Hefty Burke was once clubbed by a
policeman named McCluire, who excused the clubbing
to his Honor by swearing that Hefty had been drunk
and disorderly, which was not true. Hefty got
away from the Island by swimming the East River, and
swore to get even with the policeman. This story
tells how he got even.
Mr. Carstairs was an artist who had
made his first great success by painting figures and
landscapes in Brittany. He had a studio at Fifty-eighth
Street and Sixth Avenue, and was engaged on an historical
subject in which there were three figures. One
was a knight in full armor, and the other was a Moor,
and the third was the figure of a woman. The
suit of armor had been purchased by Mr. Carstairs in
Paris, and was believed to have been worn by a brave
nobleman, one of whose extravagant descendants had
sold everything belonging to his family in order to
get money with which to play baccarat. Carstairs
was at the sale and paid a large price for the suit
of armor which the Marquis de Neuville had worn, and
set it up in a corner of his studio. It was in
eight or a dozen pieces, and quite heavy, but was wonderfully
carved and inlaid with silver, and there were dents
on it that showed where a Saracen’s scimetar
had been dulled and many a brave knight’s spear
had struck. Mr. Carstairs had paid so much for
it that he thought he ought to make a better use of
it, if possible, than simply to keep it dusted and
show it off to his friends. So he began this historical
picture, and engaged Hefty Burke to pose as the knight
and wear the armor. Hefty’s features were
not exactly the sort of features you would imagine
a Marquis de Neuville would have; but as his visor
was down in the picture, it did not make much material
difference; and as his figure was superb, he answered
very well. Hefty drove an ice-wagon during business
hours, and, as a personal favor to Mr. Carstairs,
agreed to pose for him, for a consideration, two afternoons
of each week, and to sleep in the studio at night,
for it was filled with valuable things.
The armor was a never-ending source
of amazement and bewilderment to Hefty. He could
not understand why a man would wear such a suit, and
especially when he went out to fight. It was the
last thing in the world he would individually have
selected in which to make war.
“Ef I was goin’ to scrap
wid anybody,” he said to Mr. Carstairs, “I’d
as lief tie meself up wid dumb-bells as take to carry
all this stuff on me. A man wid a baseball bat
and swimmin’ tights on could dance all around
youse and knock spots out of one of these things.
The other lad wouldn’t be in it. Why, before
he could lift his legs or get his hands up you cud
hit him on his helmet, and he wouldn’t know what
killed him. They must hev sat down to fight in
them days.”
Mr. Carstairs painted on in silence and smiled grimly.
“I’d like to have seen
a go with the parties fixed out in a pair of these
things,” continued Hefty. “I’d
bet on the lad that got in the first whack. He
wouldn’t have to do nothing but shove the other
one over on his back and fall on him. Why, I
guess this weighs half a ton if it weighs an ounce!”
For all his contempt, Hefty had a
secret admiration for the ancient marquis who had
worn this suit, and had been strong enough to carry
its weight and demolish his enemies besides. The
marks on the armor interested him greatly, and he
was very much impressed one day when he found what
he declared to be blood-stains on the lining of the
helmet.
“I guess the old feller that
wore this was a sport, eh?” he said, proudly,
shaking the pieces on his arms until they rattled.
“I guess he done ’em up pretty well for
all these handicaps. I’ll bet when he got
to falling around on ’em and butting ’em
with this fire helmet he made ’em purty tired.
Don’t youse think so?”
Young Carstairs said he didn’t doubt it for
a moment.
The Small Hours Social Club was to
give a prize masquerade ball at the Palace Garden
on New Year’s Night, and Hefty had decided to
go. Every gentleman dancer was to get a white
silk badge with a gold tassel, and every committeeman
received a blue badge with “Committee”
written across it in brass letters. It cost three
dollars to be a committeeman, but only one dollar
“for self and lady.” There were three
prizes. One of a silver water-pitcher for the
“handsomest-costumed lady dancer,” an
accordion for the “best-dressed gent,”
and a cake for the most original idea in costume,
whether worn by “gent or lady.” Hefty,
as well as many others, made up his mind to get the
accordion, if it cost him as much as seven dollars,
which was half of his week’s wages. It
wasn’t the prize he wanted so much, but he thought
of the impression it would make on Miss Casey, whose
father was the well-known janitor of that name.
They had been engaged for some time, but the engagement
hung fire, and Hefty thought that a becoming and appropriate
costume might hasten matters a little. He was
undecided as to whether he should go as an Indian
or as a courtier of the time of Charles II. Auchmuty
Stein, of the Bowery, who supplies costumes and wigs
at reasonable rates, was of the opinion that a neat
sailor suit of light blue silk and decorated with
white anchors was about the “brettiest thing
in the shop, and sheap at fife dollars;” but
Hefty said he never saw a sailor in silk yet, and
he didn’t think they ever wore it. He couldn’t
see how they could keep the tar and salt-water from
ruining it.
The Charles II. court suit was very
handsome, and consisted of red cotton tights, blue
velveteen doublet, and a blue cloak lined with pale
pink silk. A yellow wig went with this, and a
jewelled sword which would not come out of the scabbard.
It could be had for seven dollars a night. Hefty
was still in doubt about it and was much perplexed.
Auchmuty Stein told him Charlie Macklin, the Third
Avenue ticket-chopper, was after the same suit, and
that he had better take it while he could get it.
But Hefty said he’d think about it. The
next day was his day for posing, and as he stood arrayed
in the Marquis de Neuville’s suit of mail he
chanced to see himself in one of the long mirrors,
and was for the first time so struck with the ferocity
of his appearance that he determined to see if old
man Stein had not a suit of imitation armor, which
would not be so heavy and would look as well.
But the more Hefty thought of it, the more he believed
that only the real suit would do. Its associations,
its blood-stains, and the real silver tracings haunted
him, and he half decided to ask Mr. Carstairs to lend
it to him.
But then he remembered overhearing
Carstairs tell a brother-artist that he had paid two
thousand francs for it, and, though he did not know
how much a franc might be, two thousand of anything
was too much to wear around at a masquerade ball.
But the thing haunted him. He was sure if Miss
Casey saw him in that suit she would never look at
Charlie Macklin again.
“They wouldn’t be in the
same town with me,” said Hefty. “And
I’d get two of the prizes, sure.”
He was in great perplexity, when good
luck or bad luck settled it for him.
“Burke,” said Mr. Carstairs,
“Mrs. Carstairs and I are going out of town
for New Year’s Day, and will be gone until Sunday.
Take a turn through the rooms each night, will you?
as well as the studio, and see that everything is
all right.” That clinched the matter for
Hefty. He determined to go as far as the Palace
Garden as the Marquis de Neuville, and say nothing
whatever to Mr. Carstairs about it.
Stuff McGovern, who drove a night-hawk
and who was a particular admirer of Hefty’s,
even though as a cabman he was in a higher social
scale than the driver of an ice-cart, agreed to carry
Hefty and his half-ton of armor to the Garden, and
call for him when the ball was over.
“Holee smoke!” gasped
Mr. McGovern, as Hefty stumbled heavily across the
pavement with an overcoat over his armor and his helmet
under his arm. “Do you expect to do much
dancing in that sheet-iron?”
“It’s the looks of the
thing I’m gambling on,” said Hefty.
“I look like a locomoteeve when I get this stovepipe
on me head.”
Hefty put on his helmet in the cab
and pulled down the visor, and when he alighted the
crowd around the door was too greatly awed to jeer,
but stood silent with breathless admiration. He
had great difficulty in mounting the somewhat steep
flight of stairs which led to the dancing-room, and
considered gloomily that in the event of a fire he
would have a very small chance of getting out alive.
He made so much noise coming up that the committeemen
thought some one was rolling some one else down the
stairs, and came out to see the fight. They observed
Hefty’s approach with whispered awe and amazement.
“Wot are you?” asked the
man at the door. “Youse needn’t give
your real name,” he explained, politely.
“But you’ve got to give something if youse
are trying for a prize, see?”
“I’m the Black Knight,”
said Hefty in a hoarse voice, “the Marquis de
Newveal; and when it comes to scrappin’ wid der
perlice, I’m de best in der business.”
This last statement was entirely impromptu,
and inspired by the presence of Policeman McCluire,
who, with several others, had been detailed to keep
order. McCluire took this challenge calmly, and
looked down and smiled at Hefty’s feet.
“He looks like a stove on two
legs,” he said to the crowd. The crowd,
as a matter of policy, laughed.
“You’ll look like a fool
standing on his head in a snow-bank if you talk impudent
to me,” said Hefty, epigrammatically, from behind
the barrier of his iron mask. What might have
happened next did not happen, because at that moment
the music sounded for the grand march, and Hefty and
the policeman were swept apart by the crowd of Indians,
Mexicans, courtiers, negro minstrels, and clowns.
Hefty stamped across the waxed floor about as lightly
as a safe could do it if a safe could walk. He
found Miss Casey after the march and disclosed his
identity. She promised not to tell, and was plainly
delighted and flattered at being seen with the distinct
sensation of the ball. “Say, Hefty,”
she said, “they just ain’t in it with
you. You’ll take the two prizes sure.
How do I look?”
“Out o’ sight,”
said Hefty. “Never saw you lookin’
better.”
“That’s good,” said
Miss Casey, simply, and with a sigh of satisfaction.
Hefty was undoubtedly a great success.
The men came around him and pawed him, and felt the
dents in the armor, and tried the weight of it by
holding up one of his arms, and handled him generally
as though he were a freak in a museum. “Let
’em alone,” said Hefty to Miss Casey,
“I’m not sayin’ a word. Let
the judges get on to the sensation I’m a-makin,’
and I’ll walk off with the prizes. The crowd
is wid me sure.”
At midnight the judges pounded on
a table for order, and announced that after much debate
they gave the first prize to Miss Lizzie Cannon, of
Hester Street, for “having the most handsomest
costume on the floor, that of Columbia.”
The fact that Mr. “Buck” Masters,
who was one of the judges, and who was engaged to
Miss Cannon, had said that he would pound things out
of the other judges if they gave the prize elsewhere
was not known, but the decision met with as general
satisfaction as could well be expected.
“The second prize,” said
the judges, “goes to the gent calling himself
the Black Knight him in the iron leggings and
the other prize for the most original costume goes
to him, too.” Half the crowd cheered at
this, and only one man hissed. Hefty, filled with
joy and with the anticipation of the elegance the
ice-pitcher would lend to his flat when he married
Miss Casey, and how conveniently he could fill it,
turned on this gentleman and told him that only geese
hissed.
The gentleman, who had spent much
time on his costume, and who had been assured by each
judge on each occasion that evening when he had treated
him to beer that he would get the prize, told Hefty
to go lie down. It has never been explained just
what horrible insult lies back of this advice, but
it is a very dangerous thing to tell a gentleman to
do. Hefty lifted one foot heavily and bore down
on the disappointed masker like an ironclad in a heavy
sea. But before he could reach him Policeman
McCluire, mindful of the insult put upon him by this
stranger, sprang between them and said: “Here,
now, no scrapping here; get out of this,” and
shoved Hefty back with his hand. Hefty uttered
a mighty howl of wrath and long-cherished anger, and
lurched forward, but before he could reach his old-time
enemy three policemen had him around the arms and
by the leg, and he was as effectually stopped as though
he had been chained to the floor.
“Let go o’ me,”
said Hefty, wildly. “You’re smotherin’
me. Give me a fair chance at him.”
But they would not give him any sort
of a chance. They rushed him down the steep stairs,
and while McCluire ran ahead two more pushed back
the crowd that had surged uncertainly forward to the
rescue. If Hefty had declared his identity the
police would have had a very sad time of it; but that
he must not get Mr. Carstairs’s two-thousand-franc
suit into trouble was all that filled Hefty’s
mind, and all that he wanted was to escape. Three
policemen walked with him down the street. They
said they knew where he lived, and that they were only
going to take him home. They said this because
they were afraid the crowd would interfere if it imagined
Hefty was being led to the precinct station-house.
But Hefty knew where he was going
as soon as he turned the next corner and was started
off in the direction of the station-house. There
was still quite a small crowd at his heels, and Stuff
McGovern was driving along at the side anxious to
help, but fearful to do anything, as Hefty had told
him not to let any one know who his fare had been
and that his incognito must be preserved.
The blood rushed to Hefty’s
head like hot liquor. To be arrested for nothing,
and by that thing McCluire, and to have the noble
coat-of-mail of the Marquis de Neuville locked up in
a dirty cell and probably ruined, and to lose his
position with Carstairs, who had always treated him
so well, it was terrible! It could not be!
He looked through his visor; to the right and to the
left a policeman walked on each side of him with his
hand on his iron sleeve, and McCluire marched proudly
before. The dim lamps of McGovern’s night-hawk
shone at the side of the procession and showed the
crowd trailing on behind. Suddenly Hefty threw
up his visor “Stuff,” he cried, “are
youse with me?”
He did not wait for any answer, but
swung back his two iron arms and then brought them
forward with a sweep on to the back of the necks of
the two policemen. They went down and forward
as if a lamp-post had fallen on them, but were up
again in a second. But before they could rise
Hefty set his teeth, and with a gurgle of joy butted
his iron helmet into McCluire’s back and sent
him flying forward into a snow-bank. Then he
threw himself on him and buried him under three hundred
pounds of iron and flesh and blood, and beat him with
his mailed hand over the head and choked the snow
and ice down into his throat and nostrils.
“You’ll club me again,
will you?” he cried. “You’ll
send me to the Island?” The two policemen were
pounding him with their night-sticks as effectually
as though they were rapping on a door-step; and the
crowd, seeing this, fell on them from behind, led by
Stuff McGovern with his whip, and rolled them in the
snow and tried to tear off their coat-tails, which
means money out of the policeman’s own pocket
for repairs, and hurts more than broken ribs, as the
Police Benefit Society pays for them.
“Now then, boys, get me into
a cab,” cried Hefty. They lifted him in
and obligingly blew out the lights so that the police
could not see its number, and Stuff drove Hefty proudly
home. “I guess I’m even with that
cop now,” said Hefty as he stood at the door
of the studio building perspiring and happy; “but
if them cops ever find out who the Black Knight was,
I’ll go away for six months on the Island.
I guess,” he added, thoughtfully, “I’ll
have to give them two prizes up.”