L'or Read Free

do is keep your ears open and you'll hear them going on in that God-forsaken, whore-stricken tongue of theirs, for they never know when to shut their gobs. I swear to you that, within a week, you'll hear such horrors that you'll be begging me to let you take Holy Orders. An Irishman can't keep his mouth shut, but what I want you to do, while he's getting it all off his chest, is to have a little feel of his bundle of luggage, see whether it's got a double stomach like a red monkey or if it's stuffed as tight as an old woman with constipation. I'll give you my coat, half a gallon of Bay Rum (you must always drink a toast with an Irishman who's fresh off the boat, it's the way to welcome him amongst his compatriots), and a little knife of my own invention. It's as long as your arm and as flexible as a eunuch's prick. You see this knob here? Press on it . . . there, d'you see? There are three little claws that come out of the end of the blade. Yes, that's the way. So, while you're rabbiting on to him about O'Connor or the Act of Union that's been voted through Parliament, my little tool will tell you whether your-customer's arse is punched, bored or reamered. Then all you'll have to do is bite on it to discover whether his coin is made of gold or lead. Got it? Good, about bloody time, too! Sure, it's my own invention. When I was sailing around the ports of the Levant, we had a real bastard of a surgeon aboard, a Frenchman, and he used to call that thing a thermometer. Well, then, I entrust my thermometer to you, and no tricks, huh? I like the look of you, my boy, your mother didn't make a bad job of it when she had you. Listen. Whatever you do, don't forget to polish the buttons on that highwayman's coat, they must shine like the sign of a good pub, then you show them the flagon of rum, for, as the proverb says, "Good blood tells no lies," and with your hair like a bunch of radishes, my highwayman's coat, and the buttons polished till they glitter like dollars won at dice, they'll take you for the Bishop of Dublin's coachman on a day of General Indulgence, and, with their European notion of things, they'll follow you here like lambs, every one of 'em. But play it smart, eh? Don't get pipped at the post by that goddamned Dutchman over the road, or he'll snatch your clients from under your very nose . . . and, if he gets hold of them, watch out! One word more: once you've brought one of these wretched Irishmen here, make sure you never run into him again as long as you live, not even a hundred years from now! I wouldn't wish that on you. And now, bugger off, at the double!'
    'Sometimes, you'll get a tip straight from the horse's mouth and sometimes you'll get a bum steer. But I'm going to teach you how to live off the fat of the land.'
    It is Hagelstroem, the inventor of Swedish matches, speaking. John Augustus Sutter is his delivery boy, packer and bookkeeper. Three months have gone by. John Augustus Sutter has left the immediate neighbourhood of the port and penetrated further into the city. Like the entire American civilization, he is moving slowly westward. Since his encounter with that old pirate, Haberposch, he has already tried his hand at several trades. He is plunging more and more deeply into the life of the city. He works in a draper's shop, a drugstore, a delicatessen. He goes into partnership with a Rumanian and becomes a door-to-door salesman. He works as a groom in a circus. Then, as a shoeing-smith, a dentist, a taxidermist; he sells Jericho roses from a gilded wagon, sets up as a ladies' tailor, works in a sawmill, boxes a giant Negro and wins a slave and a purse of one hundred guineas; for a time, he is down-and-out; he teaches mathematics with the Mission Fathers, learns English, French, Hungarian, Portuguese, the Negro dialect of Louisiana, Sioux, Comanche, American slang, Spanish. Advancing still further towards the West, he moves to the other side of the city, crosses the river, reaches the outskirts and