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  < Back to Table Of Contents  < Back to Topic: Local Histories, Pictures & Event Archives

article number 372
article date 08-26-2014
copyright 2014 by Author else SaltOfAmerica
Life in the Big City 1890s Chicago,. Part 2: Small Shops, Middle Class, Strange Vehicles and Coachmen.
by GEORGE ADE
   

Articles are from the Chicago Record between 1893-1900. This collection was produced by The Carton Club, Chicago, 1941. Illustrated by John T. McCutcheon and Others.

This article contains 4 separate articles from the ‘Chicago Record:’ ‘Small Shops of the City,’ ‘The Advantage of Being “Middle Class”,’ ‘Vehicles Out of the Ordinary’ and ‘The Glory of Being a Coachman.’

Small Shops of the City

ON THE west side is a cobbler’s shop which is so small that the customers must wait their turns and go in one at a time.

Compared with this shop a bath-room is a reckless waste of space.

The pigmy structure has crawled in between two two-story buildings, and they seem, by contrast, to be skyscrapers.

It has a floor and a roof.

The walls are those of the adjacent buildings.

The shop is, therefore, a small tunnel plugged at both ends.

It is just as wide as the street door, but it is fully twenty feet long. The only clear space is the four feet next the front door.

Then comes the cobbler’s bench. There would be no room sidewise, and so the bench is against one of the walls. When the cobbler leans over to pound the heavy tacks in a shoe strapped to his knee, his head almost touches the other wall.

A pound of coal blazes merrily in a toy stove. From the stove extending to the dusty window at the rear are shelves loaded with paper boxes and old shoes.

There are pairs of boots hanging from the ceiling and rolls of leather lying along the floor.

The passageway to the back window is so narrow that only a small man like the cobbler could travel it.

The cobbler is a short man with a saffron complexion and snow-white hair. His bared arms are the color of his face, a bronzed yellow, and his hair, which begins far back on his head, is worn in a bristling pompadour. If he were to put on evening dress and appear at a dinner every one would think him a foreign diplomat instead of a West Madison Street cobbler His beard and mustache, also white, are worn quite short.

When a visitor enters, the cobbler must stop work, because his light is shut off. He answers questions with a quiet dignity and waits for the caller to go away. It is no place for neighborhood loafers. This is one case where the room must be more valuable than the company.

The shop is but one of many in West Madison Street, between Western Avenue and the river. It is perhaps narrower and more crowded than some of the others, although there are plenty which fill in between larger buildings. They are as snug as fo castles and as picturesque as mountain chalets. What is more, they are where one may see them any day.

“Why should I have a larger place?” said the old cobbler. “I have room here to do my work and keep what little stock I need. Rents are high and a man who does work at a low price must find a cheap location. This is better than a basement.”

   
Just As Wide As The Doorway.

* * *

This busy street, the artery of the west division, has a certain character which is lacking in those thoroughfares that were swept by the great fire.

Here is an older portion of the town, for it must be remembered that Halsted Street was the western border of the city limits, when 12th Street was the southern boundary.

Some of the landmarks remain. Houses that were once outlying cottages have been furnished with store fronts and blazing signs.

There are buildings in West Madison Street not much larger than dove-cotes and there are others each as large as a pyramid.

If the hand of improvement can be stayed for fifty years, some of the west side streets will be museums of antiquity. As a rule, however, the hand of progress does not hold back because of any regard for landmarks.

As an instance: Until a few years ago there stood at the corner of Jefferson and West Monroe streets an old-fashioned white house.

It was kept white only by constant painting, for the smoky factories had hemmed it in and pushed their high, ugly walls or up to the very flower-beds of the front yard.

They were old-fashioned flowers—nasturtiums, hollyhocks and sweet peas. Over the trellised porch climbed the honeysuckles.

Every day an old man attired in the fashions of fifty years ago, could be seen sprinkling the flowers and plucking away the dead leaves.

The sight of this old white house with its frame of green and blossoms was like a moment’s liberty to the men who toiled in that noise-ridden and smoke-laden part of the town.

People pointed out the place and told how this old man with the swallow-tail coat and brass buttons had clung to his house after all his former neighbors had fled before the advance of big buildings.

One day there was a streamer of crape on the door, and next day the best old families came into the factory district in their carriages and gave the old gentleman a correct burying.

The next week some drays backed up and hauled away the hair-cloth chairs and black-walnut book-cases.

Then a crowd of workmen swarmed to the place, tramping down the flowers. Within an hour after they arrived the house stood open and windowless. One man climbed out on the roof and began to chop away a gable. In four days the landmark was a strewn heap of rubbish.

One would not recognize the corner now. It is occupied by a tall, box-like building of brick.

It has been so and must be so with many old buildings of the west side as the frontage becomes more valuable. The pressure of business is already felt when the small stores begin to fill in the chinks.

   
Filling In One Of The Chinks.

There are some very small places, with a frontage of three or four feet each, which pay an average rental of $10 a month.

Then there are larger establishments, say ten feet frontage or slightly less, which pay at least $25 a month each.

   
A Landmark And Its New Front.

* * *

Near Center Avenue and on the north side of the street are a bakery and a laundry office, both of which get along comfortably in a room less than ten feet wide. When it comes to doing business in a place of that size everything must be kept ship-shape and a great many articles must be hung on nails or put on high shelves.

Only a few doors away is a tailor-shop of about the same proportions. A few bolts of cloth are tucked behind the little show window. Like many of these dwarf stores the tailor-shop has pushed up a bulletin board from the roof, so as to make room for a sign large enough to attract attention.

Only a little farther east are two very small cobbler-shops, one of which has already been described. The other is perhaps an inch or two wider and the occupant is a young man who works at a bench near the door so as to catch all the light that falls into his cubby hole. This second place is near May Street and fits tightly in between a grocery and a steam laundry.

The smallest tailoring establishment of the lot is near Carpenter Street. It has a frontage of six feet, yet the proprietor manages to have a neat window display. His bolts of cloth are stacked closely against the wall, so as to give visitors a chance to get back to the stove and the working part of the shop.

In spite of the cramp, three friends of the proprietor manage to wedge in near the stove and talk politics to him while he sits cross-legged, with his glasses on the end of his nose, and stitches on a pair of trousers.

   

* * *

Near this shop are two places which equally divide between them a small and low addition built out to the street from a venerable frame building with a peaked roof. One-half of the addition is a laundry office and the other half is a tailor-shop. Over the narrow cornice, the old building rises abruptly as though built upon the flat roof.

Just to the west is the sheer wall of a high brick structure. As though it could find no draught for its chimneys in such a pocket, the small building has long metallic pipes which reach over and connect with the flues of the tall building.

* * *

Near Green Street there is an undersized candy store. The window is large enough to show a dozen dishes of candy. The little showcase set outside takes all the frontage not given to the door. The single counter is narrow and only one side is shelved.

Not far from Union Street is a yellow-front restaurant, very aptly called “The Hole in the WalI.” The capacity is apparently anywhere from seven to twelve, and the cook has a back room larger than a telephone booth. Windows at each end admit plenty of light and the place is quite clean. The frontage cannot be more than ten feet.

* * *

It would be a long story to tell of all the places, each of which selfishly takes up as much as fourteen feet of the street. This chapter has dealt only with the stores that are actually small.

   
A Six-Foot Frontage.

The Advantage of Being “Middle Class”

WHY IS IT that the middle class has a monopoly of the real enjoyment in Chicago? The term “middle class” is used in the English sense.

Theoretically, at least, there are no classes in Chicago. But the “middle class” means all those persons who are respectably in the background, who work either with hand or brain, who are neither poverty-stricken nor offensively rich, and who are not held down by the arbitrary laws governing that mysterious part of the community known as society.

The middle class people wouldn’t scourge a man simply because he wore a morning coat in the afternoon. Again, if his private life were redolent of scandals they would not tolerate him as a companion, no matter how often he changed his clothes.

It is quite a privilege to belong to the middle class, especially during the warm weather in June. A middle-class family may sit on the front stoop all evening and watch the society people go to the weddings in their closed carriages.

Father doesn’t have to wear a tight dress coat all evening and have a collar choking him. He may take off coat or vest, or both, and smoke either pipe or cigar without scandalizing any one. If he and mother wish to get some ice-cream, they go around the corner to get it, or else they may send one of the children with a pitcher.

If they were above the middle class, of course, it would never do for them to be seen in a common ice-cream place, and the idea of sending a pitcher would be shocking.

* * *

At the Clark Street bridge a double-decked steamer, with electric lights and a resounding orchestra, was preparing to start on its nightly trip, so far out on the broad, cool lake that the town would be only a long fringe of intermingling lights.

The passengers were streaming aboard—young workingmen and their tittering girls, clerks in new straw hats and unmistakably summer clothes, tired husbands and smiling wives.

They were ranging themselves about on the upper deck, placing their chairs so that they could have something to lean against. The orchestra had bounded into a popular air, and the bass horn was repeating over and over: Pum, pum, pum-pum-pum.

One impatient couple had begun to waltz. A hundred or more persons, gathered on the bridge and the approach, looked on with silent envy, feeling like the plowboy who stands at the rail fence and sees the rest of the family start for the county fair. Some of them could not resist the temptation to go down the platform and aboard.

All the passengers belonged to the fortunate “middle class.” Society, you must understand, could not patronize cheap excursions on the lake. Therefore “the upper class,” except for the small portion that can afford private yachts, never enjoys a breezy moonlight ride on a steamer, and Lake Michigan, except for its commercial uses, might as well be a thousand miles to the east.

   
Ready For The Lake Trip.

* * *

There were many pictures of contentment along the boarding-house belt of Dearborn Avenue. The slope of stairway leading up to each house had become an amphitheater where men and women in lightest and cheeriest of summer attire were listening to the concerts of the Street musicians.

In front of one large house an Italian, with a street piano on wheels, was grinding out “Trovatore” for the benefit of a family which cuts a wide social swath. The Italian was rather to be pitied.

He did not know that the family was debarred from coming out on the front porch to hear his music. The family was supposed to close its ears against all street pianos. Although the rooms were lighted, no one came to the windows and the music was wasted upon some appreciative children who marched and danced, keeping time with it.

Suppose the members of a well-known family should be grouped on a front porch listening to a street orchestra, and that just as the collection was being taken up, some one who knew them should pass by!

* * *

Dearborn Avenue leads to the lights and shadows and cool depths of Lincoln Park. First there is a broad, smooth roadway, which shows boldly in the electric glare, and then there is a deeply shaded drive between solid walls of trees. It widens and brings into dim outline a dark statue with a massive pedestal.

Each wheelman coursing the drives is marked by a speck of lantern, and the illusion is that of racing fireflies. No carriages disturb the night with a clatter of hoofs. Under the trees, right and left, the shade is so deep that sometimes voices may be heard where no one can be seen.

Only a few feet away a flood of light shows every blade of grass and every pebble. All roads into the park lead to some circling pathway which is laced with the black shadows of trembling leaves, while misshapen blotches of the blending light fall on the figures and the benches.

There are at least two figures on a bench and one has a light dress. Both are silent and immovable until the intruder has passed on. The girl, who can be seen only in small pieces here and there where the patches of light have fallen, is always handsome, just as a half-finished picture is always sure to be beautiful in its fancied completion. Out in the clearing, possibly it would be different.

   
A Hot Evening In Dearborn Avenue.

* * *

Two young men had wandered into the park and had sought the paths less beaten, where the grass is rank and the breeze has a woody flavor pleasant to the nostrils. Neither could sing, but both of them did sing about “nights in June” and “lovely maidens,” and they even went so far as to talk about the effect of moonlight on a distant ridge of trees.

Coming back to earth, they saw that the man on a bench ahead undoubtedly had his arm around the woman. As they drew nearer it became a shocking fact. The woman had pillowed her head on the man’s shoulder and was either asleep or contented. The young men laughed and made remarks which were loud enough to be overheard, but the man was complacent.

“He has nerve,” remarked one. “I suppose he doesn’t care.”

“She doesn’t care, either.”

Then they passed close by the bench and saw, cuddled up against the woman, a tousle-haired little girl fast asleep, with a doll in her arms. After which they passed on very quietly, and one of them said: “We ought to go back and apologize to that man.”

In Lincoln Park a wide avenue for pedestrians leads straight north to the small lake. The pavilion, with its swinging lamps, lies directly ahead, and these lamps throw bands of fiery reflection across the water, so that from a distance the pavilion seems mounted upon flaming piles which glow and burn even under the rippling waves.

Against these glaring pillars the small, darting boats appear in distinct silhouette, but away from the lights and with banks of heavy vegetation as a background they become a ghostly gray.

The guitars and voices always sound more sweetly across the water, while the splashing and the laughter have the happy effect of turning thoughts away from hot weather.

On the shores of these lakes, which are linked by quiet waters lying under stone arches, the young man who drives the delivery wagon sits of an evening and holds the hand of the young woman who addresses letters. They are very happy, as well they may be, for no Chicago millionaire has such a magnificent front yard, with such a large lake and so many stately trees around it.

They must feel sorry for the millionaire, who cannot go to a public park in the evening to stroll or sit for the reason that so many other persons go there. It doesn’t trouble the delivery boy to have other people present and enjoying themselves.

   
Lights And Shadows And Cool Depths Of Lincoln Park.

Vehicles Out of the Ordinary

ANY one who keeps his eyes open can find a number of strange vehicles in Chicago, but he must go out into the districts where the people live, and not confine his observations to the down-town district. In the crowded business streets the trucks, delivery wagons and hansom cabs are about the only types to be seen.

At a corner in the south-western part of the city, the evangelist’s wagon was drawn up alongside the board walk and a small crowd had collected to listen to the music and read the inscriptions.

The vehicle was something like a fancy farm wagon with a canopy top to it, except that the sideboards were not so high. It was drawn by two horses, and the driver sat in a broad seat at the front. Behind him was the organ, which was built as a part of the wagon, being joined to the floor and the sideboards.

The scriptural quotations were painted on red cloth curtains concealing the back part of the wagon, where there were two or three chairs. When the curtains were removed and the canopy moved out of the way the back part of the wagon became a rostrum, or pulpit.

The man at the organ played some introductory chords and sang a hymn in a robust voice loud enough for out-door use, and the evangelist made an exhortation.

Then the driver clucked at his horses and said “Getep” and the portable church was driven to another corner and the services were repeated.

   
The Organist Is In The Portable Church.

* * *

On many of the less pretentious streets, the waffle man with his squatty wagon is a familiar and welcome sight. His establishment on wheels is drawn by a patient horse, who is always more willing to stop than he is to start. The wagon, which is of a dull red color, is mounted on low wheels.

The waffle man does his own driving, for his gasoline stove is at the front of the wagon. His cooking utensils, batter, and the rest of the kitchen outfit are kept in shelves at the front, while at the back there is a flat counter where the customers may be served. Sometimes he rings a bell and again he will keep up a mournful, monotonous wail of “Wa-a-a-fles; wa-.aa-.fles.”

The waffle booth on the corner or the handcart of the “levee” district has been familiar for a long time, but the waffle wagon which supplies families is a thing of recent date.

   
The Waffle Man With His Squatty Wagon.

The old cobbler and his traveling shop are known on many of the streets in the northwestern section of the city. He has a covered wagon, which is fitted up inside with all that is needed in a repair shop. The driver, who is as old and grizzled as the cobbler, labors to keep the horse going, and shouts “Old Shoes to mend!”

The venerable cobbler saves rent and gets plenty of work, for the children know him and wait for him, a dozen or more gathering around his queer vehicle to watch him put on the half soles.

   
The Old Cobbler And His Shop.

* * *

The sandwich wagon or “buffet car” is common enough, especially on the south side between Van Buren and 12th streets, and on the west along Halsted and Madison streets. There are a few along North Clark Street, and now and then one may be found even in the remote districts, especially around the parks or any resort where people congregate of an evening.

It was the sandwich wagon that popularized the “ham and egg sandwich,” an oily luxury which has been taken up by many of the restaurants.

At first the wagons served only sandwiches, but with growing competition they have introduced cold-meat lunches, baked beans, coffee, hot corn on the cob and other delicacies.

If one is not troubled with a false pride one can get a good warm lunch at low prices and stand on the curbstone while he eats it. Occasionally there will be seen a buffet car with a little counter in the back end of it. At the counter are three stools, so that at least three customers may sit while they are being served.

The average sandwich car to be found in State Street has numerous windows decorated with tempting advertisements. The oil or gasoline stove is banked about with loaves of bread, the carcasses of chickens and great knobs of ham. “Albert” or “Charley,” or whatever may be the name on the illuminated sign, wears a white jacket and a white cap and takes a professional pride in turning a piece of ham without putting the fork to it.

As a rule, each of these wagons has a “stand” where it remains from an early hour in the evening until the last customers go home, sometimes the break of day.

The horse is not kept “hitched up” all night, but is in shelter near at hand, and when there are no more 10-cent pieces in sight, he and the “buffet car” disappear.

   
A Lunch At Cheap Prices.

* * *

An intelligent Italian, whose “territory” covers the residence streets far up on the north side, owns a street piano. It is one of the large kind, mounted on a cart platform.

Until quite lately he had to employ another Italian to go with him and help pull the thing. This was not always easy work, especially if the street happened to be rough or a trifle slippery.

Therefore, to save himself labor and avoid paying an extra salary, he bought a small donkey, which now does all the hard work. This little animal soon became thoroughly acquainted with his duties. He stands perfectly still when commanded to do so, although the command is in Italian, a new language to him.

His head hangs down, his eyes close and the ears droop in a melancholy way until the piano begins to pound out “The Blue Bells of Scotland.” As soon as those familiar strains are heard, the donkey lifts his head and prepares to move, because he knows that is the last piece in the repertory.

* * *

The fish-peddler’s vehicle is nothing more than a box mounted on two wheels, with a pair of shafts in front and a place behind for the peddler to stand. The driver stands back of the box, in which the fish are packed in ice. When a customer calls him all he has to do is say “Whoa,” lift up the lid, haul out a fish and weigh it with his spring scales.

* * *

Another strange peddler has a wagon with a hayrack on top and makes his living by selling sheaves of straw and sacks of corn-husks, which are used as bedding in many quarters where foreign laborers reside.

The lemonade wagon and the confectionery store on wheels were common enough in the World’s Fair neighborhood last year, but there is an air of novelty about the tin-type “gallery” on wheels now jumping from one vacant lot to another.

Advertising agents are responsible for many of the weird vehicles on the streets. They send out Roman chariots to advertise a new chewing gum, and one of them rather overdid it by having a red-headed woman drive four white horses abreast.

Every one in Chicago must have seen at one time or another those two huge bill-boards, joined at the top, mounted on four small wheels and drawn by a team of shaggy donkeys not much larger than jack rabbits.

It will be conceded that the moving van is the most majestic vehicle to be seen, while from an artistic standpoint, the gilded pie wagon has no rival. Then there is the fancy little steam boiler on wheels which is used in blowing out the stopped-up pipes.

Every summer the suburbs are visited by strolling gypsies who make homes in the big gaudy caravans. It would be an interesting procession—one made up of the queer vehicles in Chicago.

The Glory of Being a Coachman

TWICE a year Chicago puts on display the best that it has of shiny vehicles, good horses and correct men in livery.

The Derby day parade is full of color and bright finery and is witnessed by thousands of spectators.

At the annual charity ball the equipages file along the Congress Street side of the Auditorium and are seen for a minute or two as they pass through the glare of electric light. The spectators are a few idle men and boys held back at a respectful distance and a faithful band of embarrassed policemen with white gloves.

Between the hours of 9 and 11 practically all the swell winter turnouts of the town may be seen in front of the broad doorway. It is too bad that so much splendor is wasted.

The men “up” were white-legged and tight-coated on Derby day. Now they are hidden under top-coats and furs, but it is evident that under it all they are sitting bolt upright and preserving an unbroken dignity, even with the wind in their faces.

   
A Moment Under The Electric Glare.

* * *

When the landaus, broughams and opera buses have been unloaded they drive away to return no more that night.

It has been found impossible to “call carriages” and send people home in their own conveyances when the hundreds in attendance at the ball suddenly determine to go home. The people are sent home in carriages furnished by the livery concerns. These are loaded in the order that they come, and when a carriage has delivered one party it comes back for another.

The midnight display is of plain black vehicles, blanketed horses and impatient drivers with buck gloves, ulsters and fur caps.

Between these drivers and those who come earlier there is a natural enmity and a natural contempt.

The genuine coachman does not regard the driver with the fur cap and red mustache as entitled to consideration.

The drivers from the stables pity the private coachmen who are compelled to wear high hats and can’t talk back.

When these two distinct classes are brought into contact, as on opera nights, they hold themselves haughtily apart.

The opera bus is growing in favor. It is a miniature of the passenger bus in general design, but with a mirror finish and upholsterings of leather and plush. The seats, extending the length of the interior, face each other and afford comfortable space for six persons.

   
This Is The Opera Bus.

There were eight of the opera buses in the glittering line on charity-ball night. Gen. Torrence and a party came in one of unusually elaborate finish. The buses cost from $1,200 to $2,500 each. There are seats on top, and when the windows are removed it is a correct summer turnout.

Chicago has been rather slow in adopting this style of turnout, which has been quite the thing in New York for two seasons.

No one can blame the private coachman for being austere and a trifle proud. He is more finely appareled than his employer inside the brougham.

It cost more to attire the coachman and make him ready for the box than it did to prepare the owner for the charity ball.

On the modern proposition that money has conversational powers, the coachman is deserving of consideration.

That box-cloth top coat which he wears cost $95. It has four capes on it. A plain coat with no capes would have cost $65. His body coat underneath cost, to be exact, just $38. The trousers cost $14. He wears a silk hat of approved shape and standard make, cost $7, and the fur collarette to protect his head and ears cost a trifling $12.

Allowing $15 for the boots and fur gloves and another $5 for incidental haberdashery, and it can be computed that the coachman is wearing $186 worth of costume.

The footman beside him is similarly decked out.

There must be a footman if the excess of good form is to be preserved.

The coachman who wears a cap in any kind of weather is properly shunned by his associates.

The silk hat must be the invariable headwear, and the collarette is supposed to protect the ears. Those who know say that under no circumstances should the rosette or cockade be worn on the hat.

   

Only a few years ago this ornament was very common in Chicago, but it has since been learned to the satisfaction of inquiring minds that only the liveried servants of royalty are privileged to adopt it. It is said that but two men in Chicago cling to the cockade in the coachman’s hat.

Both have lately acquired wealth—one in a mercantile way and the other by means of the fitful roulette wheel.

* * *

There are between forty and fifty swell and absolutely correct coachmen in Chicago. With hardly an exception they are English or Irish by birth, and most of them were in New York for a time before coming to Chicago.

These are genuine coachmen of the first guild. They hold nothing in common with the coachman who helps with the horses, does errands and perhaps runs the lawn-mower occasionally.

   
Something Quite Correct.

The coachman who grows any beard except the small patch of side-whisker in front of each ear, who wears any article of headgear save the freshly ironed hat, who sits round-shouldered on the box and looks to the right and left—these are called “farmers.”

A coachman who is married is usually given apartments for his family. He boards himself, and his pay is from $75 to $100 a month. The single coachman receives from $35 to $65 a month in addition to his room and board.

Aside from driving, his only work is washing the vehicles and seeing that they are kept in firsts class order. An inexperienced or careless man is never allowed to wash one of the carriages.

In a stable such as that maintained by Gen. Torrence, Potter Palmer or P. D. Armour, Jr., there are four men constantly employed.

The coachman and the “second man” or footman, are the only ones who can appear on a turn-out. The stablemen and grooms care for the horses.

One of the questions that have more or less agitated those who have a reverence for good form is whether the colored coachman will do.

Both London and New York have decided that the coachman must be white and newly shaved, but there are families of influence that stand out against this edict.

George M. Pullman and the Lynches of Chicago still retain colored coachmen, who, however, are attired in the English pattern of livery. Mr. Pullman employs only colored servants at his big establishment in Prairie Avenue. The Pullmans and the Lynches are said to be the only families in the swell set of millionaires that have not engaged British servants.

The several hundred well-to-do families, each of which has its carriage and its man-of-all-work, do not discriminate so closely as to the birth and accent of the coachman.

The carriages passing before the Auditorium had men of varying nationalities and costumes on the boxes, but there was no mistaking when one of the “real” kind came up.

* * *

It might be expected that after a crowd of 3,000 persons had deserted the Auditorium there would be many lost articles gathered up.

After each of the two balls earlier in the season, inquiries were made for lost diamonds, fans, lace handkerchiefs and the like.

The total amount of losses was several hundreds of dollars and only a few of the articles were found and returned to the owners.

At the last annual ball the only articles found after the crowd had gone away were a pair of rubbers and a white glove. These remained unclaimed. The only additional loss reported was that of a lace handkerchief.

Apparently the city detectives in evening dress effectively protected the diamond-laden women. One of the entertaining sights of the charity ball is that of the jeweled woman closely shadowed by the “fly cop” in evening dress. The “fly cop” cannot disguise himself, and therefore the jewels are safe.

   
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