Moloch: Or, This Gentile World Read Online Free PDF Page A

wanta treat yer right. I’m gonna setcha straight … DON’T GO MAKIN’ STUMP SPEECHES AROUND HERE ON MY BEAT, UN’ERSTAND?  It won’t do you no good. If yuh got anything on yer chest, look me up and spill it to me, see? Don’t practice on these Chinks. They don’t know wotderhell it’s all about, get me ?”
    An amused expression hovered over Hari’s features.... Should he explain his mission to Officer Mulligan, his newfound friend? Doubts assailed him. After all, would Officer Mulligan relish the advent of a black Messiah? He stole a glance at the smooth, hard club which Officer Mulligan twirled so innocently. Associations connected with the club defeated the idea of salvation-mongering. On the whole, he thought Officer Mulligan was a very decent fellow. Further than that, Officer Mulligan had a right to worship as he pleased. Withal he was certain that Officer Mulligan understood his rights.
    Now that the difficulties attending the introduction had been smoothed out, he felt like continuing the conversation with this emissary of the law. But, for once, he was at a loss to know just what tack to pursue—the injustice of the British rulers, or Ireland’s economic dilemma?
    Officer Mulligan relieved him of further cogitations.
    “Where’s yer messages?” he exclaimed.
    Hari dove into his hat.
    “Let’s see ‘em!”
    There were eight telegrams, two of them death messages. Hari had been instructed to visit the bereaved Armenian and Greek families first. He mentioned this fact to Officer Mulligan.
    “Git along with yer,” said that individual with sudden animation. “Yuh c’n chew de fat some other time. You’ll be gettin’ fired if yuh ain’t keerful.”
    Hari started to elbow his way through the crowd. He was almost on the point of running.
    “Hold on,” shouted Officer Mulligan. Hari wondered what next.
    “Say, you ain’t such a dumb bastard. Chuck this job! Come around and see me tomorrow; I’ll get you an elevator job. C’n yer run a switchboard?”
    Hari thanked him profusely and shook the officer’s hand. It was necessary for Officer Mulligan to switch his club to his left hand. Hari looked down at the symbol of the majesty of the law with deference and misgivings.
    “Gwan now, git aboutcha bisnis, or I’ll be minded to give yuh a polite fannin’.”
    The way the club was maneuvered back and forth from one hand to the other was astonishing. It made Hari Das shiver with expectancy.
    “Come on now, you guys, git along, beat it, scuffle Shoo!”
    Officer Mulligan shuffled along on his beat in a coma. He was thinking of what a fine, upstanding, soft-lipped, educated, black bastard of a heathen that Hindoo was, what a “foine countree” Ireland was before the blimey English got hold of it. Occupied with these thoughts, he ducked into the back door of a saloon and called for a thimbleful of rum.

Chapter 03
    3
    THE GREAT AMERICAN TELEGRAPH COMPANY HOUSED its messenger employment department in a low ramshackle building in the downtown section of the city. On the top floor was a wardrobe depot; on the floor below a tailor shop, where the discarded uniforms of the messengers were renovated, cleaned, and pressed. The tailor-in-chief was the Vice-President’s factotum. He traveled all over the United States, instructing his subordinates in the art of economy, equipping offices with blacking brushes, authorizing patches, and so on. He also wrote voluminous reports in pidgin English, informing the Vice-President that the office in Omaha, for instance, on a certain morning of the year was not opened until 8:15 a.m.; that in Denver he had found writing tables unequipped with chain and pencil; that the receiving clerk in New Orleans had dirty fingernails and chewed tobacco. For information of this sort he received a handsome salary.
    Naturally, wherever he went he was welcomed like a leper.
    The ground floor of this building was sectioned off into the employment office proper, facing the street,