As I sit, placidly, early
afternoon, off against Ninetieth street, the policeman, C. C., a
well-form'd sandy-complexion'd young fellow, comes over and stands
near me. We grow quite friendly and chatty forth-with. He is a New
Yorker born and raised, and in answer to my questions tells me about
the life of a New York Park policeman, (while he talks keeping his
eyes and ears vigilantly open, occasionally pausing and moving where
he can get full views of the vistas of the road, up and down, and the
spaces around.) The pay is $2.40 a day (seven days to a week)--the
men come on and work eight hours straight ahead, which is all that is
required of them out of the twenty-four. The position has more risks
than one might suppose--for instance if a team or horse runs away
(which happens daily) each man is expected not only to be prompt, but
to waive safety and stop wildest nag or nags--(_do it_, and don't be
thinking of your bones or face)--give the alarm-whistle too, so that
other guards may repeat, and the vehicles up and down the tracks be
warn'd. Injuries to the men are continually happening. There is much
alertness and quiet strength. (Few appreciate, I have often thought,
the Ulyssean capacity, derring do, quick readiness in emergencies,
practicality, unwitting devotion and heroism, among our American
young men and working-people--the firemen, the railroad employes, the
steamer and ferry men, the police, the conductors and drivers--the
whole splendid average of native stock, city and country.
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