Perhaps it is in the way of reparation that I now support
twelve cats upon my premises. Three of them are clawing at my study
door this minute demanding to be let in. But I cannot even claim
the poor merit of providing for them. It is my daughter who runs
the cats; I merely growl at and feed them.
The mention of Bowery night cars brings to my mind an episode of
that time which was thoroughly characteristic of the "highway that
never sleeps." I was on the way down town in one, with a single
fellow-passenger who was asleep just inside the door, his head
nodding with every jolt as though it were in danger of coming
off. At Grand Street a German boarded the car and proffered a bad
half-dollar in payment of his fare. The conductor bit it and gave
it back with a grunt of contempt. The German fell into a state of
excitement at once.
"Vat!" he shouted, "it vas pad?" and slapped the coin down on the
wooden seat with all his might, that we might hear the ring. It
rebounded with a long slant and fell into the lap of the sleeping
passenger, who instantly woke up, grabbed the half-dollar, and
vanished through the door and into the darkness, without as much
as looking around, followed by the desolate howl of the despoiled
German:--
"Himmel! One United Shdades half-dollar clean gone!"
The time came at length when I exchanged night work for day work,
and I was not sorry.
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