The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, February 1, 1903, Page 5

best payin’ gamb years ago; be had to dee lawyer fer chewin that murder scrape. THE SUNDAY CALL. six feet to stret ippy .as the r the 1 ¥ tra 't 1 hiadn’t been cooped I'm sure to alted down a big pile & Westerner sneered an old man Carr don't salt o the h in your eye bet one year's end what They as they get it lawyer or 1f they ea t got over ter epend he's Detroit Fraxy 7 asked d 1t over to his "im the rag It's = for in erooks makin’' dough, but it o it that counts. God mnever yet made a erock thet bas stuck to th 1 takin’' chances &n’ stretchers, an’ ocome The hang-eut broke up soon after this stement, and the men took trains in frerent directions. ' owing five years the e saw Carr twice and heard of him ence On both ococcast when be saw Carr the man was szparently still in k. He wes @rersed well, had money t was courted by his compan- s = ed no complaint to make be- o o stater he feit that be was ge do 11 Alsbama not long .5 &t the second meeting, . damp that my bones got we a mind when they give me ste e cell, but it rather es me wise. A fellow gets where C = P keep a t A Kr . . & larg some blokes far, but you never k 11l go back on you. T'm ol an’ put past a stake before ng for old age. I'm bound to weaken sfter & while, an’ T ought to have a bank . to live -on. ‘Bout years rs after this conversation in a Western newspaper Carr's arrest -for an of- a the coast: It read ard Carr, alias Cincle Shorty, was a ted by the local police last night. The detalls of his crime have not yet come in;, but there Is no doubt In the minds of the police that Carr is the man wanted. The dispatch from — sald- that one of the local banks had been ‘taken in’ by a forged check calling for $15000, . description of the alleged forger fits The man has one of tter records in this rated with one ‘grag}’ her in pract! every State of end is not unknown In Mex- of his neat appearance sive manner he is sometimes e Gentleman Crook,’ but he fra- zes with tramps as well as with pro- He is reported to 16 &s seriously as an artist takes and the neat ‘jobs’ that he has and done bear out the report. The Sheriff states that he was welcomed by the other prisoners in the jall as a most distinguished personage. He is sald te be very popular among criminals of all classes. If gullty of the crime for which he has been arrested the proba- bility s that he will be given & severe sentence. Carr has employed the best oounsel in the city, and & telegram has been sent to the famous criminal lawyer Ames, in Frisco.” Bix months later the Under World was notified that Barnard Carr had recefved elght years. "R e e e exactly. gest police b He has o criminals. A short time ago the two scribes were taking & stroll on Lime street, Liverpool. At night it is one of the most Instructive promenades in England for a man who wishes to know things; and one can com- plets Investigations that have been begun in “the main stem” of towns thousands of miles away. The four continents con- t e to the life on the pavement as well as the places of entertainment, and the passersby and performers jabber in many tongues and dialects. The darifted scribes into a *free and B where men and women sing songs and then pass thelr hats and bonnets around for pennies and ha'pennfes. It was a sordid little place with a smell in 1t that composed of all smells of .bacco and alcohol. Any one in the audler.ce who had a voice and a song. or thought he had, might take the floor and put his opinfon to the test of popu- larity On the evening in question there had was neglect beeri ‘a1l Lreak in the ‘proceedings, and to it the master of ceremonies turned bbi dressed .little ‘'man sitting r the.piano -player. arn ittle tramp, are you sober a song?’ he asked. ‘ouse to-night, an’. you'll ou'll let ‘er run right.” the *’ouse” the old- Jail song of the Boston burglar, ‘which runs: gh- to giv “There's a. go get a swag if Barnie gave I e us a T was brought up in Boston, A place you al¥ know wei Brought up by honest parents, And now I've gone to hell; But my character was taken, 1 had to hit the t And His Honor he sho d me into jafit The song was none of the best, and the man's volce was cracked and the plano player knew but little of the tune, but the audience cried, * ‘ear!” and clapped, and Barnie’s hat was well lined with copper. The collection finished, he took a seat near the scribes. “I ain't much on the melojous howl;" he sald, with a significant grin, “but I can toss off a glass o' somethin’ hot.. .1 guess you fellows is Yanks, ain’t you He was told that he had guessed right.: “Thought so. What'll you take?—on me! Can't give you sham, anythin’ in reason.” “You're a Yank yourself, aren’t you?”’ one of the scribes queried when _the drinks had been brought. “Well, that's as may be.” Name's Carr, isn't 1t?" The little vagrant gave both scribes a searching look. ““Who are you blokes? D' I know you?” One of the scribes reminded him of pre- vious meetings in the “States.” “Well, I'll be hanged! Say, come down to my hang-out, will you? You've paid for this stuff; I'll get some booze an’ a candle, an’ we'll chew the rag. There's a Jot I want to know about bld times.” We left the “free and easy” and Barnle led the way toward the docks. He insist- ed on purchasing some beer and a candle in a shop in the last street before turn- ing into a maze of murky alleyways, and then guided us to a great barrel or hogs- head, hidden away among broken boxes, Aiscarded ship timbers and assorted de- bris. “*Tain’t no parlor car, pals,” he ex- plained, lighting the candle and setting it in a tin socket in the barrel, “but it fits me, an’ that's all I want. Will you sit outside or come In? Can't get in, that's sure.” The air was stagnant and warm to the touch, and even in the open the lungs labored. We sat on some planks outside. It was some time before Barnie's talk turned naturally upon himself; he kept asking about this pal and that pal, how thingd were “coming up over home,” who were still holding out in the “perfesh,” who had gone under, which “coppers” were in power, which “stirs” were easy or hard, what good “touches” had been made lately, who were “setfled” and who free, and about varlous other things con- nected with the life on which his imag- - ination still dwelt with a certain pride. At last, however, when the scribes had answered his queries as best they could, he sald suddenly: “I s'pose you want to hear my rag- chewer now?" The scribes smiled and nodded. The Ht- tle. man’s shoulders twitched, he took a fresh plece of “snipe” from his pocket, bowed his head for 8 moment as if asham- ed, looked up agaim, and bega “It's none too nice to tell: but you blokes has known me when 1 was top of the heap and you will understand. 'Course, T could 'a’ croaked myself, an' the whole thing ‘ud 'a’ been off, but the fact is I didn't have even neive enough for that. That last stretcher on the coast dreaned me out. They used me hard, that's where it "bloke that's.usé but I'm good for: DX Il //} / % ‘:,"/',7///. {4l fhab % g 0 1 (V417 I/ B 18, an’ [ didn't make any good time either. I'basted a guard for callin’ me a liar, an’ the t remember to.forgit it. warden dic They tucked me in the dungen ten times jist for luck like, 1 had a few thou- sand when théy.turned me loose, but I spent ‘em travelin’. I.thought I'd brace up,-p'r'aps, 't I got a chance, so I came over here. an' for a while. 1 drifted all over the shop. If my dough 'ud 'a’ held out-'I'd be-on.the mooch yet, Iguess. I only had £20 when I got back to London, but‘my, nerve. was no good, an’ I tried for 4 job on the level, but 'twasn’t no use. A up for swipin’ to'nd kind 6. work,-good or. bad. céuild."a’ turned a-fly cop. A Yank copper in.- London ‘offered me.godéd money ‘f 1'd work for him, but I'didn’t want to be a mouthpiece, an’ that's what I'd 'a’ been 't I'd taken thé job. A féllos that the push has treatéd square is a dirty sucker to go an’ live on what he knows after/he gets used-up..-If-I had my. way,I'd-shoot every son of a cur of a mouthplece. Well, I tried. gamblin’ for a bit, but I couldn’t win nothin’; a'man that's dowri on 'is luck touch the: bones; luck brings bad luck brings bad. T came here to"Liverpool with some London gam- blers, but I was ‘out_ of it here, too, an’ got flat on my uppers. I could 'a’ raised some. dough; I guess, 'f I'd telegraphed home; my ‘rep.’ was good for a thousand or two, an’ theé boys sent it over, problly; but a bloke don’t like to.go home after he knows his nerve's gone. Crooks 1s a charitable lot right enough, an’ stand by a fellow when ‘e’s just hard hit, but they're queer as the devil when they run up against a dead one. “You feel the way you do when you're in an insane asylum. 'Course a dead one aln’t bughouse or anythin’ like that, but when you look at him you keep thinkin’ that p'r'aps it'll be your turn next, an’ you get shivery like. T knew °t T couldnt steal worth a damn 'f T wennback—any dead knows that when he's really lost his grip—an’ I wasn't goin' to have the push an’ the coppers over there bel- Iyachin’ around abput Carr bein’ laid on the shelf. The coppers in the States are the very devil on a dead one. They keep tryin’ to make him cough up what he knows, an’ if he don't cough they're lia- ble as not to pinch him for a vag. W'y, I've seen 'em actually railroad a dead one to the pen on a fake charge jus' ‘cause he wouldn’'t help 'em get wise. I ain’'t stuck on England or the coppers here, but the coppers can’t cut up with a bloke here the way they do In the States. *Course they hammer me every now and then when they take me to the station- house, but that's just a habit they've got into. You see, the people over here won't let 'em do any hammerin’ in the streets, an' as they've got to get exercise some- how they do the hammerin' In the sta- tion house. They ain't so wise as our coppers, but they ain’t o crooked efther. in't up *Course [ , and ‘ud ‘a’ one ‘1'd 'a’ been dead long before I was f I'd . been an English crook. A bloke's got to take his med'cine over here if they catch him, an’ it's the med'cine that Kkills. 'Course some holds out:longer'n I did, but twenty-four years inside ain't a bad record, an' that's the.time 1 spent in the pen. They've had me’shut up nearly half my life. “It I'd stayed in the States I s'pose I'd be Hvin' with the hoboes now. They ain’t bad blokes to pal-with, but 't 'ud hurt to have to drop down into their push. I don't know how to beg as much as a pilece o' bread. After I've sung a song or done a bit of a double shuffle I don’t mind passin’ my hat around in the pub, but I get ashamed when I ask for gomethin’ outright. If I should go to a back door to-morrow mornin' an' ask for a pokeout I'd blush an' stutter like a bashful kid. “I tried polishin’ shoes for a while, but osiah Timt and frgneis Walton “Thats Carr the great i) A Perfeshnul the ‘shines’ guyed me =o 't T quit. I wasn't no good at it anyhow. All I can do is to fipat arouhd, sing a song when people’ll listen to me, an’ hold down this ol@-barrel. This place's been my hang- out for nearly a year now. “Sometimes I think I'a itke to go back home, but ’'course I'll never get there. When I'm sober I try to make out 't I'm English, but I guess the blokes is next. The other day I got pretty jagged, an’ forgot all about bein’ English. Some jays over in a pub 't I go to was runnin’ down the States, an’ I called 'em down; I told ‘em 't we could stick tnerr bloody little island in one corner of our country and 't 'ud take Stanley twenty years to find It 'Course they basted me—I always get it in the neck when I'm jagged—but I didn’t mind. After you're dead a big quiet like comes on you an' you don’t care what happens. “It 'ud be nice to see some o' the boys again, an’ I'd rather like to croak on the other side, but I don’t think about such things much. They got to bury me wher- ever 1 croak. Some o' the girls up in Lime street took up a collection for a pal "t I had that croaked, an’ buried him in sty but I told ‘em they'd better ‘a’ given a big feed to his friends. 1 used to be a great bloke for style, but style don’t cut no ice with me any more. 'Course °t ain’t nice to wind up in a barrel the way I have, but you can't keep on top forever, an’ I'm glad enough sometimes 't I don't have to worry "bout my reputation any merw. You get just as tired out trying to hold your posish in the crook world as you de with the millionaires. I don’t have them worries, an’ it's & bigger relief 'n you'd think. There ain’t no place for me to drop to—I've reached ‘de limit.’ “If the blokes over here knew me an’ pointed me out to strangers, 'course I'd feel my tumble worse'n I do, but nobody bothers me. You're the first blokes I've talked to this way since I struck Liver- peol. T don't mind if you tell the blokes at home about me. It 'ud 'a’ hurt a little couple o' years ago ‘cause I had some hope then, but it don’t matter now; nothing matters. See? *No one can do anything for me. A city .missionary got me around to his shop a few months ago an’ tried to brace me up, but I was square. ‘You're all right, boss,’ 1 sald to him, ‘Dut you can’'t help me ‘cause I'm a dead one.’ He didn’t under- stand what ‘dead one’ meant, an’ I tried to explain, but he couldn't catch on, an’ kep' talkin' away 'bout religion. 1 give it to him straight. ‘Religion, boss,’ I told him, ‘4s for them that cares. 1 don't care. I'm dreened out. You can lock me up of do what you please—'twon’'t chenge me a bit. My clock’s run down." 'Course there’s them that laughs ‘bout a bioke losin’ his grip an' don’t bellve in it, but they're foolish. wasn’t leary of holdin' train single handed; it's all I can do now to scrape up nerve enough to kill the fleas in this barrel. Some people calls the dis- ease the shivers, an' others calls it the blind eye. I calls it the staggers. You stagger in front of everythin’ that it needs st to do. Some day I'll stagger into & bole, an’ the barkeeps won't have any more Barnie to baste, an’ the girls won't have to chip In an’ help pay for my song. But I've had my fiing in my day, men, an’ don’t you forgit it,” and for an in- stant his eyes snapped and he held his head high. Britain may be viewed as one farm ex- tending from county to county, interrupt- ed by towns, it is true, but surrounding them ltke the ocean surrounds an archi- pelago of islands, Great Britain possesses a total area of 32.437.339 acres of cultivated land, of which 7,325,408 acres are under corn, the rest being In permanent pas- ture, temporary pasture, root crops, fod. der crops, and so on. It Includes over 51,000 acres of hops, 73,000 acres of fruit, and 308,000 acres of bare fallow, The capi- tal employed Is enormous, and s roughly estimated at £227.000,000, while the amount pald In wages has been estimated at £30,- 000.000 per annum. There are at least 1,000,000 men, women and boys employed in agricultural pursuits in Great Britain, who not ogly cultivate the ground, but at- The time was when [ tend tc 1.500.000 horses. 6.305,000 cattle, 26, up an express 600.000 sheep, and 2,351,000 pigs, besides countless poultry. + Alap Dalg’s Great Nougl Complete in Three Issugs—February I, 8 and Ig