Twenty years ago, and probably at an earlier date still, the traveler
bound for Europe on any of the ships, sailing from Hoboken, might have
seen, had he been curious enough to look about him, a strange collection
of men of all ages, sizes and make-ups, huddled together nights in a
musty cellar only a few steps from the North German Lloyd's docks. And,
had he talked with this uncouth company, he would have learned much
about the ways and means necessary to make big ships go and come on
their ocean voyages.
Somewhat less than twenty years ago, say eighteen, a greasy paper sign
was tacked to the door of the cellar for the benefit of those who might
be looking for the dingy hole. It read: "Internashnul Bankrupp
Klubb--Wellcome!" The words and lettering were the work of an Italian
lad, who had a faculty for seeing the humor in things which made others
cry and sigh. In years that have passed the sign has been blown away,
and a barber to-day holds forth where the "Bankrupps" formerly lodged.
The store above, a general furnishing establishment for emigrants and
immigrants, has also given way to a saloon, I think, and the outfitting
business of former days has developed, in the hands of the old
proprietor's sons, into a general banking and exchange affair near-by
around the corner. The old proprietor has long since been gathered unto
his fathers, I have been told; but the boys possess much of his business
acumen and money-getting propensities and are doing well, preferring,
however, to handle the currencies of the various nations to selling tin
pots, pans, mattresses and shoddy clothing, as did the old man.
Their father was a Hebrew, who may or may not have had a very
interesting history before I met him, but at the time of our
acquaintance he looked so fat and comfortable and money was so plainly
his friend and benefactor that he was a pretty prosaic representative of
his race. I had heard about him in New York, after making unsuccessful
attempts there and in Brooklyn to secure a berth as caretaker on a
Europe-bound cattle-ship.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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