I was too sleepy those days to go out of town much on the graft; and was losing my ambition generally. I even cared very little for the girls, and gave up many of my amusements. I used to stay most of the time in my furnished room, smoking hop. When I went out it was to get some dough quick, and to that end I embraced almost any means. At night I often drifted into some concert hall, but it was not like the old days when I was a kid. The Bowery is far more respectable now than it ever was before. Twenty years ago there was no worse place possible for ruining girls and making thieves than Billy McGlory's joint on Hester Street. About ten o'clock in the morning slumming parties would chuckle with glee when the doors at McGlory's would be closed and young girls in scanty clothing, would dance the can-can. These girls would often fight together, and frequently were beaten unmercifully by the men who lived on them and their trade. Often men were forcibly robbed in these joints. There was little danger of an arrest; for if the sucker squealed, the policeman on the beat would club him off to the beat of another copper, who would either continue the process, or arrest him for disorderly conduct. At this time, which was just before the Lexow Committee began its work, there were at least a few honest coppers. I knew one, however, that did not remain honest. It happened this way. The guns had been tearing open the cars so hard that the street car companies, as they had once before, got after the officials, who stirred up Headquarters. The riot act was read to the dips. This meant that, on the second offense, every thief would be settled for his full time and that there would be no squaring it. The guns lay low for a while, but two very venturesome grafters, Mack and Jerry, put their heads together and reasoned thus: "Now that the other guns are alarmed it is a good chance for us to get in our fine work." Complaints continued to come in. The police grew hot and sent Mr. F----, a flyman, to get the rascals. Mr. F---- had the reputation of being the most honest detective on the force. He often declared that he wanted promotion only on his merits. Whenever he was overheard in making this remark there was a quiet smile on the faces of the other coppers. F---- caught Mack dead to rights, and, not being a diplomat, did not understand when the gun tried to talk reason to him. Even a large piece of dough did not help his intellect, and Mack was taken to the station-house. When a high official heard about it he swore by all the gods that he would make an example of that notorious pickpocket, Mack; but human nature is weak, especially if it wears buttons. Mack sent for F----'s superior, the captain, and the following dialogue took place: _Captain_: What do you want? _Mack_: I'm copped. _Captain_: Yes, and you're dead to rights. _Mack_: I tried to do business with F----. What is the matter with him?