satisfying a little welter-weight affair to a finish as ever

happened inside the ropes.

On Saturdays Rhinegold's paper-box factory closed at 3 P. M. On one such

afternoon Anna and Maggie walked homeward together. At Maggie's door

Anna said, as usual: "Be ready at seven, sharp, Mag; and Jimmy and me'll

come by for you."

But what was this? Instead of the customary humble and grateful thanks

from the non-escorted one there was to be perceived a high-poised head,

a prideful dimpling at the corners of a broad mouth, and almost a

sparkle in a dull brown eye.

"Thanks, Anna," said Maggie; "but you and Jimmy needn't bother to-night.

I've a gentleman friend that's coming 'round to escort me to the hop."

The comely Anna pounced upon her friend, shook her, chided and beseeched

her. Maggie Toole catch a fellow! Plain, dear, loyal, unattractive

Maggie, so sweet as a chum, so unsought for a two-step or a moonlit

bench in the little park. How was it? When did it happen? Who was it?

"You'll see to-night," said Maggie, flushed with the wine of the first

grapes she had gathered in Cupid's vineyard. "He's swell all right. He's

two inches taller than Jimmy, and an up-to-date dresser. I'll introduce

him, Anna, just as soon as we get to the hall."

Anna and Jimmy were among the first Clover Leafs to arrive that evening.

Anna's eyes were brightly fixed upon the door of the hall to catch the

first glimpse of her friend's "catch."

At 8:30 Miss Toole swept into the hall with her escort. Quickly her

triumphant eye discovered her chum under the wing of her faithful Jimmy.

"Oh, gee!" cried Anna, "Mag ain't made a hit--oh, no! Swell fellow?

well, I guess! Style? Look at 'um."

"Go as far as you like," said Jimmy, with sandpaper in his voice. "Cop

him out if you want him. These new guys always win out with the push.

Don't mind me. He don't squeeze all the limes, I guess. Huh!"

"Shut up, Jimmy. You know what I mean. I'm glad for Mag. First fellow

she ever had. Oh, here they come."

Across the floor Maggie sailed like a coquettish yacht convoyed by a

stately cruiser. And truly, her companion justified the encomiums of the

faithful chum. He stood two inches taller than the average Give and Take

athlete; his dark hair curled; his eyes and his teeth flashed whenever

he bestowed his frequent smiles. The young men of the Clover Leaf Club

pinned not their faith to the graces of person as much as they did

to its prowess, its achievements in hand-to-hand conflicts, and its

preservation from the legal duress that constantly menaced it. The

member of the association who would bind a paper-box maiden to his

conquering chariot scorned to employ Beau Brummel airs. They were not

considered honourable methods of warfare. The swelling biceps, the coat

straining at its buttons over the chest, the air of conscious conviction

of the supereminence of the male in the cosmogony of creation, even a

calm display of bow legs as subduing and enchanting agents in the gentle

tourneys of Cupid--these were the approved arms and ammunition of the

Clover Leaf gallants. They viewed, then, genuflexions and alluring poses

of this visitor with their chins at a new angle.

"A friend of mine, Mr. Terry O'Sullivan," was Maggie's formula of

introduction. She led him around the room, presenting him to each

new-arriving Clover Leaf. Almost was she pretty now, with the unique

luminosity in her eyes that comes to a girl with her first suitor and

a kitten with its first mouse.

"Maggie Toole's got a fellow at last," was the word that went round

among the paper-box girls. "Pipe Mag's floor-walker"--thus the Give and

Takes expressed their indifferent contempt.

Usually at the weekly hops Maggie kept a spot on the wall warm with her

back. She felt and showed so much gratitude whenever a self-sacrificing

partner invited her to dance that his pleasure was cheapened and

diminished. She had even grown used to noticing Anna joggle the

reluctant Jimmy with her elbow as a signal for him to invite her chum

to walk over his feet through a two-step.

But to-night the pumpkin had turned to a coach and six. Terry O'Sullivan

was a victorious Prince Charming, and Maggie Toole winged her first

butterfly flight. And though our tropes of fairyland be mixed with

those of entomology they shall not spill one drop of ambrosia from the

rose-crowned melody of Maggie's one perfect night.

The girls besieged her for introductions to her "fellow." The Clover

Leaf young men, after two years of blindness, suddenly perceived charms

in Miss Toole. They flexed their compelling muscles before her and

bespoke her for the dance.

Thus she scored; but to Terry O'Sullivan the honours of the evening fell

thick and fast. He shook his curls; he smiled and went easily through

the seven motions for acquiring grace in your own room before an open

window ten minutes each day. He danced like a faun; he introduced manner

and style and atmosphere; his words came trippingly upon his tongue,

and--he waltzed twice in succession with the paper-box girl that Dempsey

Donovan brought.

Dempsey was the leader of the association. He wore a dress suit, and

could chin the bar twice with one hand. He was one of "Big Mike"

O'Sullivan's lieutenants, and was never troubled by trouble. No cop

dared to arrest him. Whenever be broke a pushcart man's head or shot a

member of the Heinrick B. Sweeney Outing and Literary Association in

the kneecap, an officer would drop around and say:

"The Cap'n 'd like to see ye a few minutes round to the office whin ye

have time, Dempsey, me boy."

But there would be sundry gentlemen there with large gold fob chains and

black cigars; and somebody would tell a funny story, and then Dempsey

would go back and work half an hour with the six-pound dumbbells. So,

doing a tight-rope act on a wire stretched across Niagara was a safe

terpsichorean performance compared with waltzing twice with Dempsey

Donovan's paper-box girl. At 10 o'clock the jolly round face of "Big

Mike" O'Sullivan shone at the door for five minutes upon the scene. He

always looked in for five minutes, smiled at the girls and handed out

real perfectos to the delighted boys.

Dempsey Donovan was at his elbow instantly, talking rapidly. "Big Mike"

looked carefully at the dancers, smiled, shook his head and departed.

The music stopped. The dancers scattered to the chairs along the walls.

Terry O'Sullivan, with his entrancing bow, relinquished a pretty girl in

blue to her partner and started back to find Maggie. Dempsey intercepted

him in the middle of the floor.

Some fine instinct that Rome must have bequeathed to us caused nearly

every one to turn and look at them--there was a subtle feeling that two

gladiators had met in the arena. Two or three Give and Takes with tight

coat sleeves drew nearer.

"One moment, Mr. O'Sullivan," said Dempsey. "I hope you're enjoying

yourself. Where did you say you live?"

The two gladiators were well matched. Dempsey had, perhaps, ten

pounds of weight to give away. The O'Sullivan had breadth with

quickness. Dempsey had a glacial eye, a dominating slit of a mouth, an

indestructible jaw, a complexion like a belle's and the coolness of a

champion. The visitor showed more fire in his contempt and less control

over his conspicuous sneer. They were enemies by the law written when

the rocks were molten. They were each too splendid, too mighty, too

incomparable to divide pre-eminence. One only must survive.

"I live on Grand," said O'Sullivan, insolently; "and no trouble to find

me at home. Where do you live?"

Dempsey ignored the question.

"You say your name's O'Sullivan," he went on. "Well, 'Big Mike' says he

never saw you before."

"Lots of things he never saw," said the favourite of the hop.

"As a rule," went on Dempsey, huskily sweet, "O'Sullivans in this

district know one another. You escorted one of our lady members here,

and we want a chance to make good. If you've got a family tree let's

see a few historical O'Sullivan buds come out on it. Or do you want

us to dig it out of you by the roots?"

"Suppose you mind your own business," suggested O'Sullivan, blandly.

Dempsey's eye brightened. He held up an inspired forefinger as though a

brilliant idea had struck him.

"I've got it now," he said cordially. "It was just a little mistake. You

ain't no O'Sullivan. You are a ring-tailed monkey. Excuse us for not

recognising you at first."

O'Sullivan's eye flashed. He made a quick movement, but Andy Geoghan was

ready and caught his arm.

Dempsey nodded at Andy and William McMahan, the secretary of the club,

and walked rapidly toward a door at the rear of the hall. Two other

members of the Give and Take Association swiftly joined the little

group. Terry O'Sullivan was now in the hands of the Board of Rules and

Social Referees. They spoke to him briefly and softly, and conducted

him out through the same door at the rear.

This movement on the part of the Clover Leaf members requires a word of

elucidation. Back of the association hall was a smaller room rented by

the club. In this room personal difficulties that arose on the ballroom

floor were settled, man to man, with the weapons of nature, under the

supervision of the board. No lady could say that she had witnessed a

fight at a Clover Leaf hop in several years. Its gentlemen members

guaranteed that.

So easily and smoothly had Dempsey and the board done their preliminary

work that many in the hall had not noticed the checking of the

fascinating O'Sullivan's social triumph. Among these was Maggie. She

looked about for her escort.

"Smoke up!" said Rose Cassidy. "Wasn't you on? Demps Donovan picked a

scrap with your Lizzie-boy, and they've waltzed out to the slaughter

room with him. How's my hair look done up this way, Mag?"

Maggie laid a hand on the bosom of her cheesecloth waist.

"Gone to fight with Dempsey!" she said, breathlessly. "They've got to be

stopped. Dempsey Donovan can't fight him. Why, he'll--he'll kill him!"

"Ah, what do you care?" said Rosa. "Don't some of 'em fight every hop?"

But Maggie was off, darting her zig-zag way through the maze of dancers.

She burst through the rear door into the dark hall and then threw her

solid shoulder against the door of the room of single combat. It gave

way, and in the instant that she entered her eye caught the scene--the

Board standing about with open watches; Dempsey Donovan in his shirt

sleeves dancing, light-footed, with the wary grace of the modern

pugilist, within easy reach of his adversary; Terry O'Sullivan

standing with arms folded and a murderous look in his dark eyes. And

without slacking the speed of her entrance she leaped forward with a

scream--leaped in time to catch and hang upon the arm of O'Sullivan that

was suddenly uplifted, and to whisk from it the long, bright stiletto

that he had drawn from his bosom.

The knife fell and rang upon the floor. Cold steel drawn in the rooms of

the Give and Take Association! Such a thing had never happened before.

Every one stood motionless for a minute. Andy Geoghan kicked the

stiletto with the toe of his shoe curiously, like an antiquarian who has

come upon some ancient weapon unknown to his learning.

And then O'Sullivan hissed something unintelligible between his teeth.

Dempsey and the board exchanged looks. And then Dempsey looked at

O'Sullivan without anger, as one looks at a stray dog, and nodded his

head in the direction of the door.

"The back stairs, Giuseppi," he said, briefly. "Somebody'll pitch your

hat down after you."

Maggie walked up to Dempsey Donovan. There was a brilliant spot of red

in her cheeks, down which slow tears were running. But she looked him

bravely in the eye.

"I knew it, Dempsey," she said, as her eyes grew dull even in their

tears. "I knew he was a Guinea. His name's Tony Spinelli. I hurried in

when they told me you and him was scrappin'. Them Guineas always carries

knives. But you don't understand, Dempsey. I never had a fellow in my

life. I got tired of comin' with Anna and Jimmy every night, so I fixed

it with him to call himself O'Sullivan, and brought him along. I knew

there'd be nothin' doin' for him if he came as a Dago. I guess I'll

resign from the club now."

Dempsey turned to Andy Geoghan.

"Chuck that cheese slicer out of the window," he said, "and tell 'em

inside that Mr. O'Sullivan has had a telephone message to go down to

Tammany Hall."

And then he turned back to Maggie.

"Say, Mag," he said, "I'll see you home. And how about next Saturday

night? Will you come to the hop with me if I call around for you?"

It was remarkable how quickly Maggie's eyes could change from dull to

a shining brown.

"With you, Dempsey?" she stammered. "Say--will a duck swim?"

Date: 2015-01-11; view: 734