the enforced idleness of state prison convicts has led some of the large manufacturers and dealers to seriously consider the advisability of giving employment to some of them in the different branches of their literary establishments.

mr. bok recently purchased a quantity of “just among ourselves” goods, but found them to be inferior in quality to the samples from which they were ordered, so he refused to accept them, and they were subsequently sold at a reduced rate to mr. peter parley, who is now editing the sunday supplement of the “new york times.” the harpers have[pg 341] been more successful, having had more experience in this peculiar line. it is an open secret that the ten acres of historical and other foreign matter contracted for two or three years ago and signed with the nom de plume “poultney bigelow” are really the work of a gang of long-term men in the kings county penitentiary, while fully half their poetry comes from the same institution.

not long ago, however, the long-termers, hoping by working overtime to secure a little money for themselves, prepared and offered to the proprietors of the franklin square foundry a short story, which those discerning publishers were compelled to decline because they did not like its moral. the story is as follows, and is called:

café throwout;

or, the hey rube’s dream.

it was a cold, blustering night in the very heart of the bitter month of january,[pg 342] and the stranger who entered the front door of the café throwout, on sixth avenue, let in after him a fierce gust of wind that brought a chill to the two men who were seated at a table in the corner, engaged in earnest conversation, and caused the bartender—the only other occupant of the room—to look up quickly from the sporting paper which engrossed his attention and closely scan the face of the newcomer.

“gimme a hot apple toddy, an’ put a little nutmeg on the top of it,” said the newcomer as he dropped into an arm-chair by the stove and stretched out his hands to catch some of the genial warmth.

the bartender silently prepared the drink, and the two men in the corner continued their conversation, but in lowered tones and with less eagerness than before, for both of them were sharply watching the new arrival. it was a[pg 343] strange pair to find in a tenderloin bar-room, and it was not easy to conceive of two men, differing so widely in appearance and manner, having anything in common. the elder of the two wore a black broadcloth suit of clerical cut, deaconish whiskers of iron-gray, a white lawn tie, and a mouth so devoid of expression that its owner was perfectly safe in exposing it without the precautionary covering of beard or mustache. his companion looked as if he might have come in that very afternoon, in his best clothes, from some point midway between rochester and elmira. he wore a checked suit of distinctly provincial cut, a cloth cap similar to those worn by rustic milkmen on cold mornings, a high, turn-down collar, and no cravat, and, for ornament, a rather conspicuous bit of jewelry, which might have been an heirloom known to the family as “gran’pa’s buzzom pin.”

[pg 344]as the bartender handed the hot drink to the man beside the stove, the clergyman whispered in a low voice to his companion, “i wonder what his graft is!”

“graft—nothing!” retorted the other; “there’s one of him born every hour—didn’t i tell you? look at the roll he’s flashing up! he handles money as if he’d never heard of the café throwout before.”

it was true. the newcomer, in paying for his drink, had drawn from his pocket a large roll of greenbacks, displaying them as carelessly as if he had been in a banking house instead of in one of the most famous resorts for smart people that the tenderloin precinct contains.

of course by this time the reader has discovered that the man in clerical garb and his companion of provincial aspect were “smart” people, each working his[pg 345] own particular graft with skill and success. the faces of both brightened when their eyes fell upon the newcomer, who was a sucker of the kind sometimes sent by a beneficent providence to his afflicted people in times of drought.

the elder of the two men was known to those who contributed to the orphan asylum that he conducted in dreamland as the rev. william cassock, but the workers of the town called him “soapy sam.” his companion’s face adorns the largest and most interesting gallery of portraits that the city contains, and is labelled in the catalogue and explanatory text-book pertaining to the gallery, “crooked charlie, the man of many grafts.”

the two had, indeed, known hard times since the close of the summer and were now in no mood to let any stranger go unscathed. a sudden gleam of intelligence came into “crooked charlie’s”[pg 346] face, and at the same moment a bright light gilded the tips of the rev. william cassock’s iron-gray whiskers.

“gimme another o’ them toddies and don’t forgit the nutmeg,” cried the stranger, and then the two smart people rose in their places and made a mysterious signal to the bartender.

as the sucker by the stove slowly sipped his second drink, the red-hot iron in front of him changed into the glowing base of the old wood-burner that has warmed two generations of loafers in the little manufacturing town of bilkville centre, conn. he could hear the voice of old hiram goodsell inviting him to a game of “setback” in the back room of the tavern, and then some invisible force bore him up to the big hall over the schoolhouse, where the firemen’s ball was in progress, and he found himself balancing to corners with mirandy tucker, her that was a larrabee.

[pg 347]“cross over! cross back! balance all and swing your partners!” chanted old bill cady, and the sucker went swinging down the room and out into the cold field and across the snow to the railroad train which whirled him on to new york. he was filled with glad anticipations: he would go to see lydia thompson, he would plunge into the heart of the gay and beautiful tenderloin, where the corks pop merrily all night long and the ivory chips rattle, and the music of the banjo and piano fills the air. yes, here was new york at last, and here was the kindly old gentleman, known affectionately as grand central pete, who has directed the urban revels of many a lonely stranger. the old man welcomes him and explains that the city pays him to look after unsuspecting visitors and keep them from being robbed before they get to forty-first street. arm in arm, the two bend[pg 348] their steps toward what is believed in the provinces to be the merry quarter of the town, stopping only at a saloon to enable the sucker to change a counterfeit twenty-dollar bill for an obliging gentleman who hopes he will enjoy his stay in the city.

they are in the midst of gayety now, and as he sits there by the stove, unconscious of where he is, he is living over again the delights of many memorable nights in the great metropolis. he hears the glad strains of the piano, the merry shouts of feminine laughter, and sees the whirling skirts and flying feet of myriad fleet dancers. his throat is parched and he must have wine, and so must they all, at his expense. kindly faces cluster around him, kind hands help to pull his money from his pocket, and, lest he should lose them, his watch from his fob, his rings from his fingers, his pin and studs from his shirt.[pg 349] these are indeed swift passing, merry hours——

“have to wake up, sir; it’s one o’clock, and i’ve got to close up! didn’t you have a watch-chain on when you came in here first?”

it is the bartender who has broken the spell, and the sucker’s glad dream is over.

“well, suppose you take the watch, and i’ll take the pin and studs, and we’ll divide the sleeve buttons,” says crooked charlie to his companion as the two enter a saloon a few blocks away from the café throwout.

“that’s all right, that’s all right,” rejoins the rev. william cassock as he stuffs his share of the bills away in an inside pocket, “but in the meantime let us not forget that the same providence that caused the manna to fall in the desert and sent the ravens down to feed[pg 350] elisha brought this sucker to the café throwout and cast over him the mystic spell of deep, painless sleep. by the way, let me compliment you on a certain detail in your make-up which has attracted my attention. i notice that you wear one of those dude collars, without either cravat or pin. that is in keeping with your part. a jay would be content with such a collar, but one of us would get a cravat and pin first.”