“Hefty” Burke was one of the best swimmers in the East River.  There was no regular way open for him to prove this, as the gentlemen of the Harlem boat-clubs, under whose auspices the annual races were given, called him a professional, and would not swim against him.  “They won’t keep company with me on land,” Hefty complained, bitterly, “and they can’t keep company with me in the water; so I lose both ways.”  Young Burke held these gentlemen of the rowing clubs in great contempt, and their outriggers and low-necked and picturesque rowing clothes as well.  They were fond of lying out of the current, with the oars pulled across at their backs for support, smoking and commenting audibly upon the other oarsmen who passed them by perspiring uncomfortably, and conscious that they were being criticised.  Hefty said that these amateur oarsmen and swimmers were only pretty boys, and that he could give them two hundred yards start in a mile of rough or smooth water and pass them as easily as a tug passes a lighter.

He was quite right in this latter boast; but, as they would call him a professional and would not swim against him, there was no way for him to prove it.  His idea of a race and their idea of a race differed.  They had a committee to select prizes and open a book for entries, and when the day of the races came they had a judges’ boat with gay bunting all over it, and a badly frightened referee and a host of reporters, and police boats to keep order.  But when Hefty swam, his two backers, who had challenged some other young man through a sporting paper, rowed in a boat behind him and yelled and swore directions, advice, warnings, and encouragement at him, and in their excitement drank all of the whiskey that had been intended for him.  And the other young man’s backers, who had put up ten dollars on him, and a tugboat filled with other rough young men, kegs of beer, and three Italians with two fiddles and one harp, followed close in the wake of the swimmers.  It was most exciting, and though Hefty never had any prizes to show for it, he always came in first, and so won a great deal of local reputation.  He also gained renown as a life-saver; for if it had not been for him many a venturesome lad would have ended his young life in the waters of the East River.

For this he received ornate and very thin gold medals, with very little gold spread over a large extent of medal, from grateful parents and admiring friends.  These were real medals, and given to him, and not paid for by himself as were “Rags” Raegan’s, who always bought himself a medal whenever he assaulted a reputable citizen and the case was up before the Court of General Sessions.  It was the habit of Mr. Raegan’s friends to fall overboard for him whenever he was in difficulty of this sort, and allow themselves to be saved, and to present Raegan with the medal he had prepared; and this act of heroism would get into the papers, and Raegan’s lawyer would make the most of it before the judges.  Rags had been Hefty’s foremost rival among the swimmers of the East Side, but since the retirement of the former into reputable and private life Hefty was the acknowledged champion of the river front.

Hefty was not at all a bad young man ­that is, he did not expect his people to support him ­and he worked occasionally, especially about election time, and what he made in bets and in backing himself to swim supplied him with small change.  Then he fell in love with Miss Casey, and the trouble and happiness of his life came to him hand and hand together; and as this human feeling does away with class distinctions, I need not feel I must apologize for him any longer, but just tell his story.

He met her at the Hon. P.C.  McGovern’s Fourth Ward Association’s excursion and picnic, at which he was one of the twenty-five vice-presidents.  On this occasion Hefty had jumped overboard after one of the Rag Gang whom the members of the Half-Hose Social Club had, in a spirit of merriment, dropped over the side of the boat.  This action and the subsequent rescue and ensuing intoxication of the half-drowned member of the Rag Gang had filled Miss Casey’s heart with admiration, and she told Hefty he was a good one and ought to be proud of himself.

On the following Sunday he walked out Avenue A to Tompkins Square with Mary, and he also spent a great deal of time every day on her stoop when he was not working, for he was working now and making ten dollars a week as an assistant to an ice-driver.  They had promised to give him fifteen dollars a week and a seat on the box if he proved steady.  He had even dreamed of wedding Mary in the spring.  But Casey was a particularly objectionable man for a father-in-law, and his objections to Hefty were equally strong.  He honestly thought the young man no fit match for his daughter, and would only promise to allow him to “keep company” with Mary on the condition of his living steadily.

So it became Hefty’s duty to behave himself.  He found this a little hard to do at first, but he confessed that it grew easier as he saw more of Miss Casey.  He attributed his reform to her entirely.  She had made the semi-political, semi-social organizations to which he belonged appear stupid, and especially so when he lost his money playing poker in the club-room (for the club had only one room), when he might have put it away for her.  He liked to talk with her about the neighbors in the tenement, and his chance of political advancement to the position of a watchman at the Custom-house Wharf, and hear her play “Mary and John” on the melodeon.  He boasted that she could make it sound as well as it did on the barrel-organ.

He was very polite to her father and very much afraid of him, for he was a most particular old man from the North of Ireland, and objected to Hefty because he was a good Catholic and fond of street fights.  He also asked pertinently how Hefty expected to support a wife by swimming from one pier to another on the chance of winning ten dollars, and pointed out that even this precarious means of livelihood would be shut off when the winter came.  He much preferred “Patsy” Moffat as a prospective son-in-law, because Moffat was one of the proprietors in a local express company with a capital stock of three wagons and two horses.  Miss Casey herself, so it seemed to Hefty, was rather fond of Moffat; but he could not tell for whom she really cared, for she was very shy, and would as soon have thought of speaking a word of encouragement as of speaking with unkindness.

There was to be a ball at the Palace Garden on Wednesday night, and Hefty had promised to call for Mary at nine o’clock.  She told him to be on time, and threatened to go with her old love, Patsy Moffat, if he were late.

On Monday night the foreman at the livery stable of the ice company appointed Hefty a driver, and, as his wages would now be fifteen dollars a week, he concluded to ask Mary to marry him on Wednesday night at the dance.

He was very much elated and very happy.

His fellow-workmen heard of his promotion and insisted on his standing treat, which he did several times, until the others became flippant in their remarks and careless in their conduct.  In this innocent but somewhat noisy state they started home, and on the way were injudicious enough to say, “Ah there!” to a policeman as he issued from the side door of a saloon.  The policeman naturally pounded the nearest of them on the head with his club, and as Hefty happened to be that one, and as he objected, he was arrested.  He gave a false name, and next morning pleaded not guilty to the charge of “assaulting an officer and causing a crowd to collect.”

His sentence was thirty days in default of three hundred dollars, and by two o’clock he was on the boat to the Island, and by three he had discarded the blue shirt and red suspenders of an iceman for the gray stiff cloth of a prisoner.  He took the whole trouble terribly to heart.  He knew that if Old Man Casey, as he called him, heard of it there would be no winning his daughter with his consent, and he feared that the girl herself would have grave doubts concerning him.  He was especially cast down when he thought of the dance on Wednesday night, and of how she would go off with Patsy Moffat.  And what made it worse was the thought that if he did not return he would lose his position at the ice company’s stable, and then marriage with Mary would be quite impossible.  He grieved over this all day, and speculated as to what his family would think of him.  His circle of friends was so well known to other mutual friends that he did not dare to ask any of them to bail him out, for this would have certainly come to Casey’s ears.

He could do nothing but wait.  And yet thirty days was a significant number to his friends, and an absence of that duration would be hard to explain.  On Wednesday morning, two days after his arrest, he was put to work with a gang of twenty men breaking stone on the roadway that leads from the insane quarters to the penitentiary.  It was a warm, sunny day, and the city, lying just across the narrow channel, never looked more beautiful.  It seemed near enough for him to reach out his hand and touch it.  And the private yachts and big excursion-boats that passed, banging out popular airs and alive with bunting, made Hefty feel very bitter.  He determined that when he got back he would go look up the policeman who had assaulted him and break his head with a brick in a stocking.  This plan cheered him somewhat, until he thought again of Mary Casey at the dance that night with Patsy Moffat, and this excited him so that he determined madly to break away and escape.  His first impulse was to drop his crowbar and jump into the river on the instant, but his cooler judgment decided him to wait.

At the northern end of the Island the grass runs high, and there are no houses of any sort upon it.  It reaches out into a rocky point, where it touches the still terribly swift eddies of Hell Gate, and its sharp front divides the water and directs it towards Astoria on the east and the city on the west.  Hefty determined to walk off from the gang of workmen until he could drop into this grass and to lie there until night.  This would be easy, as there was only one man to watch them, for they were all there for only ten days or one month, and the idea that they should try to escape was hardly considered.  So Hefty edged off farther from the gang, and then, while the guard was busy lighting his pipe, dropped into the long grass and lay there quietly, after first ridding himself of his shoes and jacket.  At six o’clock a bell tolled and the guard marched away, with his gang shambling after him.  Hefty guessed they would not miss him until they came to count heads at supper-time; but even now it was already dark, and lights were showing on the opposite bank.  He had selected the place he meant to swim for ­a green bank below a row of new tenements, a place where a few bushes still stood, and where the boys of Harlem hid their clothes when they went in swimming.

At half-past seven it was quite dark, so dark, in fact, that the three lanterns which came tossing towards him told Hefty that his absence had been discovered.  He rose quickly and stepped cautiously, instead of diving, into the river, for he was fearful of hidden rocks.  The current was much stronger than he had imagined, and he hesitated for a moment, with the water pulling at his knees, but only for a moment; for the men were hunting for him in the grass.

He drew the gray cotton shirt from his shoulders, and threw it back of him with an exclamation of disgust, and of relief at being a free man again, and struck his broad, bare chest and the biceps of his arms with a little gasp of pleasure in their perfect strength, and then bent forward and slid into the river.

The current from the opening at Hell Gate caught him up as though he had been a plank.  It tossed him and twisted him and sucked him down.  He beat his way for a second to the surface and gasped for breath and was drawn down again, striking savagely at the eddies which seemed to twist his limbs into useless, heavy masses of flesh and muscle.  Then he dived down and down, seeking a possibly less rapid current at the muddy bottom of the river; but the current drew him up again until he reached the top, just in time, so it seemed to him, to breathe the pure air before his lungs split with the awful pressure.  He was gloriously and fiercely excited by the unexpected strength of his opponent and the probably fatal outcome of his adventure.  He stopped struggling, that he might gain fresh strength, and let the current bear him where it would, until he saw that it was carrying him swiftly to the shore and to the rocks of the Island.  And then he dived again and beat his way along the bottom, clutching with his hands at the soft, thick mud, and rising only to gasp for breath and sink again.  His eyes were smarting hotly, and his head and breast ached with pressure that seemed to come from the inside and threatened to burst its way out.  His arms had grown like lead and had lost their strength, and his legs were swept and twisted away from his control and were numb and useless.  He assured himself fiercely that he could not have been in the water for more than five minutes at the longest, and reminded himself that he had often before lived in it for hours, and that this power, which was so much greater than his own, could not outlast him.  But there was no sign of abatement in the swift, cruel uncertainty of its movement, and it bore him on and down or up as it pleased.  The lights on the shore became indistinct, and he finally confused the two shores, and gave up hope of reaching the New York side, except by accident, and hoped only to reach some solid land alive.  He did not go over all of his past life, but the vision of Mary Casey did come to him, and how she would not know that he had been innocent.  It was a little thing to distress himself about at such a time, but it hurt him keenly.  And then the lights grew blurred, and he felt that he was making heavy mechanical strokes that barely kept his lips above the water-line.  He felt the current slacken perceptibly, but he was too much exhausted to take advantage of it, and drifted forward with it, splashing feebly like a dog, and holding his head back with a desperate effort.  A huge, black shadow, only a shade blacker than the water around him, loomed up suddenly on his right, and he saw a man’s face appear in the light of a hatchway and disappear again.

“Help!” he cried, “help!” but his voice sounded far away and barely audible.  He struck out desperately against the current, and turned on his back and tried to keep himself afloat where he was.  “Help!” he called again, feebly, grudging the strength it took to call even that.  “Help!  Quick, for God’s sake! help me!”

Something heavy, black, and wet struck him sharply in the face and fell with a splash on the water beside him.  He clutched for it quickly, and clasped it with both hands and felt it grow taut; and then gave up thinking, and they pulled him on board.

When he came to himself, the captain of the canal-boat stooped and took a fold of the gray trousers between his thumb and finger.  Then he raised his head and glanced across at the big black Island, where lights were still moving about on the shore, and whistled softly.  But Hefty looked at him so beseechingly that he arose and came back with a pair of old boots and a suit of blue jeans.

“Will you send these back to me to-morrow?” he asked.

“Sure,” said Hefty.

“And what’ll I do with these?” said the captain, holding up the gray trousers.

“Anything you want, except to wear ’em,” said Mr. Burke, feebly, with a grin.

One hour later Miss Casey was standing up with Mr. Patsy Moffat for the grand march of the grand ball of the Jolly Fellows’ Pleasure Club of the Fourteenth Ward, held at the Palace Garden.  The band was just starting the “Boulanger March,” and Mr. Moffat was saying wittily that it was warm enough to eat ice, when Mr. Hefty Burke shouldered in between him and Miss Casey.  He was dressed in his best suit of clothes, and his hair was conspicuously damp.

“Excuse me, Patsy,” said Mr. Burke, as he took Miss Casey’s arm, in his, “but this march is promised to me.  I’m sorry I was late, and I’m sorry to disappoint you; but you’re like the lad that drives the hansom cab, see? ­you’re not in it.”

“But indeed,” said Miss Casey, later, “you shouldn’t have kept me a-waiting.  It wasn’t civil.”

“I know,” assented Hefty, gloomily, “but I came as soon as I could.  I even went widout me supper so’s to get here; an’ they wuz expectin’ me to stay to supper, too.”