The Trimmed Lamp Mobi Classics. Complete Collection of Hamlin Garland. First Aid to Cupid. The Washington Square Enigma. The Gentleman from Indiana. The Black Boxer Tales. The Life of the Party. Gallegher and Other Stories.
Traffic in Souls A Novel of Crime and Its Cure by Eustace Hale Ball - Free at Loyal Books
The Escape of Mr. The Autobiography of a Thief. A Fool For Love. Ten Favorite Short Stories. Works of Harry Leon Wilson. Men and Women and Ghosts. Elizabeth Stuart Phelps Ward. Works of Elizabeth Strong Worthington. From Place to Place. Gallegher And Other Stories. A Mountain Woman And Others. Aka Elia Wilkinson Elia W. The Little Gray Lady. Through the Shadows with O. The Man Who Couldn't Sleep. Vignettes of Manhattan Outlines in Local Color. The New England Country. Jimmy's Cruise in the Pinafore, etc. Mark Twain Samuel Clemens.
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Your display name should be at least 2 characters long. At Kobo, we try to ensure that published reviews do not contain rude or profane language, spoilers, or any of our reviewer's personal information. You submitted the following rating and review. You come with me, Burke, and we'll nab that woman as a material witness. Burke and his superior crossed the street and quickly entered the ornate portal of Shultberger's cabaret, which was in reality the annex to his corner barroom.
As they strode in a waiter stood by a tuneless piano, upon which a bloated "professor" was beating a tattoo of cheap syncopation accompaniment of the advantages of "Bobbin' Up An' Down," which was warbled with that peculiarly raucous, nasal tenor so popular in Tenderloin resorts.
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The musical waiter's jaw fell in the middle of a bob, as he espied the blue uniforms. Sitting around the dilapidated wooden tables was a motley throng of red-nosed women, loafers, heavy-jowled young aliens, and a scattering of young girls attired in cheap finery; a prevailing color of chemical yellow as to hair, and flaming red cheeks and lips. Instinctively the gathering rose for escape, but the sergeant strode forward to one particular table, where sat a girl nursing a bleeding mouth.
The officer did not reply, but he looked menacingly about him at the evil company. This girl has been assaulting an officer, and I want her. Come on, now, or I'll get the wagon here, and then there will be trouble. Annie began to pull back, and it looked as though some of the toughs would interfere.
But Shultberger understood his business. Go on vid de officer. I'll fix it up all right. But I don't vant my place down on de blotter. Who vas it — Jimmie? The girl began to cry, and gulped the glass of whiskey on the table as she finally yielded to the tug of the sergeant. She sobbed hysterically as the sergeant walked her out. Shultberger patted her on the shoulder reassuringly.
I vouldn't let nodding happen to Jimmie. I'll bail him out and you too. Go along; dot's a good girl. The "professor," at the piano, used to such scenes, lulled the nerves of the company with a rag-time variation of "Oh, You Beautiful Doll," and Burke, the sergeant and Annie went out into the night.
Burke looked at the unhappy creature. Her hair was half-down her back, and her lips swollen and bleeding from Jimmie's brutal blow. The cheap rouge on her face; the heavy pencilling of her brows, the crudely applied blue and black grease paint about her eyes, the tawdry paste necklace around her powdered throat; the pitifully thin silk dress in which she had braved the elements for a few miserable dollars: The girl shivered and sobbed in that hysterical manner which indicates weakness, emptiness, lack of soul — rather than sorrow.
I don't want to see her sent to Blackwell's Island. She's getting enough punishment every day — and every night.
Catalog Record: Traffic in souls : a novel of crime and its cure | Hathi Trust Digital Library
You're too soft, young fellow. I'll put her down as a material witness.
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Go wash that blood off, and we'll send 'em both down to Night Court. You've done yourself out of your relief butting in this way. Take a tip from me, and let these rummies fight it out among themselves after this as long as they don't mix up with somebody worth while. Burke wiped his eye with the back of his cold hand. It was not snow which had melted there. He was young enough in the police service to feel the pathos of even such common situations as this. He turned quietly and went back to the washstand in the rear room of the station.
The reserves were sitting about, playing checkers and cards. Half a dozen of the men, fond of the young policeman, chatted with him, and volunteered advice, to which Burke had no reply. The worldly wisdom of his fellows was far from encouraging. Yet, despite their cynical expressions, Burke knew that warm hearts and gallant chivalry were lodged beneath the brass buttons.
There is a current notion among the millions of Americans who do not know, and who have fortunately for themselves not been in the position where they needed to know, that the policemen of New York are an organized body of tyrannical, lying grafters who maintain their power by secret societies, official connivance and criminal brute force. Taken by and large, there is no fighting organization in any army in the world which can compare with the New York police force for physical equipment, quick action under orders or upon the initiative required by emergencies, gallantry or esprit de corps.
For salaries barely equal to those of poorly paid clerks or teamsters, these men risk their lives daily, must face death at any moment, and are held under a discipline no less rigorous than that of the regular army. Their problems are more complex than those of any soldiery; they deal with fifty different nationalities, and are forced by circumstances to act as judge and jury, as firemen, as life savers, as directories, as arbiters of neighborhood squabbles and domestic wrangles.
Their greatest services are rendered in the majority of cases which never call for arrest and prosecution. That there are many instances of petty "graft," and that, in some cases, the "middle men" prey on the underworld cannot be denied. But it is the case against a certain policeman which receives the attention of the newspapers and the condemnation of the public, while almost unheeded are scores of heroic deeds which receive bare mention in the daily press.
For the misdeed of one bad policeman the gallantry and self-sacrifice of a hundred pass without appreciation. There have been but three recorded instances of cowardice in the annals of the New York police force. The memory of them still rankles in the bosom of every member. And yet the performance of duty at the cost of life and limb is regarded by the uniformed men as merely being "all in the day's work. Superhuman in wisdom, thrice blest in luck is the bluecoat who conscientiously can live up to his own ideals, carry out the law as written by his superiors without being sent to "rusticate with the goats," or being demoted for stepping upon the toes of some of those same superiors!
The woman, Dutch Annie, sniveling and sobbing, was lodged in a cell near the gangster before being brought before the rail to face the magistrate. Burke saw that they could not communicate with each other, and so hoped that he could have his own story accepted by the magistrate. He stood by the door of the crowded detention room, which opened into a larger courtroom, where the prisoners were led one by one to the prisoner's dock — in this case, a hand-rail two feet in front of the long desk of the judge, while that worthy was seated on a platform which enabled him to look down at the faces of the arraigned.
The class of arrests was monotonous. Three of every four cases were those of street women who had been arrested by "plain clothes" men or detectives for solicitation on the street. The accusing officer took a chair at the left of the magistrate. The uniformed attendant handed the magistrate the affidavits of complaint. The judge mechanically scrawled his name at the bottom of the papers, glanced at the words of the arraignments, and then scowled over the edge of his desk at the flashily dressed girls before him.
They all seemed slight variations on the same mould. Perhaps one girl would simulate some hysterical sobs, and begin by protesting her innocence. Another would be hard and indifferent. The detective, in a voice and manner as mechanical as that of the judge, would mumble his oft repeated story, giving the exact minute of his observations, the actions of the woman in accosting different pedestrians and in her final approach to him.
Sometimes the girls would admit the times; in most cases their memories were defective, until the accusing officer would cite past history. This girl had been arrested and paroled once before; that one had been sent to "the Island" for thirty days; the next one was an habitual offender. It was a tragic monotony. Sometimes the magistrate would summon the sweet-faced matron to have a talk with some young girl, evidently a "green one" for whom there might be hope.
There was more kindliness and effort to reform the prisoners behind those piercing eyes of the judge than one might have supposed to hear him drone out his judgment: There was a weary, hopeless look in the magistrate's eyes, had you studied him close at hand. He knew, better than the reformers, of the horrors of the social evil, at the very bottom of the cup of sin. Better than they could he understand the futility of garrulous legislation at the State Capitol, to be offset by ignorance, avarice, weakness and disease in the congestion of the big, unwieldy city.
When he fined the girls he knew that it meant only a hungry day, one less silk garment or perhaps a beating from an angry and disappointed "lover. The occasional cases in which there was some chance for regeneration were more welcome to him, even, than to the weak and sobbing girls, hopeless with the misery of their early defeats. Yet, the magistrate knew only too well the miserable minimum of cases which ever resulted in real rescue and removal from the sordid existence.
Once as low as the rail of the Night Court — a girl seldom escaped from the slime into which she had dragged herself. And yet had she dragged herself there? Was she to blame? Was she to pay the consequences in the last Reckoning of Accounts?
Reward Yourself
This thought came to Officer Bobbie Burke as he watched the horrible drama drag monotonously through its brief succession of sordid scenes. The expression of the magistrate, the same look of sympathetic misery on the face of the matron, and even on many of the detectives, automatons who had chanted this same official requiem of dead souls, years of nights … not a sombre tone of the gruesome picture was lost to Burke's keen eyes.
There were cases of a different caliber. Now a middle-aged woman, with hair unkempt, and hat awry, maudlin tears in her swollen eyes, and swaying as she held the rail, looked shiftily up into the magistrate's immobile face. This is twice during the last fortnight that I've had you here. Oh, Saint Mary protect me, an' oi'm a hic bad woman.
Yer honor, it's the fault of me old man, Pat. Hic Oi'm not a bad woman, yer honor. An' the girls, they've been supportin' me hic , an' payin the rint, an' buyin' the vittles, an' hic it's a dog's life they lead, wid all their work. When they go out wid dacint young min hic , Pat cusses the young min, an' beats the girls whin they come home hic.
I'll suspend sentence this time. But don't let it happen another time. You have Pat arrested and I'll teach him something about treating you right.
Yer honor, it's drunken Pats and min like him that's bringin' these poor girls here — it ain't the cops an' the sports hic , yer honor. The woman staggered as the magistrate quietly signaled the attendant to lead her through the gate, and up the aisle of the court to the outer door. As she passed by the spectators, two or three richly dressed young women giggled and nudged the dapper youths with whom they were sitting. I don't want any seeing-New-York parties here.