Evening Republican, Volume 16, Number 71, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 22 March 1912 — ANERICAN GRAFTERS IN PARIS [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

ANERICAN GRAFTERS IN PARIS

by STEPHIEN ALLEN REYNOLDS

LONG the boulevards between the Madeleine and the Place de la Repub- ’ lique, along the Champs Elysees from the Arch to the Obelisk, in little brasseries along the Seine, in the so-called "American bars” of the Opera quarter, in the pastry shops along the Rue de Faubourg St. the

prix fixe tables

d’hote along the Boul’ Mich of the Latin quarter in fact, in almost any of the twenty arondissements within the. fifty-six gates of the French capital, will be found the übiquitous American grafter. Attracted to you by either the American roll to the brim of your derby or

your Brockton m&de shoe, he will unerringly single you out as a fellowcountryman abroad on pleasure bent, therefore fish for his net He may be working on one of the three commoner ‘lays”—the “touch/’ the "loan” or the "guide.” In other words, he may brazenly ask you for a small sum of money with which he may obtain food or lodging, he may tell you a hard luck story about a mythical delayed draft and ask you for a loan to tide him over, or he may offer to guide you around and about Paris at so much an hour or a day. Grafters working the “touch” plan are easily got rid of. A small piece of silver and a decided refusal to give more will usually suffice to send them 'on their way, although your name and temporary address will be passed around sooner or later, together with a “tip” as to the amount you gave the first begging countryman. The pleas of those after a "loan” are in many cases both heartrending and plausible. A cable message is often displayed which may read: "Sorry delay. Draft for thousand first mall.” Who could refuse a clean-cut young fellow from Milwaukee after he had told you of the clothing locked up at his hotel, of two sleepless nights passed in walking the streets of Paris? With tears in his eyes he assures you that not a morsel of food has he swallowed in eight and forty hours; then he exhibits the cable mesaage, and you part with 50 or 100 francs —never to see it again. The beggars are a nuisance, the borrowers are a pest, but the so-called American “guides” of the great French city are most unquestionably the worst of the lot, in that their dealings with American visitors, while apparently straightforward, are as crooked as the proverbial ram’s horn. Graft, under, a thousand different cloaks, enters into their propositions. They toil not, nor do they spin, yet few tourists eat better food, drink better wine or wear more fashionable attire than do these buccaneers of the boulevards. .They pounce upon you as you leave your train at the Gate . St. Lazare; they scan the columns of the newspapers for the- names and addresses of the newly arrived Americans; they haunt the vicinage of the Grand hotel; they hail yoy_as you leave the Credit Lyonnais after cabbing a draft; but possibly of all places their favorite stamping ground ”is along the northern side of the Boulevard des Capucines. Here, upon every hand, particularly during the late afternoon and evening, you will encounter the American “guide” airily swinging his rattan stick, his shifty eyes looking for the telltale American derby. Naturally, if it be your first visit to Paris, you desire to see all Paris, both before and after dark. He will help you. You hail with delight the coming of the interpreter-guide who speaks your language, for are not the sights and mysteries of Paris as an open book to him? His rates are only a louis a day and expenses, but "even this sum can be shaded should you plead your inability to afford that sum. Should you be unable to afford a half-louis, or even a measly five-franc piece, it is more than likely that the guide will yawn, gaze up and down the boulevard, and then deliver himself Substantially as follows: . -A-.--“Well, I’m sorry. Times are pretty slow over here and I’m not very busy. But look a-here —I'll tell you what I’ll do: I’ve nothing on today or tonight, and seeing that you’re* from Little Old New York—my home town—l’ll show you around for nothing, just for the sake of passing away the time. You pay the cab fares, the lunch, the supper, and I'll show you everything that's to be seen. I’ll save you money and keep you from being skinned. It’ll cost you less if I take you around than it would if you tried to get ground alone —and take it from me, the Apaches are pretty bad this year and it isn't safe for an outsider to pike around Montmartre without a Smite who knows all the ropes. What do you say? WOT we start now?” - Who could refuse such an invitation? Not the average American tourist upon his first visit True, with the aid of a guidebook be might find his way to the Louvre. His boarding

school French might even serve to get him to Versailles and back again without serious mishap or extraordinary expenditure. But nearly .all American visitors, both male and female, desire for once in their lives *to witness the far-famed near-naughti-ness of Paris at first hand, and that is where the guide comes in. Versailles, the Bois de Boulogne, the Louvre, a dinner at the Case de Paris, followed by a night at the Folles Bergere, 'might suit a small minority of the American visitors, and a few of the women folk, after a cheap glove hunting trip, a day in the dressmaking establishments in the Rue de la Paix and a grenadine at one of the marble topped tables along the Boulevard des Itallens, feel that they have seen all that is fit to see of Paris. Not so, however, with the great majority. Male and female alike clamor for the Moulin Rouge, the Bal Tararin, the Abbaye, Maxim’s, the Tavern of the Red Ass, the Rat Mort and other resorts of lesser repute. They seek to comb the narrow streets of the Latin Quarter that they may see Bohemia with their , own eyes. They are anxious to buy wine fit the Dome for models who sometimes pose; they do not rest until they have visited the Bal Bullier, famous on five continents. Hence the guide— tor it is an easier matter for a multi-millionaire to get by St. Peter than for an “unsteered” stranger to find some of these establishments. When an obliging young man offers to show you around town without any expense to yourself, what is more natural than for you to accept such a kind offer. Having accepted the gratuitous offer of the American guide, you map out a tour for the afternoon and evening, we will say. Singularly enough, your guide is not satisfied with the first cocher who cracks his whip and solicits your patronage—he needs must go down the line and pick out a certain driver. “This feller’s on the level with his charges,” the guide explains as you drive off. "I know him for a square eoeher. Some of the others would most likely drive you off into some side street where the Apaches would hold you up and split with him.” Having arrived at your destination by a more or less circuitous route, you pay the driver a sum which seems cheap when compared with a drive of the same length in the States, and yet it is usfially twice or three times the amount of the legal fare. You notice that the guide seems to be very friendly with the driver and that when you dismiss the cabby he shakes hands with the guide. Indeed, this handshaking continues throughout the entire evening, for no matter where you stop to drink or eat or gaze the proprietors always shake hands with the guide—invariably at the moment you take your leave. It seems quite unnecesary to add that from the moment you enter a resort a careful account is kept of your expenditures, and at the moment of your leavetaking a commission varying from 25 per cent, to 50 per cent, passes from one palm to another. It is usually 50 per cent in the resorts which appeal to the inner man, as well as at the show places and cabarets of Montmartre. ' Elven should you venture into a unknown to the management he still obtains his commission, for when you enter his first move is to whisper to the proprietor or manager these four magic words: “Je suis I’interprete.” The commission is added to the price, and rare indeed are the shops or, resorts which do not make it “worth while” for the man who accompanies you. Indeed, some of these self-styled “interpreter-guides” have been residents of Paris Jor such short space that their French vocabulary Is practically limited to those four words. In the early hours of the morning, after the guide has shaken hands with the last cocher in front of your hotel, you thank your companion tor his kindness in helping you to pass an enjoyable evening. You may even take pity on him on account of the dull state of Ms business and surreptitiously slip a half-louis into his receptive palm. He will not object.. He has spent twelve hours, more or less,

with you, and seems to have been well acquainted wherever you went. You are confident that he has saved you money, and naturally you feel grateful toward him. The fact of the matter is that he has been driven all over the city at your expense; he has lunched and dined with you, to say nothing of the midnight bite at the Case Weber; and if you have spent the sum of 200 francs during the afternoon and evening you may rest assured that gold and silver amounting to some Sv or 100 francs —once yours—is safe in one of the pockets of the guide’s fashlon-

ably cut trousers. It was one the privilege of the writer to listen to the absinthe inspired confidences Of a number of American “guides” and panhandlers. A young man wearing a frock coat and well ironed silk topper approached the« tableand begged for the privilege of a few words with me. His linen was spotless—his story seemed flawless. He had, so he said, been robbed in Montmartre while seeing the town a few nights before. He had cabled for funds, but a heartless landlord had locked up his ten suits of clothing and turned him into the street. Would I kindly come to his relief with a small loan for a few days until the arrival of his draft? He exhibited a typewritten cable message which looked promising, and the tears came to my eyes as I thought of his predicament and overpeppered my bouillon. “I’m sorry I can’t help you out,” I told Trim. “You see, this happens to be my third visit to Paris, and I’ve heard all about these heartless landlords and delayed drafts before. Those sleeve buttons of yours ought to fetch enough at the Mont de Piete to tide you over for a few days should you be on the level.” The man in the frock coat was about to slink away, when I asked him to join me and have an aperitif. Over an absinthe-au-sucre he waxed confidential and told me his story. “You’re wise, ” said he, as he surveyed the opalescent contents of his glass. “There sure is a bunch of American grafters oyer here having a pretty soft time. I’ve only been over here two months, but some of the push have been here for years.” He helped himself to my cigarettes and continued: “Paris is a cheap place to live in. A perfect dinner costs very little. The rent of a nice ropm is about half what you have to pay in New York, less than that once you can speak French ■aHdknow how to make a bargain. Clothing of the best sort can be had for a song, and a two-horse carriage can be hired for about twice the price of a carfare in the states. “Pickings are good during the tourist season, and the only kick that the boys have is on the French shoes and cigarettes. Several of the bunch import their own smokes. Of course, the favorite graft is the American tourist. He always has money, and is over here to spend it and have a good time. If we spin a good yarn about hard luck it’s pretty easy to make a “touch” for a louis, and ’most any New Yorker will fall for a five-franc piece.” * “I used to keep a set of books in Cleveland,” another American grafter told me over a glass of Algerian "Bordeaux” in a little brasserie in the Rue Vlgnon. "I’d saved a bit of money and felt too strong to push a pen any longer, so I came over here to take in the sights. I went broke the third day after my arrival, and as I found so many people willing to help me I’ve stayed here ever since. Paris is all right after .you’ve lived here awhile and know the ropes. I’m here going on seven years now, and I expect to live here the rest of my life."