The Trailer for Room No. 8
by Richard Harding Davis
The "trailer" for the green-goods men who rented room No. 8 in Case's
tenement had had no work to do for the last few days, and was cursing his
luck in consequence.
He was entirely too young to curse, but he had never been told so, and,
indeed, so imperfect had his training been that he had never been told not
to do anything as long as it pleased him to do it and made existence any
He had been told when he was very young, before the man and woman who had
brought him into the world had separated, not to crawl out on the
fire-escape, because he might break his neck, and later, after his father
had walked off Hegelman's Slip into the East River while very drunk, and
his mother had been sent to the penitentiary for grand larceny, he had
been told not to let the police catch him sleeping under the bridge.
With these two exceptions he had been told to do as he pleased, which was
the very mockery of advice, as he was just about as well able to do as he
pleased as is any one who has to beg or steal what he eats and has to
sleep in hall-ways or over the iron gratings of warm cellars and has the
officers of the children's societies always after him to put him in a
"Home" and make him be "good."
"Snipes," as the trailer was called, was determined no one should ever
force him to be good if he could possibly prevent it. And he certainly did
do a great deal to prevent it. He knew what having to be good meant. Some
of the boys who had escaped from the Home had told him all about that. It
meant wearing shoes and a blue and white checkered apron, and making
cane-bottomed chairs all day, and having to wash yourself in a big iron
tub twice a week, not to speak of having to move about like machines
whenever the lady teacher hit a bell. So when the green-goods men, of whom
the genial Mr. Alf Wolfe was the chief, asked Snipes to act as "trailer"
for them at a quarter of a dollar for every victim he shadowed, he jumped
at the offer and was proud of the position.
If you should happen to keep a grocery store in the country, or to run the
village post-office, it is not unlikely that you know what a green-goods
man is; but in case you don't, and have only a vague idea as to how he
lives, a paragraph of explanation must be inserted here for your
particular benefit. Green goods is the technical name for counterfeit
bills, and the green-goods men send out circulars to countrymen all over
the United States, offering to sell them $5,000 worth of counterfeit money
for $500, and ease their conscience by explaining to them that by
purchasing these green goods they are hurting no one but the Government,
which is quite able, with its big surplus, to stand the loss. They enclose
a letter which is to serve their victim as a mark of identification or
credential when he comes on to purchase.
The address they give him is in one of the many drug-store and cigar-store
post-offices which are scattered all over New York, and which contribute
to make vice and crime so easy that the evil they do cannot be reckoned in
souls lost or dollars stolen. If the letter from the countryman strikes
the dealers in green goods as sincere, they appoint an interview with him
by mail in rooms they rent for the purpose, and if they, on meeting him
there, think he is still in earnest and not a detective or officer in
disguise, they appoint still another interview, to be held later in the
day in the back room of some saloon.
Then the countryman is watched throughout the day from the moment he
leaves the first meeting-place until he arrives at the saloon. If anything
in his conduct during that time leads the man whose duty it is to follow
him, or the "trailer," as the profession call it, to believe he is a
detective, he finds when he arrives at the saloon that there is no one to
receive him. But if the trailer regards his conduct as unsuspicious, he is
taken to another saloon, not the one just appointed, which is, perhaps, a
most respectable place, but to the thieves' own private little rendezvous,
where he is robbed in any of the several different ways best suited to
Snipes was a very good trailer. He was so little that no one ever noticed
him, and he could keep a man in sight no matter how big the crowd was, or
how rapidly it changed and shifted. And he was as patient as he was quick,
and would wait for hours if needful, with his eye on a door, until his man
reissued into the street again. And if the one he shadowed looked behind
him to see if he was followed, or dodged up and down different streets, as
if he were trying to throw off pursuit, or despatched a note or telegram,
or stopped to speak to a policeman or any special officer, as a detective
might, who thought he had his men safely in hand, off Snipes would go on a
run, to where Alf Wolfe was waiting, and tell what he had seen.
Then Wolfe would give him a quarter or more, and the trailer would go back
to his post opposite Case's tenement, and wait for another victim to issue
forth, and for the signal from No. 8 to follow him. It was not much fun,
and "customers," as Mr. Wolfe always called them, had been scarce, and Mr.
Wolfe, in consequence, had been cross and nasty in his temper, and had
batted Snipe out of the way on more than one occasion. So the trailer was
feeling blue and disconsolate, and wondered how it was that "Naseby"
Raegen, "Rags" Raegen's younger brother, had had the luck to get a two
weeks' visit to the country with the Fresh Air Fund children, while he had
He supposed it was because Naseby had sold papers, and wore shoes, and
went to night school, and did many other things equally objectionable.
Still, what Naseby had said about the country, and riding horseback, and
the fishing, and the shooting crows with no cops to stop you, and
watermelons for nothing, had sounded wonderfully attractive and quite
improbable, except that it was one of Naseby's peculiarly sneaking ways to
tell the truth. Anyway, Naseby had left Cherry Street for good, and had
gone back to the country to work there. This all helped to make Snipes
morose, and it was with a cynical smile of satisfaction that he watched an
old countryman coming slowly up the street, and asking his way timidly of
the Italians to Case's tenement.
The countryman looked up and about him in evident bewilderment and
anxiety. He glanced hesitatingly across at the boy leaning against the
wall of a saloon, but the boy was watching two sparrows fighting in the
dirt of the street, and did not see him. At least, it did not look as if
he saw him. Then the old man knocked on the door of Case's tenement. No
one came, for the people in the house had learned to leave inquiring
countrymen to the gentleman who rented room No. 8, and as that gentleman
was occupied at that moment with a younger countryman, he allowed the old
man, whom he had first cautiously observed from the top of the stairs, to
remain where he was.
The old man stood uncertainly on the stoop, and then removed his heavy
black felt hat and rubbed his bald head and the white shining locks of
hair around it with a red bandanna handkerchief. Then he walked very
slowly across the street toward Snipes, for the rest of the street was
empty, and there was no one else at hand. The old man was dressed in heavy
black broadcloth, quaintly cut, with boot legs showing up under the
trousers, and with faultlessly clean linen of home-made manufacture.
"I can't make the people in that house over there hear me," complained the
old man, with the simple confidence that old age has in very young boys.
"Do you happen to know if they're at home?"
"Nop," growled Snipes.
"I'm looking for a man named Perceval," said the stranger; "he lives in
that house, and I wanter see him on most particular business. It isn't a
very pleasing place he lives in, is it—at least," he hurriedly
added, as if fearful of giving offence, "it isn't much on the outside? Do
you happen to know him?"
Perceval was Alf Wolfe's business name.
"Nop," said the trailer.
"Well, I'm not looking for him," explained the stranger, slowly, "as much
as I'm looking for a young man that I kind of suspect is been to see him
to-day: a young man that looks like me, only younger. Has lightish hair
and pretty tall and lanky, and carrying a shiny black bag with him. Did
you happen to hev noticed him going into that place across the way?"
"Nop," said Snipes.
The old man sighed and nodded his head thoughtfully at Snipes, and
puckered up the corners of his mouth, as though he were thinking deeply.
He had wonderfully honest blue eyes, and with the white hair hanging
around his sun-burned face, he looked like an old saint. But the trailer
didn't know that: he did know, though, that this man was a different sort
from the rest. Still, that was none of his business.
"What is't you want to see him about?" he asked sullenly, while he looked
up and down the street and everywhere but at the old man, and rubbed one
bare foot slowly over the other.
The old man looked pained, and much to Snipe's surprise, the question
brought the tears to his eyes, and his lips trembled. Then he swerved
slightly, so that he might have fallen if Snipes had not caught him and
helped him across the pavement to a seat on a stoop. "Thankey, son," said
the stranger; "I'm not as strong as I was, an' the sun's mighty hot, an'
these streets of yours smell mighty bad, and I've had a powerful lot of
trouble these last few days. But if I could see this man Perceval before
my boy does, I know I could fix it, and it would all come out right."
"What do you want to see him about?" repeated the trailer, suspiciously,
while he fanned the old man with his hat. Snipes could not have told you
why he did this or why this particular old countryman was any different
from the many others who came to buy counterfeit money and who were
thieves at heart as well as in deed.
"I want to see him about my son," said the old man to the little boy.
"He's a bad man whoever he is. This 'ere Perceval is a bad man. He sends
down his wickedness to the country and tempts weak folks to sin. He
teaches 'em ways of evil-doing they never heard of, and he's ruined my son
with the others—ruined him. I've had nothing to do with the city and
its ways; we're strict living, simple folks, and perhaps we've been too
strict, or Abraham wouldn't have run away to the city. But I thought it
was best, and I doubted nothing when the fresh-air children came to the
farm. I didn't like city children, but I let 'em come. I took 'em in, and
did what I could to make it pleasant for 'em. Poor little fellers, all as
thin as corn-stalks and pale as ghosts, and as dirty as you.
"I took 'em in and let 'em ride the horses, and swim in the river, and
shoot crows in the cornfield, and eat all the cherries they could pull,
and what did the city send me in return for that? It sent me this
thieving, rascally scheme of this man Perceval's, and it turned my boy's
head, and lost him to me. I saw him poring over the note and reading it as
if it were Gospel, and I suspected nothing. And when he asked me if he
could keep it, I said yes he could, for I thought he wanted it for a
curiosity, and then off he put with the black bag and the $200 he's been
saving up to start housekeeping with when the old Deacon says he can marry
his daughter Kate." The old man placed both hands on his knees and went on
"The old Deacon says he'll not let 'em marry till Abe has $2,000, and that
is what the boy's come after. He wants to buy $2,000 worth of bad money
with his $200 worth of good money, to show the Deacon, just as though it
were likely a marriage after such a crime as that would ever be a happy
Snipes had stopped fanning the old man, as he ran on, and was listening
intently, with an uncomfortable feeling of sympathy and sorrow,
uncomfortable because he was not used to it.
He could not see why the old man should think the city should have treated
his boy better because he had taken care of the city's children, and he
was puzzled between his allegiance to the gang and his desire to help the
gang's innocent victim, and then because he was an innocent victim and not
a "customer," he let his sympathy get the better of his discretion.
"Saay," he began, abruptly, "I'm not sayin' nothin' to nobody, and
nobody's sayin' nothin' to me—see? but I guess your son'll be around
here to-day, sure. He's got to come before one, for this office closes
sharp at one, and we goes home. Now, I've got the call whether he gets his
stuff taken off him or whether the boys leave him alone. If I say the
word, they'd no more come near him than if he had the cholera—see?
An' I'll say it for this oncet, just for you. Hold on," he commanded, as
the old man raised his voice in surprised interrogation, "don't ask no
questions, 'cause you won't get no answers 'except lies. You find your way
back to the Grand Central Depot and wait there, and I'll steer your son
down to you, sure, as soon as I can find him—see? Now get along, or
you'll get me inter trouble."
"You've been lying to me, then," cried the old man, "and you're as bad as
any of them, and my boy's over in that house now."
He scrambled up from the stoop, and before the trailer could understand
what he proposed to do, had dashed across the street and up the stoop, and
up the stairs, and had burst into room No. 8.
Snipes tore after him. "Come back! come back out of that, you old fool!"
he cried. "You'll get killed in there!" Snipes was afraid to enter room
No. 8, but he could hear from the outside the old man challenging Alf
Wolfe in a resonant angry voice that rang through the building.
"Whew!" said Snipes, crouching on the stairs, "there's goin' to be a muss
this time, sure!"
"Where's my son? Where have you hidden my son?" demanded, the old man. He
ran across the room and pulled open a door that led into another room, but
it was empty. He had fully expected to see his boy murdered and quartered,
and with his pockets inside out. He turned on Wolfe, shaking his white
hair like a mane. "Give me up my son, you rascal you!" he cried, "or I'll
get the police, and I'll tell them how you decoy honest boys to your den
and murder them."
"Are you drunk or crazy, or just a little of both?" asked Mr. Wolfe. "For
a cent I'd throw you out of that window. Get out of here! Quick, now!
You're too old to get excited like that; it's not good for you."
But this only exasperated the old man the more, and he made a lunge at the
confidence man's throat. Mr. Wolfe stepped aside and caught him around the
waist and twisted his leg around the old man's rheumatic one, and held
him. "Now," said Wolfe, as quietly as though he were giving a lesson in
wrestling, "if I wanted to, I could break your back."
The old man glared up at him, panting. "Your son's not here," said Wolfe,
"and this is a private gentleman's private room. I could turn you over to
the police for assault if I wanted to; but," he added, magnanimously, "I
won't. Now get out of here and go home to your wife, and when you come to
see the sights again don't drink so much raw whiskey." He half carried the
old farmer to the top of the stairs and dropped him, and went back and
closed the door. Snipes came up and helped him down and out, and the old
man and the boy walked slowly and in silence out to the Bowery. Snipes
helped his companion into a car and put him off at the Grand Central
Depot. The heat and the excitement had told heavily on the old man, and he
seemed dazed and beaten.
He was leaning on the trailer's shoulder and waiting for his turn in the
line in front of the ticket window, when a tall, gawky, good-looking
country lad sprang out of it and at him with an expression of surprise and
anxiety. "Father," he said, "father, what's wrong? What are you doing
here? Is anybody ill at home? Are you ill?"
"Abraham," said the old man, simply, and dropped heavily on the younger
man's shoulder. Then he raised his head sternly and said: "I thought you
were murdered, but better that than a thief, Abraham. What brought you
here? What did you do with that rascal's letter? What did you do with his
The trailer drew cautiously away; the conversation was becoming
"I don't know what you're talking about," said Abraham, calmly. "The
Deacon gave his consent the other night without the $2,000, and I took the
$200 I'd saved and came right on in the fust train to buy the ring. It's
pretty, isn't it?" he said, flushing, as he pulled out a little velvet box
and opened it.
The old man was so happy at this that he laughed and cried alternately,
and then he made a grab for the trailer and pulled him down beside him on
one of the benches.
"You've got to come with me," he said, with kind severity. "You're a good
boy, but your folks have let you run wrong. You've been good to me, and
you said you would get me back my boy and save him from those thieves, and
I believe now that you meant it. Now you're just coming back with us to
the farm and the cows and the river, and you can eat all you want and live
with us, and never, never see this unclean, wicked city again."
Snipes looked up keenly from under the rim of his hat and rubbed one of
his muddy feet over the other as was his habit. The young countryman,
greatly puzzled, and the older man smiling kindly, waited expectantly in
silence. From outside came the sound of the car-bells jangling, and the
rattle of cabs, and the cries of drivers, and all the varying rush and
turmoil of a great metropolis. Green fields, and running rivers, and fruit
that did not grow in wooden boxes or brown paper cones, were myths and
idle words to Snipes, but this "unclean, wicked city" he knew.
"I guess you're too good for me," he said, with an uneasy laugh. "I guess
little old New York's good enough for me."
"What!" cried the old man, in the tones of greatest concern. "You would go
back to that den of iniquity, surely not,—to that thief Perceval?"
"Well," said the trailer, slowly, "and he's not such a bad lot, neither.
You see he could hev broke your neck that time when you was choking him,
but he didn't. There's your train," he added hurriedly and jumping away.
"Good-by. So long, old man. I'm much 'bliged to you jus' for asking me."
Two hours later the farmer and his son were making the family weep and
laugh over their adventures, as they all sat together on the porch with
the vines about it; and the trailer was leaning against the wall of a
saloon and apparently counting his ten toes, but in reality watching for
Mr. Wolfe to give the signal from the window of room No. 8.