The Leather Duke

That was all there was to it. Johnny and Sam walked out of the poolroom without anyone else trying to molest them. And no one followed them out, not even Joe Genara.

On the sidewalk, they hurried to Milton, turned north and ran a block to Hobbie Street. There they scooted west and after a few minutes came out on Crosby street. They walked quickly down Crosby and just as they reached Larrabee a streetcar came along. They boarded it.

The car had only a few passengers and Johnny and Sam had no trouble finding a seat. Johnny drew out a handkerchief and dabbed at the blood on his cheek.

“Kind of warm for a minute,” he admitted.

“Oh, it wasn’t bad,” said Sam. “Best workout I’ve had for quite a spell.” He grinned. “Little Italy isn’t so tough.”

“It was a waste of time, though — and money. Now we’ve got to find a place to sleep — for a dollar and twenty cents.”

They got off the streetcar on Madison and began walking westward. Johnny studied the signs along the way. There were plenty of “hotels,” advertising rooms at a dollar and 75 cents. At Canal the prices began to come down and soon they saw signs advertising rooms as low as 35 cents, but Johnny was not satisfied with the appearances of the places.

“Flea bags,” he said.

“As long as they’ve got beds, I don’t care,” Sam said. “If we’re going to get up at dawn to go to work I want to hit the hay.”

They reached Halsted Street and turned south and in the second block found a freshly painted sign, reading: “Private rooms, 30 cents.”

“The sign’s clean, anyway,” said Johnny. “Let’s bunk.”

They entered a dimly lighted corridor and the smell of disinfectant struck their nostrils. A flight of stairs led to the second floor and a small cubicle, containing a chair, a small bench and a grilled window in the wall. A frowzy old man was behind the grilled window.

“Got a couple of nice rooms?” Johnny asked. “For thirty cents?”

“Thirty apiece,” was the reply. “Only one person to a room.”

“That’s us, kid.” Johnny slipped thirty cents under the grill and Sam followed the example.

The man slipped an open book under the wicket. “Gotta register.”

Johnny signed the names, Glen Taylor and Henry Wallace, and returned the book. The clerk looked at the names. “Again?” He yawned. “Okay. Rooms seven and eight, next floor.”

“The sign said private rooms — where are the keys?” Johnny exclaimed.

“At the price we can’t afford to lose keys. There’s a bolt on the inside of every room. You can lock yourself in. But we ain’t responsible for valuables.”

“If we had valuables we wouldn’t be staying here,” Johnny retorted.

They climbed the stairs to the third floor and reached a narrow corridor, lighted by a single unshaded electric light bulb. On each side was a row of doors, some open, some closed. Johnny stepped to a door bearing the number seven.

Inside was an iron bedstead containing a mattress, an uncovered pillow and a ragged cotton pad. The room was one inch longer than the bed and two feet wider. It contained no other furnishings. The top of the cubicle was covered with chicken wire.

“Well,” said Johnny, “it isn’t the Palmer House, but I guess it’s home, for tonight, anyway.”

“Jeez,” said Sam morosely, “we eat dinner with a zillionaire at the Lakeside Athletic Club and then we bed down at a dump like this.”

Johnny exhaled wearily. “Who knows? Maybe tomorrow night we’ll sleep out at Towner’s home. A good night to you, Sam.”

He stepped into Room 7, groped for the light switch and found there was none. Johnny swore under his breath, slammed the door shut and shot the shaky bolt. Then he threw himself upon the bed without even taking off his shoes.

He was asleep in five minutes.

Chapter Nine

A man came along the corridor in the morning and banged on the doors. “Rise and shine,” he roared. “Seven o’clock.”

Johnny groaned and sat up on the bed. He blinked and shook his head to clear away the sleep. Then he saw where he was and got to his feet. He opened the door and stepped out into the hall, to meet Sam just coming out of his own room.

“Hey, you!” roared Sam at the man banging on the doors. “What’s the idea, waking people in the middle of the night?”

“Everybody’s got to be out by eight o’clock or pay extra,” the man retorted.

“We’ve got to be at work by eight, Sam,” exclaimed Johnny. “Come on.” They hurried to the rear of the corridor where a sign over a door, said: Lavatory.

Inside was a galvanized iron washtub and a couple of long grey towels, hanging from a nail. Being already dressed they had the edge on the other guests of the hotel and were washed before anyone else came into the room. The late risers would find the towels slightly soiled and rather wet.

They left the hotel and walked to Madison. Turning east, they found a restaurant where for fifteen cents apiece they had oatmeal, two stale rolls and coffee. That left them thirty cents, but Johnny decided that they ought to keep a small stake and they walked the two miles to the Towner leather factory, arriving there at three minutes to eight.