STORIES OF THE STREETS AND OF THE TOWN; FROM THE CHICAGO RECORD 1893-1900, ed. Franklin J. Meine (Chicago: Caxton Club, 1941), pp. 109-113.

SIDEWALK MERCHANTS AND THEIR WARES

by George Ade

HE was a beautiful example of patience and long suffering. There under the shelter of the corner and free from the currents of humanity which met at right angles he stood all day long, holding out his merchandise for the inspection of an indifferent public and chanting, "Shoe-strings\5 cents a pair."

From the ninety and nine he received not so much as a glance

Perhaps one in a hundred turned his head at sound of the appealing voice, but did not slacken his speed.

About one of a thousand stopped to look at the strings or perhaps to chaff the mournful dealer.

And let it be supposed that one in 10,000, either moved by charity or suddenly reminded of a need, bought a pair of shoe-strings and tucked them away in a back pocket.

The dealer always met the buyer with rare self-possession, as if a customer were not a novelty. He gave no evidence of excitement when a man bought two pairs, and there was no change in his hopeful attitude when a prospective customer broke away without buying. He had the quality of equipoise, so rare in business men.

The bunch of shoe-strings was always the same size and the greasy cap was always set at the same vagabond angle on his gray head. The coat and vest had once been of gay check and were of juvenile design. The coat, for instance, was short behind and slashed away from the third button in front.

At one time there had been silk facing on the lapels, but it had worn down to a few threads. The vest was double-breasted, and there were pins to mark the former location of buttons.

The baggy and stained trousers had once been braided down the sides. These wrecks of cheap gentility were in harmony with the narrow, bony face, which was stubbled with gray beard, while the eyes seemed to have lost all expression except that of tired indifference. The flesh had a dead pallor, for it is a curious fact that whereas whisky will cause one man to puff and redden it will draw the blood from another and eat him from within until there seems to remain only an ashy parchment over the skeleton.

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"Shoe-strings\5 cents a pair."

This quavering cry seemed to have become a habit with him, for sometimes he repeated it over and over when the corner was quiet in the lull of an afternoon and there wasn't a possible customer within hearing distance.

Where did he live and how did he live? Suppose he sold as many as five pairs of shoe-strings in a day (large estimate).

His total receipts would be 25 cents, but not more than half of that would be profit. How could he live for 12 1/2 cents a day? Did he ever eat?

What had been his life? A man who begins early to be a "bum" and drunkard does not live to be 60 years old.

Another thing: Any man of 60 can remember well-dressed days of prosperity. Did the shoe-string man remember such days, and if so what must have been his reflections as he stood on the corner all day, starving for liquor? It would seem that one who has the patience to stand and offer goods could find something more salable than shoe-strings. But the sidewalk merchants do not think so, for one sells the 5-cent strings, another cheap handkerchiefs, another collar-buttons and another pocket combs. Did you ever see any one buy of them?

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Not all of these penny speculators are old and physically disabled.

In a city where manual labor has always commanded a fair remuneration the broad-shouldered immigrant prefers to take his chances hawking collar-buttons. He would rather make 25 cents a day and be in "business" than work for $1.50 a day.

The rush of immigration is responsible for the unloading in the streets of Chicago of the cheap and picturesque ragamuffins to be found in the poverty districts of European cities. Five years ago the Italian children who played and sang on the street corners were regarded as novelties. Now the streets swarm with them and they are as bold and bothersome as English sparrows.

They tag at coat-tails and beg for pennies. With noisy concertinas and capering dances they infest saloons. The smallest girls have learned the vulgar dances of the day and the larger ones sing bad parodies on popular songs. Most of the flower girls come from this same class. The flower girl is a thing of beauty on the stage, where she wears bangs and a pink dress and does a neat song and dance. The flower girl of Clark Street, at the hour of midnight, is a frowsy young creature, who goes from one basement drinking place to another. She fastens flowers in the button-holes, then says: "Give me whatever you please." Saucy, forward, and with a frightful knowledge of the things which children should not know, she is interesting in her way, but it is not a promising way.

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In the alley where the newsboys gathered there is a ceaseless competition for pennies. The Italian at the end of the alley gives a spoonful of ice-cream on a piece of brown paper for 1 cent. His countryman near by sells hot sausage at 2 cents a link. In a basement stairway is the waffle boy. Further along is the old woman who offers an enormous sweet cake and a mug of "pop" for 5 cents. Then there is the man who sells popcorn balls at 1 cent each, and if his receipts were all profits he couldn't become rich. These alley establishments do a lively business at certain hours of the day.

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It is not to be supposed that all the street merchants belong to a class with the shoe-string man. Many a fruit stand does a business which would be creditable to a retail shop, and the young gentlemen with their showcases full of cut roses and sweet-peas come very near being public benefactors. But the straying "barker" who jingles his collar buttons before you and the frayed mortal who holds out the speckled combs\these are the pitiable evidences that Chicago is becoming a metropolis. In order to sustain one feature of metropolitan life a large number of people must expose either their misery or their helplessness.

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The arch-fiend of the sidewalk business men is he who sells the 50-cent umbrellas, and the only mitigating circumstance in his case is that the purchaser might have known that he couldn't get an umbrella for 50 cents. The umbrella man comes out of hiding every rainy day and you may find him at a down-town corner howling vociferously and holding a real umbrella over a grain sack stuffed full of the alleged umbrellas which he is offering for 50 cents apiece. Happy is the man who goes home in the rain without yielding to the entreaties, for this is the story of one man who purchased.

The handle was made of varnished pine and the ribs of telegraph wire. It opened with a creak and assumed a dumpy shape, one side being much depressed; but the owner thought it would answer the purpose. It had the general appearance of an umbrella. He started out in the heavy rain and the canopy of thin black stuff gathered water like a sponge. He felt his hand getting wet and discovered that a dark stream was trickling down the pine stick. Then a drop of something fell on his arm and left a stain like a drop of ink. It would have been bad enough if the umbrella had simply leaked. But the rain which came through washed out the cheap dye and spattered it over the unhappy man underneath. He should have thrown away the thing, but he hadn't the courage, because the rain was driving so hard. He kept the umbrella over him and endured the shower bath, but when he reached shelter he was polka-dotted from head to foot. The umbrella had washed out to a dirty gray color, and the handle seemed covered with mucilage. He tried to close the thing, but it bagged out fearfully, so he threw it out of the window, and some unsuspecting person stole it and was doubtless punished in due time.