erly control the enthusiasm of the gay picnickers, but that was an
exceptional exuberance, and no measure of Hank's ability for management.

He is really a great manager. He was Boss Tweed's body-servant in the
days when Tweed was a political prince, and any one who saw Bill Tweed
through a spy-glass learned the science of leading, pulling, driving,
and hauling men in a way to keep the men ignorant of it. Hank imbibed
from this fount of knowledge, and he applied his information in Thompson
Street. Thompson Street salaamed. Presently he bore a proud title: "The
Mayor of Thompson Street." Dignities from the principal political
organisations of the city adorned his brow, and he speedily became
illustrious.

Hank knew the lane well in its direful days. As for the inhabitants, he
kept clear of them, and yet in touch with them, according to a method
that he might have learned in the Sixth ward. The Sixth ward was a good
place in which to learn that trick. Anderson can tell many strange tales
and good of the lane, and he tells them in the graphic way of his class.
"Why, they could steal your shirt without moving a wrinkle on it."

The killing of Joe Carey was the last murder that happened in the
Minettas. Carey had what might be called a mixed-ale difference with a
man named Kenny. They went out to the middle of Minetta Street to
affably fight it out and determine the justice of the question.

In the scrimmage Kenny drew a knife, thrust quickly, and Carey fell.
Kenny had not gone a hundred feet before he ran into the arms of a
policeman.

There is probably no street in New York where the police keep closer
watch than they do in Minetta Lane. There was a time when the
inhabitants had a profound and reasonable contempt for the public
guardians, but they have it no longer apparently. Any citizen can walk
through there at any time in perfect safety, unless, perhaps, he should
happen to get too frivolous. To be strictly accurate, the change began
under the reign of police Captain Chapman. Under Captain Groo, a
commander of the Fifteenth precinct, the lane donned a complete new
garb. Its denizens brag now of its peace, precisely as they once bragged
of its war. It is no more a bloody lane. The song of the razor is seldom
heard. There are still toughs and semi-toughs galore in it, but they
can't get a chance with the copper looking the other way. Groo got the
poor lane by the throat. If a man should insist upon becoming a victim