The Miracle Man | Page 2

automobile
horn accompanied by the rumbling approach of a heavy motor vehicle.
He edged his way now, wriggling, squirming and dodging between the
pedestrians, to the outer edge of the sidewalk, and stopped in front of
the music hall.
A sight-seeing car, crammed to capacity, reaching its momentary
Mecca, drew up at the curb; and the guide's voice rose over the screech
of the brakes:
"Now, ladies and gentlemen, we will get out here for a little while. This
is Black Ike's famous Auditorium, the scene of last week's sensational
triple murder! Please remember that there is no charge for admission to
patrons of the company. Just show your coupons, ladies and gentlemen,
and walk right ahead."
The passengers began to pour from the long seats to the ground. The
Flopper's hat was in his hand.
"Fer God's sake, gents an' ladies, don't pass me by," he cried piteously.
"I could work once, but look at me now--I was run over by a fire truck.
God bring pity to yer hearts--youse have money fer pleasure, spare
something fer me."
The first man down from the seat halted and stared at the twisted,
unsightly thing before him, and, with a little gasp, reached into his
pocket and dropped a bill into the Flopper's hat.
"God bless you!" stammered the Flopper--and the tears sprang
swimming to his eyes.

The first man passed on with a gruff, "Oh, all right," but he had left an
example behind him that few of his fellow passengers ignored.
"T'ank you, mum," mumbled the Flopper, as the money dropped into
his hat. "God reward you, sir.... Ah, miss, may you never know a tear....
'Twas heaven brought you 'ere to-night, lady."
They passed, following the guide. The Flopper scooped the money into
a pile in his hat, began to tuck it away in some recess of his shirt--when
a hand was thrust suddenly under his nose.
"Come on, now, divvy!" snapped a voice in his ear.
It was the driver of the car, who had dropped from his seat to the
ground. A gleam of hate replaced the tears in the Flopper's eyes.
"Go to hell!" he snarled through thin lips--and his hand closed
automatically over the cap.
"Come on, now, I ain't got no time to fool!" prompted the man, with a
leer. "I'm dead onto your lay, and there's a bull comin' along now--half
or him, which?"
The Flopper's eyes caught the brass buttons of the officer returning on
his beat, and his face was white with an inhuman passion, as, clutching
a portion of what was left in the hat, he lifted his hand from the rest.
"Thanks!" grinned the chauffeur, snatching at the remainder. "'Tain't
half, but it'll do"--and he hurried across the sidewalk, and disappeared
inside a saloon.
Oaths, voicing a passion that rocked the Flopper to his soul, purled in a
torrid stream from his lips, and for a moment made him forget the
proximity of the brass buttons. He raised his fist, that still clenched
some of the money, and shook it after the other--and his fist, uplifted in
midair, was caught in a vicious grip--the harness bull was standing over
him.

"Beat it!" rasped the officer roughly, "or I'll--hullo, what you got here?
Open your hand!"--he gave a sharp twist as he spoke, the Flopper's
fingers uncurled, and the money dropped into the policeman's other
hand--held conveniently below the Flopper's.
"It's mine--gimme it back," whined the Flopper.
"Yours! Yours, is it!" growled the officer. "Where'd you get it? Stole it,
eh? Go on, now, beat it--or I'll run you in! Beat it!"
With twitching fingers, the Flopper picked up his cap, placed it on his
head and sidled away. Ten yards along, in the shadow of the buildings
again, he looked back--the officer was still standing there, twirling his
stick, one hand just emerging from his pocket. The Flopper's finger
nails scratched along the stone pavement and curved into the palm of
his hand until the skin under the knuckles was bloodless white, and his
lips moved in ugly, whispered words--then, still whispering, he went on
again.
Down the Bowery he went like a human toad, keeping in the shadows,
keeping his eyes on the ground before him, a glint like a shudder in
their depths--on he went with hopping, lurching jerks, with whispering
lips. Street after street he passed, and then at a corner he turned and
went East--not far, only to the side entrance of the saloon on the corner
known, to those who knew, as the "Roost."
The door before which he stopped, on a level with the street, might
readily have passed for the entrance to one of the adjoining tenements,
for it was innocent to all appearances of any connection with the
unlovely resort of which