The Tragedy of the Five Thousand.

It was the cold gray dawn of a late November morning. The scene is laid in the marshy slough far to the north of the buildings of the Dunning poor farm at the north edge of the city of Chicago.

In the chill and drizzling rain an aged, bent-shouldered man was digging. The soft, wet mud he tossed in a pile alongside of the hole in which he stood. Finally he slowly clambered out of the pit and surveyed his work.

The hole was nearly six feet long and three feet wide. It was about the latter in depth.

Suddenly the old man looked up. To the south of him he heard the rumble of a wagon. A few minutes later the rusty gate at the end of the meadow swung creakingly on its hinges. With a rattle and bounce the wagon again started towards him.

The wagon was a high boarded affair. On its side could be read the inscription, "City of Chicago," and then the number "321."

The vehicle drew up close to the hole. The driver reined in his galloping horses with a jerk at its side.

"Hello, Bill. Been waiting long?" yelled the driver to the old man as he jumped from his seat.

"Just finished," answered the digger.

The driver by this time was busy with the end-gate of his wagon. Letting it down, he pulled at a long box in the vehicle.

The box was a hastily constructed affair. It was of plain, unfinished boards. Sticking to the boards were pieces of colored lithographs, as though they had once been part of a dismantled billboard. The top consisted of two heavy planks roughly nailed on.

The driver struggled with the box a moment. Then he came around to where the aged man stood.

"You've got to help me, Bill. She's a darn heavy one," exclaimed the driver.

The two men clambered up on the wagon and grabbed hold of one end of the box. Together they lifted it in the air. The box slid to the ground, on end, with a thud.

The men took hold of the box and skidded it along the muddy ground to the pit. It was slid off to the top of the hole. There it stuck.

"Gee, Bill, you didn't get that hole long enough," exclaimed the driver.

"You guys up at the dead house didn't tell me she was a six footer," muttered the old man. "How'd you expect me to guess on these stiffs?"

"Never mind, Bill, I'll fix it," said the driver.

Then, suiting his words, he leaped high into the air and came down with a bound on one end of the box. The soft ground gave away after a few attempts and the big box sank with a sucking sound in the bottom of the hole.

"Take care of her good, Bill," yelled back the driver, as he clambered back on the seat of his wagon. "She's a swell one. She came from the E—— club. She certainly was a peach.

"Doc told me, when I was loading her on a while ago, that it was a dirty shame to waste such a good stiff. He said that if she hadn't been so far gone they'd have handed her over to the medical schools."

Then, with a rumble, the wagon started off on its return journey.

The old man gazed down for a moment on the box. On its top, inscribed with black paint, was the number "24331."

At the side of the pile of dirt lay a little six inch board, which the driver had thrown from the wagon. It, too, bore the number "24331."

The old man dug his spade into the wet dirt. Then he pitched a huge clod into the pit. It struck with a resounding bang on the lid of the box. In a few minutes the hole was filled. The old man stuck the numbered stick into the ground at the head of the mound.

Stretching away in long rows on either side, hundreds of other similar numbered sticks jutted from unkempt mounds.

The old digger shouldered his spade and started slowly to leave the scene. Then he stopped and slowly surveyed his work.

"A swell one, huh," he half muttered to himself. "Well, so was lots of the rest of them that's out here now—once."

Then, with a sigh, he started on his long trudge across the muddy meadow towards the buildings of the poorhouse.

It was the night of the same day.

The myriad of incandescents in the "red light" district lighted that section of the city as though it were day. Drunken crowds of fashionably dressed men caroused about the streets, hurling vile names at persons they met. Down at the edge of the district a fight was waging. A large crowd had collected. A blue-coated policeman dashed towards the combatants, club in hand. There was a wild scramble in all directions.

In the shadows of a big building a man was crouching. His cap was pulled low about his eyes to shield him from recognition.

He was a "roller," or holdup man. He was watching a particularly drunken man who staggered along the street. If the man went into the darkness his fate would be sealed. The "roller" would be upon him like a panther. A crunching blow on the head with the short lead bar that the robber gripped in his hand. Then a hurried searching of the man's pockets. The extracting of his money and watch. Then back into the darkness again to wait for a new victim.

Suddenly the man drew back further into his hiding place. An automobile had stopped directly opposite him, in front of the E—— club. A well dressed man leaped from the machine and gave orders to his chauffeur to wait until he returned.

The man hurried up the steps to the massive door. The bell pealed back in an inner parlor. A liveried servant opened the door. As the man entered a negress, an assistant keeper, came towards him.

"Hello, Mr. W——, where have you been for the last couple of weeks?" inquired the woman.

"Been out of town," answered the man. Then he glanced around the place.

"Where's Mabel?" he asked, with a laugh.

"She's not here any more," muttered the negress.

"What's the matter—sick, is she?" asked the visitor.

"Nope; worse. She croaked a couple of days ago," answered the woman.

"Too bad," answered the man. "She was a pretty girl. Well, that's the end of her, I guess. Got any new ones?"

"Yes, we got one in today to take her place," answered the woman. And then she added, with a laugh: "She thinks she's in a swell place and is going to have a big time. She's a beauty, though; eighteen years old and raised in a little town down state."

"All right, run her out and let me see her," broke in the man.

In the big den of vice there was no mourning. The mentioning of the dead girl's name was forbidden. The thought of death might act as a damper on the night's orgy. A day later she would not be missed. Another girl would take her place. Perchance some one might drop in some day and ask for her, but only in a matter-of-course way.

Only one girl in 80,000 dead. What did she count in that vast host?

One day, but a few weeks ago, I entered one of these dens on Armour avenue, in Chicago. I wandered up on to the second floor without the knowledge of the keepers. An open door attracted my attention. Peering in I saw a young girl lying on a bed.

Her head and face were swathed in bandages.

She seemed to be in great pain. On a table near at hand were several bottles of medicine. She was without a nurse and alone in the room.

I asked her what was the matter, but she only shook her head and refused to answer. I persisted. After much persuasion she lifted an edge of the bandage and exposed her face.

It was a mass of burns.

Before I could inquire further a negress keeper entered the room.

"You can't stay in here," she said angrily.

"What's the matter with the girl?" I asked.

"Oh, she got foolish the other day and took a dose of carbolic acid," was the answer. "She ain't burned bad—at least not as bad as I've seen lots of them. Don't give her any of that soft home talk and she'll get over it all right in a couple of days."

With this the woman held the door open and motioned for me to leave.

In the early morning, three days later, I happened to pass the same place. A wagon, painted black and without a name to designate its owner, was standing in the road at a side entrance.

I stood watching for a few minutes. Presently the door opened. Four men came out carrying between them an undertaker's stretcher. On it lay a body covered with a white sheet.

I approached and asked one who was dead.

"Just one of the girls here," was the answer. Then he added: "Say, but she's an awful sight; she took carbolic."

He pulled back the sheet. It was the girl whom the negress had said "got foolish."

"Where are you taking her?" I asked.

"Oh, she goes over to the county morgue. She ain't got any money and the house didn't want to pay for her burial. No one knows where her folks live and I don't expect they'd want her anyhow if they found out what she was doing up here. The students will get her, I suppose."

"Hurry her up, Joe," broke in another one of the men at this juncture; "let us get away from here. The boss inside'll be sore if we stick around. He ain't anxious to advertise the fact that he'd had a dead one in his house."

The men jumped on the wagon. The horses started on a trot with their burden towards the county morgue.

In one den is a girl who has saved $5,000 from the money she derived from the sale of her body. She is in a class by herself in this respect, for but a few of them save a cent.

This girl was, a few years ago, a stenographer. She was ruined by her employer and finally, when he had tired of her, discharged from her position. She had saved nothing. Penniless and without friends, she heeded the advice of an evil companion and entered a house of prostitution.

Every cent she could eke and scrape she has saved since she entered this den. Her hope was that she might be able to save enough so that she could go to the far west and live down her past life. But the grasp of the devil held her to her bargain. When the time came she found that she could not break off her unnatural habits. She could not be innocent and good again. So she stayed behind.

"How long do you think you will be able to keep up this life?" I asked her.

"Oh, four or five years, I guess," she answered between puffs of a cigarette she was smoking.

"What are you going to do then?"

"I'm not thinking about that time," she said.

"When I get worn out and they tell me they don't want me here any more, I'll go somewhere—I'm not worrying where.

"I'd quit now, but what's the use? If I left here every one would be kicking me down in the gutter. Now suppose I wanted to be good, would mothers you know want their nice, innocent daughters associating with me? No, you know they wouldn't. It would be only a couple of weeks and then I'd be back again."

"Have any of the girls in this place saved money except you?" was asked.

"There isn't a girl in the place who has ten dollars to her name except me," was the answer.

"How long have the majority of them been leading this life?"

"Most of them about two or three years. You see, this is a 'dollar house.' We don't get many of the young ones in here," was the reply.

"How are you paid in this place?" was asked.

"The girls get half of what they get from men. Then they get a tin check for two and a half cents for every bottle of beer they drink with the fellows that come in. They have to accept every drink offered them.

"They are charged five dollars a week for their board here by the keeper of the place. They have to buy all their clothes through him, too. They are charged big prices, so they don't have a chance to save."

"What does the average girl make in this place?" was asked.

"Oh, $12 to $18 a week, I guess. They have to pay their board and for their clothes out of that," replied the girl.

In the "red light" district of Chicago is an organized "trust." At its head are five big politicians. They practically control the district.

The trust owns a dry goods store, a grocery store, a delicatessen, a drug store, a restaurant and a hotel. It has its own manicure parlors, its own dentist parlor and its own doctors. Every necessity of the denizens of the vice ridden district is catered to by this company.

The girls of the district must patronize them. This is an iron-bound order that cannot be broken.

Suppose that a girl in one of the dens wishes to purchase a dress. She goes to the dry goods store. There she makes her choice.

Before she leaves the house in which she is an inmate, the person in charge there gives her a slip of paper. It certifies that she is an inmate of that house.

She hands this to the shop keeper. After she has made her purchase she is handed back another slip. On it is marked the price of the dress. It is always double or triple the amount for which she could have purchased the same article at any other store.

When she returns to the house she turns this slip in. At the end of the week, when the house gives her the money she has earned, that exorbitant charge is deducted from the amount.

This conveys but a small idea of the bondage system that holds the girls of the district in its grasp. The exorbitant prices charged the girls for commodities keeps them constantly indebted to the keeper of the den where they are inmates. They never get ahead.

If a girl attempted to leave the house without satisfying this debt her clothes would be taken from her. If she ran away she would probably be arrested, charged with theft or some other crime. Perjured testimony would be introduced against her. Her word would count for little. In court she would be regarded as a fallen woman. What she might say would be scorned. A jail sentence would be the result.

This is one of the many reasons why few girls leave these dens after they have once become inmates.

The white slaver, who hands young innocent girls over to this ghastly, reeking life, is not a type. He may be a prize fighter, an army officer, son of a preacher or a banker.

A year ago Chicago was startled when in a round-up of these local drivers of white slaves, the young man Leonard, son of a banker, skilled bank clerk and idol of his mother, was fined $200 and costs for his crime.

It was a former officer in the Hungarian army who but a short time ago in Chicago showed this hold that white slavery has upon the slaver. In this case the man Sterk received a sentence of one year in prison. Sterk was a man of family. He placed Tereza Jenney in a resort in Budapest and was living upon her shame. The girl escaped after a year and came to Chicago. Sterk, deserting his family, followed by the next boat. His income was gone. To get the woman back was his necessity.

But Sterk made a faux pas. He appealed to the government to deport his victim and made arrangements to return with her on the same boat. When under faulty indictment Sterk escaped the United States court, he was caught on a state charge and convicted.

In many cases, however, the court has had no chance to intervene. The girls go on and on in their lives of shame. Disease overtakes them in the end. Weakened physically by their excesses, they are unable to cope with it. Liquor and cigarettes leave tell-tale ravages.

Hopelessly battling against grim disease, the victim goes deeper and deeper into the last depths of repulsiveness. Her only hope of forgetting her affliction is in drunkenness. She loses all her womanly instincts and is a fiend. Finally liquor fails to keep her in that state of stupor in which she must remain. Cocaine and morphine are resorted to.

One day she regains consciousness. The darkness of her horrible existence enshrouds her. Remorse and recollections of her past engulf her. She realizes the futileness of her life.

Then comes the end.

Maybe it is by the aid of a bottle of chloroform; maybe a gas jet is turned on; maybe there is the lifeless body of an "unknown" woman taken from the waters of Lake Michigan the next morning.

There are no tears wasted. A shrug of the shoulders on the part of the owner of the resort—probably he swears a bit when her name is mentioned. He hates to have such things happen to girls in his place, because "people might think that he is hard with people."

The murderer goes to the gallows with the priest and minister at his side. He is given his chance of repentance. He is given religious consolation.

To the fallen woman—once pure and innocent—dragged to her shame through her innocence—is held out no comfort. She is not given the opportunity to repent. She is a thing, repellant and abhorred. The very mention of her name brings a derisive laugh. No masses are said for the repose of her soul. Religious consolation is not to be thought of.

Her obituary is the notice, hidden among the advertisements of the local newspapers.

Notice: The body of Mabel Gormly, who died on November 15, 1909, is being held at the county morgue. If the same is not claimed by relatives within five days it will be disposed of according to law.

Disposed of according to law means that it will be turned over to the medical schools for dissection, or if the body is not fit for such, will be carted to the pauper's graveyard at the poor farm.

With a few changes in minor detail this tells the story of the five thousand.

It tells of the end of the 5,000 innocents who yearly are lured to a life of shame in the city of Chicago alone.

It tells the story of the vacant chair at the hearthside of many a home throughout the country.

It is the annual tragedy, repeated not once, but 5,000 times yearly, in Chicago.

The end is the dissecting table—the potter's field—the lake.