The Washington herald., 1920-07-22
New York City
Especial Correspondent wasAinsten
Heraid0
BIZ o. o. Me1ntyrs

(speeial Correspondent Washingten
Heraid0
New York, July 2.--Across from
the Plaza on sunny afternoon
saw a row of frayed looking cab
men with wind beaten red faces,
purple lips and delapidated plug
hats. They were remindful Of the
ruffled lean sparrows on a wire In
dead winter. Jagged stumps Of
teeth held short pipes and they con-
versed In their peculiar brogue as
row after row of glittering motor
cars swept by with that sound OF
rubber on asphalt.
The New York cabman of today
Is human anachronism. Out Of
pace with the procession he holds
grimly to the lines hoping against
hope for a backwash of patronage.
Detected looking nags curried with
pitiful attempts at sickness seem
to reflect the spirit of the Cabfess
Era. Their heads hang low and
they sag in the rear.
All the cabmen I have seen run
to type. Most of them came from
Ireland in the days when a smart
horse drawn equippage was a thing
to behold. In those halcyon days
they made $50 a week. which was
a good salary. They had special
customers--wives and husbands FILL
ed with intrigue who crept out late
at night for some isison. Yooag
bucks of the town who jrew up at
stage doors for petted darlings.
Then the early morning druaks,
" no tumbled out of Jacks for a ride
through Central Park, feet heaven
ward. and head uncovered for a
vagrant breeze to fan the hot brow.
Those customers were zest to the
cabman's life. He knew the ropes
at the tinseled resorts. His note
book was filled with mysterious
names which he would give to GUS
toners.
He was in league with politicians,
resort keepers. gambling hells and
all OF the sordid haunts Of the Ten
derloin. Statesmen called him Jerry
or Mike or whatever his name was
with easy familiarity. He had a
home OF his own uptown before the
goats came to Harlem. He raised
family, sent his boys and girls to
Private schools and now and then
went back to the Old Sod to see his
mother.
But now II Is different. Those
Who have held on are too old to
seek new pursuits. The upkeep eats
up their profits. They live at the
cheap lodging houses, sleeping by
day. and securing the streets all
night for reluctant customers. They
huddle together in groups when they
have no fares. generally perching on
a coping along the park. And per-
n
and gone days OF yesterday.
BIS n Day In Tips.
The blonde waitress in the lunch
room OF one of Manhattan's biggest
hotels walked jauntily up to the
cashiers cage and dropped a knotted
handkerchief on the cigar counter.
The handkerchief jingled and cIink-
ed with a cargo of nickles, dimes,
quarters and even two or three
halves, intended for exchange into
bills.
Fifteen dollars, Marie" said the
waitress. 1t represents a days tips.
And she gets 50 a day salary.
o. Henry's Home Remains.
o. Henry used to live in a bleached
brown-stone front at No. SIS Irving
place. 1t is one OF the few spots of
old New York that has not gwen
way to the sanitary lunch room.
French pastry shop, chain drug store
and English tea and muffin shop. II
still smacks of the days when O.
Henry foraged for literary food.
There is still cool looking tavern
and there Is spirit of gentle do
mestictty. People hang bird cages
in the windows and unmuzzled dogs
sleep on wooden door steps. There
Is an old-fashioned parsonage with
porch decorated with pine scroll
. work. One may leave Irving place
and in a few blocks reach the pink
gerantum beds and well tended
walks of Gramercy Park.